Christine Quintasket (1884–1936), better known by her pen name Mourning Dove, was a Native American author. Quintasket often noted that she was constantly punished for not being able to speak English in school, but also was influenced by reading mass market romance novels of the time. Her novel Cogewea, The Half Blood: A Depiction of the Great Montana Cattle Range (1927) was the first novel published by a Native American woman. This novel about a woman of mixed race made Mourning Dove extremely popular and remains her most celebrated work. The tales reprinted here are from Coyote Stories, a collection written after Mourning Dove heard oral tales from reservation elders.
HAH-AHʹ EEL-MEʹ-WHEM, the great Spirit Chief, called the Animal People together. They came from all parts of the world. Then the Spirit Chief told them there was to be a change, that a new kind of people was coming to live on the earth.
“All of you Chip-chap-tiqulk—Animal People—must have names,” the Spirit Chief said. “Some of you have names now, some of you haven’t. But tomorrow all will have names that shall be kept by you and your descendants forever. In the morning, as the first light of day shows in the sky, come to my lodge and choose your names. The first to come may choose any name that he or she wants. The next person may take any other name. That is the way it will go until all the names are taken. And to each person I will give work to do.”
That talk made the Animal People very excited. Each wanted a proud name and the power to rule some tribe or some part of the world, and everyone determined to get up early and hurry to the Spirit Chief’s lodge.
Sin-ka-lipʹ—Coyote—boasted that no one would be ahead of him. He walked among the people and told them that, that he would be the first. Coyote did not like his name; he wanted another. Nobody respected his name, Imitator, but it fitted him. He was called Sin-ka-lipʹ because he liked to imitate people. He thought that he could do anything that other persons did, and he pretended to know everything. He would ask a question, and when the answer was given he would say:
“I knew that before. I did not have to be told.”
Such smart talk did not make friends for Coyote. Nor did he make friends by the foolish things he did and the rude tricks he played on people.
“I shall have my choice of the three biggest names,” he boasted. “Those names are: Kee-lau-naw, the Mountain Person—Grizzly Bear, who will rule the four-footed people; Milka-noups—Eagle, who will rule the birds, and En-tee-tee-ueh, the Good Swimmer—Salmon. Salmon will be the chief of all the fish that the New People use for food.”
Coyote’s twin brother, Fox, who at the next sun took the name Why-ayʹ-looh—Soft Fur, laughed. “Do not be so sure, Sin-ka-lipʹ,” said Fox. “Maybe you will have to keep the name you have. People despise that name. No one wants it.”
“I am tired of that name,” Coyote said in an angry voice. “Let someone else carry it. Let some old person take it—someone who cannot win in war. I am going to be a great warrior. My smart brother, I will make you beg of me when I am called Grizzly Bear, Eagle, or Salmon.”
“Your strong words mean nothing,” scoffed Fox. “Better go to your swoolʹ-hu (tepee) and get some sleep, or you will not wake up in time to choose any name.”
Coyote stalked off to his tepee. He told himself that he would not sleep any that night; he would stay wide awake. He entered the lodge, and his three sons called as if with one voice:
“Le-eeʹ-oo!” (“Father!”)
They were hungry, but Coyote had brought them nothing to eat. Their mother, who after the naming day was known as Pulʹ-laqu-whu—Mole, the Mound Digger—sat on her foot at one side of the doorway. Mole was a good woman, always loyal to her husband in spite of his mean ways, his mischief-making, and his foolishness. She never was jealous, never talked back, never replied to his words of abuse. She looked up and said:
“Have you no food for the children? They are starving. I can find no roots to dig.”
“Eh-ha!” Coyote grunted. “I am no common person to be addressed in that manner. I am going to be a great chief tomorrow. Did you know that? I will have a new name. I will be Grizzly Bear. Then I can devour my enemies with ease. And I shall need you no longer. You are growing too old and homely to be the wife of a great warrior and chief.”
Mole said nothing. She turned to her corner of the lodge and collected a few old bones, which she put into a klekʹ-chin (cooking-basket). With two sticks she lifted hot stones from the fire and dropped them into the basket. Soon the water boiled, and there was weak soup for the hungry children.
“Gather plenty of wood for the fire,” Coyote ordered. “I am going to sit up all night.”
Mole obeyed. Then she and the children went to bed.
Coyote sat watching the fire. Half of the night passed. He got sleepy. His eyes grew heavy. So he picked up two little sticks and braced his eyelids apart. “Now I can stay awake,” he thought, but before long he was fast asleep, although his eyes were wide open.
The sun was high in the sky when Coyote awoke. But for Mole he would not have wakened then. Mole called him. She called him after she returned with her name from the Spirit Chief’s lodge. Mole loved her husband. She did not want him to have a big name and be a powerful chief. For then, she feared, he would leave her. That was why she did not arouse him at day-break. Of this she said nothing.
