Land of Little Rain - Mary Austin
The Basket Maker
"A man," says Seyavi of the campoodie, "must have a woman, but a woman who has a child will do very well."
That was perhaps why, when she lost her mate in the dying struggle of his race, she never took another, but set her wit to fend
for herself and her young son. No doubt she was often put to it in the beginning to find food for them both. The Paiutes had made
their last stand at the border of the Bitter Lake; battle-driven they died in its waters, and the land filled with cattle-men and
adventurers for gold: this while Seyavi and the boy lay up in the caverns of the Black Rock and ate tule roots and fresh-water
clams that they dug out of the slough bottoms with their toes. In the interim, while the tribes swallowed their defeat, and before
the rumor of war died out, they must have come very near to the bare core of things. That was the time Seyavi learned the
sufficiency of mother wit, and how much more easily one can do without a man than might at first be supposed.
To understand the fashion of any life, one must know the land it is lived in and the procession of the year. This valley is a
narrow one, a mere trough between hills, a draught for storms, hardly a crow's flight from the sharp Sierras of the Snows to
the curled, red and ochre, uncomforted, bare ribs of Waban. Midway of the groove runs a burrowing, dull river, nearly a
hundred miles from where it cuts the lava flats of the north to its widening in a thick, tideless pool of a lake. Hereabouts
the ranges have no foothills, but rise up steeply from the bench lands above the river. Down from the Sierras, for the east
ranges have almost no rain, pour glancing white floods toward the lowest land, and all beside them lie the campoodies, brown
wattled brush heaps, looking east.
In the river are mussels, and reeds that have edible white roots, and in the soddy meadows tubers of joint grass; all these
at their best in the spring. On the slope the summer growth affords seeds; up the steep the one-leafed pines, an oily nut. That
was really all they could depend upon, and that only at the mercy of the little gods of frost and rain. For the rest it was
cunning against cunning, caution against skill, against quacking hordes of wild-fowl in the tulares, against pronghorn and
bighorn and deer. You can guess, however, that all this warring of rifles and bowstrings, this influx of overlording whites,
had made game wilder and hunters fearful of being hunted. You can surmise also, for it was a crude time and the land was raw,
that the women became in turn the game of the conquerors.
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