Bah-vanda-sava-nu-ke has seen here in his lifetime a development of human history equivalent to man's progress through all that long, long stretch of time since the first wheel astonished travelers afoot. During the past 20 years I have studied the story of his life.
While Old Woman shelled the piñons, I said:
"Grandfather, you have seen many winters and the wisdom of an old man is good. That is why I have come to you to hear of the old times."
After a long silence, Bab-vanda-savanu-kee spoke:
"My son, you are Kwe-Yah, 'the Eagle.' I have known your father for many many years. You have been to the white man's school and have learned his ways, many of which are good and you understand our people and many of our ways are good.
"I am growing old, my limbs creak, my eyes are dim with age. To you, my son, I can talk plain and you will understand without me saying foolish things like when I talk to white people."
There was another interval of silence, and then he continued, speaking slowly and deliberately. As nearly as I can so, I use his own words:
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My father Inyo (Place-of-the-Spirit) was head man at that time, what the white man calls a chief. When our people had trouble they-came to him, and he
When I was a little boy I wandered over the desert far from home, always looking for something to eat. I learned how to snare rabbits and quail and hunt Cuc-wata the chuckawalla. Cuc-wata was quick, he would run and hide in the crack of big stones and blow himself full of wind, so he could not be pulled out. For this hunting I carried a sharp stick, I catch hold of his tail and punch a hole to leave Out the wind, then I could easy pull him out. This meat was very good.
When I found the track of To-koo-vichite the wild cat, I would trail him to his den, and later tell my father who would smoke him out and kill. This meat was very sweet.
Sometimes when I would start out to hunt, Woo-nada-gum-bechie (Dust Devil) would cross my path, then I would always return, for that was a bad sign. The old men say that is the, ghost of one who died and maybe that is so.
When Oot-sup-poot, the meadow lark, came back that was a good sign that cold wind had gone. Then I could travel far with my bow and arrow and some times bring home big birds that were going north. I was becoming a big hunter and brought much meat to my mother's wickiup. I learned to track and use the bow and arrow when very young. My father made the arrows from a hollow reed that grows in the canyons. You can find that kind of reed over there in the canyon where this water comes from. We placed a sharp stick about as long as a hand in the end, this stick we burned in a fire and scraped with a stone to a hard sharp point. Some arrows we pointed with black stone (obsidian) that came from the Coso hills. That time there was many Wa-soo-pi (big horn sheep) on Sheep mountain and all over the Ky-cguta (Panamint range). No Indian boy today could hunt them like we did with bow and arrow. Some time I trailed Wasoo-pi for three, four days. When I see him lay down, I crawl close slow, slow, like a fox, from rock to rock, always with the wind in my face, when he would raise his head to smell the wind, I lay flat without a move. When I get close, I raise up slow, slow, and drive the arrow into meat.
When I was about as high as that wagon wheel, (pointing to an old wheel
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Long ago I was born in a camp of mesquite in To-me-sha, they call that place Death Valley. It was at Surveyor Well. From the earliest time I can remember we would move away in the summer to the high cool country among the juniper and piñon trees. There we would stay until the piñon nut harvest was over, returning to the valley when the snow came.
When there was plenty of meat every one was happy, even E-shev-ipe the coyote and Wo-te-ah the fox smelled the meat cooking over the hot stones and came for their share. When every one had eaten all he could hold, there was story telling and dances. Sometimes we played the hand game and sang the gamblers song all night long. Those were happy days with our people.
Cold winter evenings we sat about the camp lire, in the shelter of the mesquite, the old men told stories of days that were gone. Our women worked at basketmaking, some baskets were made for gathering seeds and piñon nuts, others were for beauty. It was a gift of our women to make good baskets.
Old Kaw "the crow" was the best story teller, he told the stories over and over, so that the boys would know and remember, and he went away back the life time
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