Only half-awake and thinking it was early morning, Coyote jumped at the sound of Mole’s voice and ran to the lodge of the Spirit Chief. None of the other Chip-chap-tiqulk were there. Coyote laughed. Blinking his sleepy eyes, he walked into the lodge. “I am going to be Kee-lau-naw,” he announced in a strong voice. “That shall be my name.”
“The name Grizzly Bear was taken at dawn,” the Spirit Chief answered.
“Then I shall be Milka-noups,” said Coyote, and his voice was not so loud.
“Eagle flew away at sunup,” the other replied.
“Well, I shall be called En-tee-tee-ueh,” Coyote said in a voice that was not loud at all.
“The name Salmon also has been taken,” explained the Spirit Chief. “All the names except your own have been taken. No one wished to steal your name.”
Poor Coyote’s knees grew weak. He sank down beside the fire that blazed in the great tepee, and the heart of Hah-ahʹ Eel-meʹ-whem was touched.
“Sin-ka-lipʹ,” said that Person, “you must keep your name. It is a good name for you. You slept long because I wanted you to be the last one here. I have important work for you, much for you to do before the New People come. You are to be chief of all the tribes.
“Many bad creatures inhabit the earth. They bother and kill people, and the tribes cannot increase as I wish. These En-alt-na Skil-ten—People-Devouring Monsters—cannot keep on like that. They must be stopped. It is for you to conquer them. For doing that, for all the good things you do, you will be honored and praised by the people that are here now and that come afterward. But, for the foolish and mean things you do, you will be laughed at and despised. That you cannot help. It is your way.
“To make your work easier, I give you squas-tenkʹ. It is your own special magic power. No one else ever shall have it. When you are in danger, whenever you need help, call to your power. It will do much for you, and with it you can change yourself into any form, into anything you wish.
“To your twin brother, Why-ayʹ-looh, and to others I have given shooʹ-mesh. It is strong power. With that power Fox can restore your life should you be killed. Your bones may be scattered but, if there is one hair of your body left, Fox can make you live again. Others of the people can do the same with their shooʹ-mesh. Now, go, Sin-ka-lipʹ! Do well the work laid for your trail!”
Well, Coyote was a chief after all, and he felt good again. After that day his eyes were different. They grew slant from being propped open that night while he sat by his fire. The New People, the Indians, got their slightly slant eyes from Coyote.
After Coyote had gone, the Spirit Chief thought it would be nice for the Animal People and the coming New People to have the benefit of the spiritual sweat-house. But all of the Animal People had names, and there was no one to take the name of Sweat-house—Quilʹ-sten, the Warmer. So the wife of the Spirit Chief took the name. She wanted the people to have the sweat-house, for she pitied them. She wanted them to have a place to go to purify themselves, a place where they could pray for strength and good luck and strong medicine-power, and where they could fight sickness and get relief from their troubles.
The ribs, the frame poles, of the sweat-house represent the wife of Hah-ahʹ Eel-meʹ-whem. As she is a spirit, she cannot be seen, but she always is near. Songs to her are sung by the present generation. She hears them. She hears what her people say, and in her heart there is love and pity.
As he was walking through the timber one morning, Coyote heard someone say: “I throw you up and you come down in!”
Coyote thought that was strange talk. It made him curious. He wanted to learn who was saying that, and why. He followed the sound of the voice, and he came upon little Zst-skakaʹ-na—Chickadee—who was throwing his eyes into the air and catching them in his eye-sockets. When he saw Coyote peering at him from behind a tree, Chickadee ran. He was afraid of Coyote.
“That is my way, not yours,” Coyote yelled after him.
Now, it wasn’t Coyote’s way at all, but Coyote thought he could juggle his eyes just as easily as Chickadee juggled his, so he tried. He took out his eyes and tossed them up and repeated the words used by the little boy: “I throw you up and you come down in!” His eyes plopped back where they belonged. That was fun. He juggled the eyes again and again.
Two ravens happened to fly that way. They saw what Coyote was doing, and one of them said: “Sin-ka-lipʹ is mocking someone. Let us steal his eyes and take them to the Sun-dance. Perhaps then we can find out his medicine-power.”
“Yes, we will do that,” agreed the other raven. “We may learn something.”
As Coyote tossed his eyes the next time, the ravens swooped, swift as arrows from a strong bow. One of them snatched one eye and the other raven caught the other eye.
“Quoh! Quoh! Quoh!” they laughed and flew away to the Sun-dance camp.
Oh, but Coyote was mad! He was crazy with rage. When he could hear the ravens laughing no longer, he started in the direction they had gone. He hoped somehow to catch them and get back his eyes. He bumped into trees and bushes, fell into holes and gullies, and banged against boulders. He soon was bruised all over, but he kept on going, stumbling along. He became thirsty, and he kept asking the trees and bushes what kind they were, so that he could learn when he was getting close to water. The trees and bushes answered politely, giving their names. After a while he found he was among the mountain bushes, and he knew he was near water. He came soon to a little stream and satisfied his thirst. Then he went on and presently he was in the pine timber. He heard someone laughing. It was Kokʹ-qhi Skiʹ-kaka—Bluebird. She was with her sister, Kwasʹ-kay—Bluejay.
