My friend then continued: "Another superstition I found out as I cleaned this deer. I cut out the paunch, the heart and the liver and offered them to the Indian. He refused them, saying it was food fit only for women, children and old men. If he were to eat them he would never have luck in hunting again."
This superstition is common with many Indian tribes. It is based upon the idea that one becomes like that which he eats. If one eats the heart of a mountain-lion or bear he becomes daring and courageous. But to eat the heart of the timid deer is to make oneself timorous and cowardly.
As soon after puberty as possible a boy is taken out by his father or uncle on a hunt. Prior to that time he is not allowed to go. But before he can eat of the product of the chase he must himself kill a deer with large enough horns to allow him to crawl through them.
A friend of mine was out with a Washoe Indian whose boy was along on his first hunting expedition. They hunted a deer for nearly three days, but as soon as they found tracks the father, after studying them awhile, said: "This a little fellow. No good. He not big enough"—thus signifying to his son that his horns were not large enough to allow him to crawl through, hence it was no use following the animal further.
The Indian is quite sure that deer can smell him and know when he is on the hunt. He becomes skillful in detecting and following their tracks, and knows just how to circle around their hiding-place and suddenly walk in upon them. My friend, referred to above, who is a great hunter, was once out with a Washoe. They had had three "bad" days, when suddenly they found a deer's track. It was fresh, but when they came to the hole where he had lain down to rest, though the place was quite warm, the deer had gone. The Indian at once exclaimed: "That deer smell me. I must get rid of the Indian smell." Accordingly he scooped out a hole in the ground, heated a number of rocks in it, then, spreading fir boughs over them, lay down over the rocks and took a "fir-sweat" for fully ten to fifteen minutes. As he arose he exclaimed: "Deer no smell me to-morrow," and my friend said he did no longer smell like an Indian, but like burnt fir wood.
Turning to the Indian, however, he said: "You're all right, but how about me?" to which the reply instantly came: "You all right. Deer only smell Indian. He not smell white man."
Chief among the women's work is the making of baskets. The best Washoe basket makers are not surpassed by any weavers in the world. At Tallac, Fallen Leaf, Glen Alpine and several other resorts basket-makers may be found, preparing their splints, weaving or trying to sell their baskets.
| Dat-so-la-le, the artistic Washoe basket maker
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| One of Dat-so-la-le's masterpieces, 'Our Hunters' design
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Not far from Tahoe Tavern, about a quarter a mile away in the direction of Tahoe City, is the little curio store of A. Cohn, whose headquarters are in Carson City, the capital of the State of Nevada. Mr. and Mrs. Cohn hold a unique position in their particular field. Some twenty-five years ago they purchased a beautiful basket from a Washoe Indian woman, named Dat-so-la-le in Washoe, or Luisa Keyser in American, for she was the wife of Charley Keyser, a general roustabout Indian, well known to the citizens of Carson. Luisa was a large, heavy, more than buxom—literally a fat,—ungainly squaw. But her fingers were under the perfect control of a remarkably artistic brain. She was not merely an artist but a genius. She saw exquisite baskets in her dreams, and had the patience, persistence and determination to keep on weaving until she was able to reproduce them in actuality. She also was possessed by an indomitable resolution to be the maker of the finest baskets of the Washoe tribe. While she was still a young woman she gained the goal of her ambition, and it was just about this time that she offered one of her baskets to Mr. Cohn. He saw it was an excellent basket, that the shape was perfect, the color-harmony superior to any he had seen before, the stitch small, fine, and even, the weave generally perfect, the design original and worked out with artistic ability. He saw all this, yet, because it was Indian work, and the woman was a rude, coarse mountain of flesh, a feminine Falstaff, of a lower order of beings and without Falstaff's geniality and wit, he passed the basket by as merely worth a dollar or two extra, and placed it side by side with the work of other Washoe and Paiuti squaws. A Salt Lake dealer came into the store soon thereafter and saw this basket. "How much?" he asked. The price was given—rather high thought Mr. Cohn—. "Twenty-five dollars!" "ll take it!" came the speedy response.
A month or two later Cohn received a photograph from the purchaser, accompanied by a letter. "You know the basket, herewith photographed, which I purchased from you. Have you any more by the same weaver, or of as good a weave? If so, how many, and at what price? Wire reply at my expense."