the next time alan saw the basket woman he was not nearly so much afraid of her, though he did not venture to speak of their journey to pahrump. he said to his mother, "do you not wish the indians could have stayed the way they were?" and his mother laughed.
"why, no, child," she said, "i do not think that i do. i think they are much better off as they are now." alan, however, was not to be convinced. the next time he saw the basket woman he was even troubled about it.
the homesteader had taken his family to the town for a day, and the first thing alan saw when he got down from the wagon was the basket woman. she was sitting in a corner of the sidewalk with a group of other mahalas, with her blanket drawn over her shoulders, looking out upon the town, and her eyes were dull and strange.
a stream of people went by them in the street, and minded them no more than the dogs they stepped over, sprawling at the doors of the stores. some of the indian women had children with them, but they neither shouted nor ran as they had done in the camp of corn water; they sat quietly by their mothers, and alan noticed how worn and poor were the clothes of all of them, and how wishful all the eyes. he could not get his mind off them because he could not get them out of his sight for very long at a time. it was a very small town, and as he went with his mother in and about the stores he would be coming face to face with the mahalas every little while, and the basket woman's eyes were always sad.
his mother, when she had finished her shopping, gave him a silver dime and told him that he might spend it as he wished. as soon as alan had turned the corner on that errand there was the basket woman with her chin upon her knees and her blanket drawn over her shoulders. alan stopped a moment in front of her; he would have liked to say something comforting, but found himself still afraid.
her eyes looked on beyond him, blurred and dim; he supposed she must be thinking of the happy valley, and grew so very sorry for her that, as he could not get the courage to speak, he threw his dime into her lap and ran as fast as he could away. it seemed to him as he ran that she called to him, but he could not be sure.
that night, almost as soon as he had touched the pillow, she came and stood beside him without motion or sound, and let down the basket from her back.
"do we go to corn water?" asked alan as he stepped into it.
"to my people of old time," said the basket woman, "so that you need not be so much sorry."
then they went out by the mesa trail, where the sage showed duskily under a thin rim of moon. it seemed to alan that they went slowly, almost heavily. when they came to the parting of the ways, she let down the basket to rest. a rabbit popped, startled, out of the brush, and scurried into the dark; its white tail, like a signal, showed the way it went.
"what was that?" asked alan.
"only little tavwots, whom we scared out of his nest. lean forward," she said, "and i will tell you a tale about him." so the boy leaned his head against the basket woman's long black hair, and heard the story of little tavwots and how he caught the sun in a snare.
"it was long ago," said the basket woman. "tavwots was the largest of all four-footed things, and a mighty hunter. he would get up as soon as it was day and go to his hunting, but always before him was the track of a great foot on the trail; and this troubled him, for his pride was as big as his body and greater than his fame.
"'who is this?' cried tavwots, 'that goes with so great a stride before me to the hunting? does he think to put me to shame?'
"'t'-sst!' said his mother, 'there is none greater than thee.'
"'nevertheless,' said tavwots, 'there are the footprints in the trail.' the next morning he got up earlier, but there were always the great footprints and the long stride before him.
"'now i will set me a trap for this impudent fellow,' said tavwots, for he was very cunning. so he made a snare of his bowstring and set it in the trail overnight, and in the morning when he went to look, behold, he had caught the sun in his snare. all that quarter of the earth was beginning to smoke with the heat of it.
"'is it you?' cried tavwots, 'who made the tracks in my trail?'
"'it is i,' said the sun. 'come now and set me free before the whole earth is afire.' then tavwots saw what he had to do, so he drew his knife and ran to cut the bowstring. but the heat was so great that he ran back before he had done it, and was melted down to one half his size. then the smoke of the burning earth began to curl up against the sky.
"'come again, tavwots,' cried the sun. so he ran again and ran back, and the third time he ran he cut the bowstring, and the sun was set free from the snare. but by that time tavwots was melted down to as small as he is now, and so he remains. still you may see by the print of his feet as he leaps in the trail how great his stride was when he caught the sun in his snare.
"so it is always," said the basket woman, "that which is large grows less, and my people, which were great, have dwindled away."
after that she became quiet, and they went on over the mountain. because he was beginning to be acquainted with it, the way seemed shorter to alan than before. they passed over the high barren ridges, and he began to look for the camp at corn water.
"i see no smoke," said alan.
"it would bring down their enemies like buzzards on carrion," said the basket woman.
"there is no sound of singing nor of laughter," said the boy.
