Kiowa Annie
The Indian stretched his lean arm and shouted, "Go!" still more savagely. It was immensely funny. Gordon's men jeered the solitary autocrat, and laughed until their icicled beards pulled. They bade him get into a drift and cool off; asked him if his mother knew he was out, and whether his feet were sore, and if it hurt him much to talk, and if he hadn't a brother who could chin-chinwashitado?
His sole answer to their jeering, as he rode along side, was "Go! go! go!" repeated with savage emphasis and a flourish of his arm to southward.
The footmen were plodding a dozen rods in the rear of their freight wagon, and still laughing frostily at this queer specimen of "Injun," when the savage spurred his pony forward. A few quick leaps carried him up to the toiling eight-mule team. His blanket dropped around his hips, and a repeating carbine rose to his face. Both wheelers dropped at the first shot, killed by a single ounce slug. A rapid fusillade of shots was distributed among the struggling mules, and then the Sioux was off, shaking his gun and yelling defiance, his pony going in zigzag leaps and like the wind.
Men ran tumbling over each other to get into the wagon and at their guns. The teamster and two or three others, who, despite the cold, carried revolvers under their great coats, jerked their mittens and fumbled with stiff fingers for their weapons. They had not been nerved up with excitement, like the Sioux, and before they could bring their guns to bear, the savage was well out upon the prairie.
And when these men tried, with rifle or revolver, to shoot at the swiftly moving erratic mark presented by the cunning Sioux and his rabbit-like pony, the cutting wind numbed their fingers and filled their eyes with water, the glistening snow obscured their front sights, and they pelted a white waste harmlessly with bullets.
The anger which raged in them when they knew the Sioux had escaped Scot-free was something frightful. Six mules of the splendid eight lay weltering in blood; another was disabled, and only one had come off without hurt. Half the counties of northwestern Iowa had been scoured to get together "Gordon's Pride," as this fine freight-team had been named before the party left Sioux City.
The blight of their hopeful expedition, the frightful peril of their situation, were lost sight of in the absorbing desire for revenge which burned in every man of them as they gazed upon the stricken, stiffening heap of animals. All were for giving chase immediately. They believed they could easily overtake the Sioux among the drifts of the lower lands, where creeks and snow-filled ravines must cause him to shift his course continually.
"Boys," said Gordon, when some of them had hastily begun to strip for the chase, "boys, this is my particular affair. You make camp and fix it for fightin'. I'll either get that Sioux, or he'll fetch his tribe back an' get us."
Cy Gordon was their captain. He had been a hay and wood contractor for many years in the Sioux country, and his word was law to this little band.
There was no need to argue that no man could have even guessed at the daring and disaster they had looked upon. The performance had been too appallingly simple and easy. It had come as unexpectedly as the flood of a cloudburst or the bursting of a gun.
While his men stood vengefully watching the flying Sioux, Gordon stripped himself of superfluous wrappings, stocked his pockets with frozen bread and cartridges, slipped on a pair of snowshoes kept for emergency, tightened his belt, and launched himself in pursuit.
Horse and rider were again no more than a speck upon the vast snowfield. Gordon, with an "express" rifle under his arm, took the long, swinging stride of the accomplished snowshoer. In an hour the speck upon the snow had not grown smaller.
At high noon, by the sun, upon a broad flat where tall grass held the snow, Gordon came almost within bullet range of the Sioux. An hour later, among a tangle of drifted ravines, there was an exchange of shots, and the Sioux's pony dropped in its tracks. The Indian dodged out of sight, and Gordon pushed wearily on with a grin of hate under his icicles.
He took up the Sioux tracks, and noted with satisfaction that the Indian's moccasined feet punched through the light crust at every other step. In just a little while!
But he followed an hour or more among a seemingly interminable tangle of gullies without catching a glimpse of the wary dodger. Then he emerged into a wider valley, to find that the artful rascal had escaped out of range and out of sight upon a wind-swept stretch of river ice.
Gordon ground his teeth and swept over the smooth surface, sweating, despite the sharp cold, from fierce exertion. At a turn in the river he saw the Sioux; but there were others, more than a score of them, mounted and approaching the runner. The mule-killer's camp or town was close at hand.
