THE COYOTE-SPIRIT AND THE WEAVING WOMAN
The Weaving Woman lived under the bank of the stony wash that cutthrough the country of the mesquite dunes. The Coyote-Spirit, which, youunderstand, is an Indian whose form has been changed to fit with hisevil behavior, ranged from the Black Rock where the wash began to thewhite sands beyond Pahranagat; and the Goat-Girl kept her flock amongthe mesquites, or along the windy stretch of sage below the campoodie;but as the Coyote-Spirit never came near the wickiups by day, and theGoat-Girl went home the moment the sun dropped behind Pahranagat, theynever met. These three are all that have to do with the story.
The Weaving Woman, whose work was the making of fine baskets of splitwillow and roots of yucca and brown grass, lived alone, because therewas nobody found who wished to live with her, and because it waswhispered among the wickiups that she was different from other people.It was reported that she had an infirmity of the eyes which caused herto see everything with rainbow fringes, bigger and brighter and betterthan it was. All her days were fruitful, a handful of pine nuts as muchto make merry over as a feast; every lad who went by a-hunting with hisbow at his back looked to be a painted brave, and every old womandigging roots as fine as a medicine man in all his feathers. All thefaces at the campoodie, dark as the mingled sand and lava of the BlackRock country, deep lined with work and weather, shone for this singularold woman with the glory of the late evening light on Pahranagat. Thedoor of her wickiup opened toward the campoodie with the smoke going upfrom cheerful hearths, and from the shadow of the bank where she sat tomake baskets she looked down the stony wash where all the trailsconverged that led every way among the dunes, and saw an enchanted mesacovered with misty bloom and gentle creatures moving on trails thatseemed to lead to the places where one had always wished to be.
Since all this was so, it was not surprising that her baskets turned outto be such wonderful affairs, and the tribesmen, though they winked andwagged their heads, were very glad to buy them for a haunch of venisonor a bagful of mesquite meal. Sometimes, as they stroked the perfectcurves of the bowls or traced out the patterns, they were heard to sigh,thinking how fine life would be if it were so rich and bright as shemade it seem, instead of the dull occasion they had found it. There weresome who even said it was a pity, since she was so clever at the craft,that the weaver was not more like other people, and no one thought tosuggest that in that case her weaving would be no better than theirs.For all this the basket-maker did not care, sitting always happily ather weaving or wandering far into the desert in search of withes andbarks and dyes, where the wild things showed her many a wonder hid fromthose who have not rainbow fringes to their eyes; and because she wasnot afraid of anything, she went farther and farther into the silentplaces until in the course of time she met the Coyote-Spirit.
Now a Coyote-Spirit, from having been a man, is continually thinkingabout men and wishing to be with them, and, being a coyote and of thewolf's breed, no sooner does he have his wish than he thinks ofdevouring. So as soon as this one had met the Weaving Woman he desiredto eat her up, or to work her some evil according to the evil of hisnature. He did not see any opportunity to begin at the first meeting,for on account of the infirmity of her eyes the woman did not see him asa coyote, but as a man, and let down her wicker water bottle for him todrink, so kindly that he was quite abashed. She did not seem in theleast afraid of him, which is disconcerting even to a real coyote;though if he had been, she need not have been afraid of him in any case.Whatever pestiferous beast the Indian may think the dog of thewilderness, he has no reason to fear him except when by certain signs,as having a larger and leaner body, a sharper muzzle, and more evillypointed ears, he knows him the soul of a bad-hearted man going about inthat guise. There are enough of these coyote-spirits ranging in MesquiteValley and over towards Funeral Mountains and about Pahranagat to givecertain learned folk surmise as to whether there may not be a strangebreed of wolves in that region; but the Indians know better.
When the coyote-spirit who had met the basket woman thought about itafterward, he said to himself that she deserved all the mischance thatmight come upon her for that meeting. "She knows," he said, "that thisis my range, and whoever walks in a coyote-spirit's range must expect totake the consequences. She is not at all like the Goat-Girl."
The Coyote-Spirit had often watched the Goat-Girl from the top ofPahranagat, but because she was always in the open where nolurking-places were, and never far from the corn lands where the oldmen might be working, he had made himself believe he would not like thatkind of a girl. Every morning he saw her come out of her leafy hut,loose the goats from the corral, which was all of cactus stems and broadleaves of prickly-pear, and lead them out among the wind-blown hillocksof sand under which the trunks of the mesquite flourished for a hundredyears, and out of the tops of which the green twigs bore leaves andfruit; or along the mesa to browse on bitterbrush and the tops ofscrubby sage. Sometimes she plaited willows for the coarser kinds ofbasket-work, or, in hot noonings while the flock dozed, worked herselfcollars and necklaces of white and red and turquoise-colored beads, andother times sat dreaming on the sand. But whatever she did, she kept farenough from the place of the Coyote-Spirit, who, now that he had met theWeaving Woman, could not keep his mind off her. Her hut was far enoughfrom the campoodie so that every morning he went around by the BlackRock to see if she was still there, and there she sat weaving patternsin her baskets of all that she saw or thought. Now it would be thewinding wash and the wattled huts beside it, now the mottled skin of therattlesnake or the curled plumes of the quail.
At last the Coyote-Spirit grew so bold that when there was no onepassing on the trail he would go and walk up and down in front of thewickiup. Then the Weaving Woman would look up from her work and give himthe news of the season and the tribesmen in so friendly a fashion thathe grew less and less troubled in his mind about working her mischief.He said in his evil heart that since the ways of such as he were knownto the Indians,--as indeed they were, with many a charm and spell tokeep them safe,--it could be no fault of his if they came to harmthrough too much familiarity. As for the Weaving Woman, he said, "Shesees me as I am, and ought to know better," for he had not heard aboutthe infirmity of her eyes.