“Look, sister,” said Bluebird. “There is Sin-ka-lipʹ pretending to be blind. Isn’t he funny?”
“Do not mind Sin-ka-lipʹ,” advised Bluejay. “Do not pay any attention to him. He is full of mean tricks. He is bad.”
Coyote purposely bumped into a tree and rolled over and over toward the voices. That made little Bluebird stop her laughing. She felt just a little bit afraid.
“Come, little girl,” Coyote called. “Come and see the pretty star that I see!”
Bluebird naturally was very curious, and she wanted to see that pretty star, but she hung back, and her sister warned her again not to pay attention to Coyote. But Coyote used coaxing words; told her how bright the star looked.
“Where is the star?” asked Bluebird, hopping a few steps toward Coyote.
“I cannot show you while you are so far away,” he replied. “See, where I am pointing my finger!”
Bluebird hopped close, and Coyote made one quick bound and caught her. He yanked out her eyes and threw them into the air, saying:
“I throw you up and you come down in!” and the eyes fell into his eye-sockets.
Coyote could see again, and his heart was glad. “When did you ever see a star in the sunlight?” he asked Bluebird, and then ran off through the timber.
Bluebird cried, and Bluejay scolded her for being so foolish as to trust Coyote. Bluejay took two of the berries she had just picked and put them into her sister’s eye-sockets, and Bluebird could see as well as before. But, as the berries were small, her new eyes were small, too. That is why Bluebird has such berrylike eyes.
While his new eyes were better than none at all, Coyote was not satisfied. They were too little. They did not fit very well into his slant sockets. So he kept on hunting for the ravens and the Sun-dance camp. One day he came to a small tepee. He heard someone inside pounding rocks together. He went in and saw an old woman pounding meat and berries in a stone mortar. The old woman was Su-see-wass—Pheasant. Coyote asked her if she lived alone.
“No,” she said, “I have two granddaughters. They are away at the Sun-dance. The people there are dancing with Coyote’s eyes.”
“Aren’t you afraid to be here alone?” Coyote asked. “Isn’t there anything that you fear?”
“I am afraid of nothing but the stetʹ-chee-hunt (stinging-bush),” she said.
Laughing to himself, Coyote went out to find a stinging-bush. In a swamp not far away he found several bushes of that kind. He broke off one of those nettle bushes and carried it back to the tepee. Seeing it, Pheasant cried:
“Do not touch me with the stetʹ-chee-hunt! Do not touch me! It will kill me!”
But Coyote had no mercy in his heart, no pity. He whipped poor Pheasant with the stinging-bush until she died. Then, with his flint knife, he skinned her, and dressed himself in her skin. He looked almost exactly like the old woman. He hid her body and began to pound meat in the stone mortar. He was doing that when the granddaughters came home. They were laughing. They told how they had danced over Coyote’s eyes. They did not recognize Coyote in their grandmother’s skin, but Coyote knew them. One was little Bluebird and the other was Bluejay. Coyote smiled. “Take me with you to the Sun-dance, granddaughters,” he said in his best old-woman’s voice.
The sisters looked at each other in surprise, and Bluejay answered: “Why, you did not want to go with us when the morning was young.”
“Grandmother, how strange you talk!” said Bluebird.
“That is because I burned my mouth with hot soup,” said Coyote.
“And, Grandmother, how odd your eyes look!” Bluejay exclaimed. “One eye is longer than the other!”
“My grandchild, I hurt that eye with my cane,” explained Coyote.
The sisters did not find anything else wrong with their grandmother, and the next morning the three of them started for the Sun-dance camp. The sisters had to carry their supposed grandmother. They took turns. They had gone part way when Coyote made himself an awkward burden and almost caused Bluejay to fall. That made Bluejay angry, and she threw Coyote to the ground. Bluebird then picked him up and carried him. As they reached the edge of the Sun-dance camp, Coyote again made himself an awkward burden, and Bluebird let him fall. Many of the people in the camp saw that happen. They thought the sister were cruel, and the women scolded Bluebird and Bluejay for treating such an old person so badly.
Some of the people came over and lifted Coyote on his feet and helped him into the Sun-dance lodge. There the people were dancing over Coyote’s eyes, and the medicine-men were passing the eyes to one another and holding the eyes up high for everyone to see. After a little Coyote asked to hold the eyes, and they were handed to him.
He ran out of the lodge, threw his eyes into the air, and said: “I throw you up and you come down in!”
His eyes returned to their places, and Coyote ran to the top of a hill.
There he looked back and shouted: “Where are the maidens who had Coyote for a grandmother?”
Bluejay and Bluerbird were full of shame. They went home carrying Pheasant’s skin, which Coyote had thrown aside. They searched and found their grandmother’s body and put it back in the skin, and Pheasant’s life was restored. She told them how Coyote had killed her with the stinging bush.