"who laughs in the time of war?" said she.
"is there war?" asked alan.
"long and bitter," said the basket woman. "let us go softly and come upon them unawares."
so they went, light of foot, among the pines until they saw the wickiups opening eastward to the sun, but many of them stood ruined and awry. there were only the very old and the children in the camp, and these did not run and play. they stole about like mice in the meadow sod, and if so much as a twig snapped in the forest, they huddled motionless as young quail. the women worked in the growing corn; they dug roots on the hill slope and caught grasshoppers for food. one made a noose of her long black hair plucked out, and snared the bright lizards that ran among the rocks. it seemed to alan that the indians looked wishful and thinner than they should; but such food as they found was all put by.
"why do they do this?" asked the boy.
"that the men who go to war may not go fasting," said the basket woman. "look, now we shall have news of them."
a young man came noiselessly out of the wood, and it was he who had sung the new song on the night of feasting and dancing. he had eagle feathers in his hair, but they were draggled; there was beadwork on his leggings, but it was torn with thorns; there was paint on his face and his body, but it was smeared over red, and as he came into the camp he broke his bow across his knee.
"it is a token of defeat," said the basket woman; "the others will come soon." but some came feebly because of wounds, and it seemed the women looked for some who might never come. they cast up their arms and cried with a terrible wailing sound that rose and shuddered among the pines.
"be still," said the young man; "would you bring our enemies down upon us with your screeching?" then the women threw themselves quietly in the dust, and rocked to and fro with sobbing; their stillness was more bitter than their crying.
suddenly out of the wood came a storm of arrows, a rush of strange, painted braves, and the din of fighting.
"shut your eyes," said the basket woman, "it is not good for you to see." alan hid his face in the basket woman's dress, and heard the noise of fighting rage and die away. when he ventured to look again on the ruined huts and the trampled harvest, there were few left in the camp of corn water, and they had enough to do to find food for their poor bodies. they winnowed the creek with basket-work weirs for every finger-long troutling that came down in it, and tore the bark off the pine trees to get at the grubs underneath.
"why do they not go out and kill deer as before?" asked alan.
"their enemies lurk in the wood and drive away the game," said the basket woman.
"why do they not go to another place?"
"where shall they go, when their foes watch every pass?" said she.
it seemed to alan that many days and nights passed while they watched by the camp; and the days were all sorrowful, and always, as before, the best meat was set aside for the strongest.
"why is this so?" asked the boy.
"because," said the basket woman, "those who are strong must stay so to care for the rest. it is the way of my people. you see that the others do not complain." and it was so that the feeble ones tottered silently about the camp or sat still a long time in one place with their heads upon their knees.
"how will it end?" asked alan.
"they must go away at last," said she, "though the cords of their hearts are fastened here. but there is no seed corn, and the winter is close at hand."
then there began to be a tang of frost in the air, and the people gathered up their household goods, and, though there was not much of them, they staggered and bent under the burden as they went up out of the once happy valley to another home. the women let down their long hair and smeared ashes upon it; they threw up their lean arms and wailed long and mournfully as they passed among the pines. alan began to tremble with crying, and felt the basket woman patting him on the shoulder. her voice sounded to him like the voice of his mother telling him to go to sleep again, for there was nothing for him to be troubled about. after he grew quieter, the indian woman lifted him up. "we must be going," she said, "it is not good for us to be here."
alan wished as they went up over the mountain that she would help him with talk toward forgetting what he had seen, but the long hair fell over her face and she would not talk. he shivered in the basket, and the night felt colder and full of fearsome noises.
"what is that?" he whispered, as a falling star trailed all across the dark.
"it is the coyote people that brought the fire to my people," said the basket woman. alan hoped she would tell him a tale about it, but she would not. they went on down the mountain until they came to the borders of the long-leaved pines. alan heard the sough of the wind in the needles, and it seemed as if it called.
"what is that?" he whispered.
"it is hí-no-no, the wind, mourning for his brother, the pine tree," but she would not tell him that tale, either. she went faster and faster, and alan felt the stir of her shoulders under him. he listened to the wind, and it grew fierce and louder until he heard the house beams creak, for he was awake in his own bed. a strong wind drove gustily across the mesa and laid hold of the corners of the roof.
the next morning the homesteader said that he must go to the campoodie and alan might go with him. alan was quite pleased, and said to his mother while she was getting him ready, "do you know, i think indians are a great deal better off as they are now."
"why, yes," said his mother, smiling, "i think so, too."