Finally he made up his mind to ask her to go with him to dig for rootsaround the foot of Pahranagat, and if she consented,--and of course shedid, for she was a friendly soul,--he knew in his heart what he woulddo. They went out by the mesa trail, and it was a soft and blossomy dayof spring. Long wands of the creosote with shining fretted foliage werehung with creamy bells of bloom, and doves called softly from theDripping Spring. They passed rows of owlets sitting by their burrows andsaw young rabbits playing in their shallow forms. The Weaving Womantalked gayly as they went, as Indian women talk, with soft mellow voicesand laughter breaking in between the words like smooth water flowingover stones. She talked of how the deer had shifted their feedinggrounds and of whether the quail had mated early that year as a sign ofa good season, matters of which the Coyote-Spirit knew more than she,only he was not thinking of those things just then. Whenever her backwas turned he licked his cruel jaws and whetted his appetite. Theypassed the level mesa, passed the tumbled fragments of the Black Rockand came to the sharp wall-sided canons that showed the stars at noonfrom their deep wells of sombre shade, where no wild creature made itshome and no birds ever sang. Then the Weaving Woman grew still at lastbecause of the great stillness, and the Coyote-Spirit said in a hungry,whining voice,--
"Do you know why I brought you here?"
"To show me how still and beautiful the world is here," said the WeavingWoman, and even then she did not seem afraid.
"To eat you up," said the Coyote. With that he looked to see her fallquaking at his feet, and he had it in mind to tell her it was no faultbut her own for coming so far astray with one of his kind, but the womanonly looked at him and laughed. The sound of her laughter was like waterin a bubbling spring.
"Why do you laugh?" said the Coyote, and
he was so astonished that hisjaws remained open when he had done speaking.
"How could you eat me?" said she. "Only wild beasts could do that."
"What am I, then?"
"Oh, you are only a man."
"I am a coyote," said he.
"Do you think I have no eyes?" said the woman. "Come!" For she did notunderstand that her eyes were different from other people's, what shereally thought was that other people's were different from hers, whichis quite another matter, so she pulled the Coyote-Spirit over to arain-fed pool. In that country the rains collect in basins of the solidrock that grow polished with a thousand years of storm and give backfrom their shining side a reflection like a mirror. One such lay in thebottom of the black canyon, and the Weaving Woman stood beside it.
Now it is true of coyote-spirits that they are so only because of theirbehavior; not only have they power to turn themselves to men if theywish--but they do not wish, or they would not have become coyotes in thefirst place--but other people in their company, according as they thinkman-thoughts or beast-thoughts, can throw over them such a change thatthey have only to choose which they will be. So the basket-weavercontrived to throw the veil of her mind over the Coyote-Spirit, so thatwhen he looked at himself in the pool he could not tell for the life ofhim whether he was most coyote or most man, which so frightened him thathe ran away and left the Weaving Woman to hunt for roots alone. He ranfor three days and nights, being afraid of himself, which is the worstpossible fear, and then ran back to see if the basket-maker had notchanged her mind. He put his head in at the door of her wickiup.
"Tell me, now, am I a coyote or a man?"
"Oh, a man," said she, and he went off to Pahranagat to think it over.In a day or two he came back.
"And what now?" he said.
"Oh, a man, and I think you grow handsomer every day."
That was really true, for what with her insisting upon it and histhinking about it, the beast began to go out of him and the man to comeback. That night he went down to the campoodie to try and steal a kidfrom the corral, but it occurred to him just in time that a man wouldnot do that, so he went back to Pahranagat and ate roots and berriesinstead, which was a true sign that he had grown into a man again. Thenthere came a day when the Weaving Woman asked him to stop at her hearthand eat. There was a savory smell going up from the cooking-pots, cakesof mesquite meal baking in the ashes, and sugary white buds of the yuccapalm roasting on the coals. The man who had been a coyote lay on ablanket of rabbit skin and heard the cheerful snapping of the fire. Itwas all so comfortable and bright that somehow it made him think of theGoat-Girl.
"That is the right sort of a girl," he said to himself. "She has alwaysstayed in the safe open places and gone home early. She should be ableto tell me what I am," for he was not quite sure, and since he had begunto walk with men a little, he had heard about the Weaving Woman's eyes.
Next day he went out where the flock fed, not far from the corn lands,and the Goat-Girl did not seem in the least afraid of him. So he wentagain, and the third day he said,--
"Tell me what I seem to you."
"A very handsome man," said she.
"Then will you marry me?" said he; and when the Goat-Girl had taken timeto think about it she said yes, she thought she would.
Now, when the man who had been a coyote lay on the blanket of theWeaving Woman's wickiup, he had taken notice how it was made of willowsdriven into the ground around a pit dug in the earth, and the polesdrawn together at the top, and thatched with brush, and he had tried atthe foot of Pahranagat until he had built another like it; so when hehad married the Goat-Girl, after the fashion of her tribe, he took herthere to live. He was not now afraid of anything except that his wifemight get to know that he had once been a coyote. It was during thefirst month of their marriage that he said to her, "Do you know thebasket-maker who lives under the bank of the stony wash? They call herthe Weaving Woman."
"I have heard something of her and I have bought her baskets. Why do youask?"
"It is nothing," said the man, "but I hear strange stories of her, thatshe associates with coyote-spirits and such creatures," for he wanted tosee what his wife would say to that.
"If that is the case," said she, "the less we see of her the better. Onecannot be too careful in such matters."
After that, when the man who had been a coyote and his wife visited thecampoodie, they turned out of the stony wash before they reached thewickiup, and came in to the camp by another trail. But I have not heardwhether the Weaving Woman noticed it.