Exhausted from his long run, Gordon, in his own language, "threw up the sponge." He hastily sought the cover of river-drifts, and scooped himself a kind of rifle-pit. Then, with a pile of cartridges between his knees and slapping his hands to keep his fingers ready for action, he waited, meaning to do what execution he could before the end.
There was considerable parley among the Sioux, and then only a single Indian advanced toward the white man. This one came on foot within gunshot, then stopped and shook his blanket in token that he wanted to approach and talk.
Gordon laughed. The situation seemed to him grimly humorous. He motioned to the Indian to come on, and kept him well covered with his rifle. A moment later, however, he lowered his gun.
Whatever fate awaited Gordon, he knew that he stood in no danger of a treacherous stroke from the approaching Sioux. It was the chief, Red Cloud.
Gordon arose, and the chief came forward with a hand out-stretched. "My young man has killed your mules," was Red Cloud's greeting in the Sioux Tongue.
Gordon understood. "Yes," he said, "and I will not take your hand until you have done right."
The grave old chief drew his blanket about his shoulders with a shrug. "Now listen," he said. "If one of your soldiers had approached a party of my soldiers and had killed all their horses, and so crippled them and escaped, your people would have made him a big captain. It is so. My young man is very brave. He did as he was told. You can not come here and take my country—not yet. I have watched your advance and complained to your soldiers at White River. When I saw they did not go out and catch you as our Great Father has said they should do, I sent my young man to stop you. You will find your soldiers at the three forks of White River. Now go!"
And without another word, Red Cloud turned upon his heel and stalked away.
This time Gordon was glad enough to obey the injunction to "go." Three days later his little party filed in at the military camp on White River, and when, some time afterward, their boxes of freight had been recovered, not so much as a blanket or a pound of sugar had been taken by Red Cloud's Sioux.
VII. McDOUGAL AND HIS KIND INDIAN NEIGHBOR.
One James McDougal, a native of Argyleshire, having emigrated to upper Canada, from anxiety to make the most of his scanty capital, purchased a location where the price of land was merely nominal, in a country sparsely settled, and on the extreme verge of civilization. His first care was to construct a log house in which to live, and a barn for his few domestic animals, consisting of cattle, sheep and hogs. This task finished, he busily employed himself in bringing a few acres of ground under cultivation, and, though his task was hard and slow, yet he became in a rough way fairly comfortable, as compared with the poverty he had left behind.
His greatest discomforts were distance from his neighbors, the church, the markets and even the mill; and along with these the suspension of those endearing charities, and friendly offices, which lend such a charm to social life.
On one occasion, Mr. McDougal found it necessary to take a sack of grain to the nearest mill, about fifteen miles distant, over a rough country. He got an early start, hoping to make the journey and return by sunset of the same day. In his absence, the care of the cattle devolved on his wife, and as they did not come up to the barn as usual at the close of day the careful matron went in quest of them.
Beyond the mere outskirts of the cleared land there was a forest, which to her, unpracticed in woodcraft, became aterra incognita;tall trees arose on every side—"a boundless contiguity of shade"—and with neither compass nor notched trees to guide her, it is not surprising that she soon found herself completely lost. Having wandered aimlessly until almost exhausted and completely discouraged, she dropped down by a large tree and wept bitterly.
At this moment the noise of approaching footsteps was heard. Her heart almost ceased beating with terror, for she knew that fierce wild beasts roamed through that forest. It proved to be neither bear nor panther, but what has been designated as "The still wilder Red Man of the Forest." An Indian hunter stood before her, a veritable "stoic of the woods, a man without fear."
Mrs. McDougal knew that Indians lived at no great distance, but as she had never seen a member of the tribe, her emotions were those of terror, quickening every pulse and yet paralyzing every limb. The Indian's views were more comprehensive; he had observed her, without being observed himself. He recognized her person, knew her home, comprehended her mishap, divined her errand and immediately beckoned her to follow him. The unfortunate woman understood his signal, and obeyed it, as far as terror left her power; and after a lengthened walk, which added not a little to her previous fatigue, they arrived at the door of an Indian wigwam.
Her conductor, by signs, invited her to enter; but this she persistently refused to do, dreading the consequence, preferring death in the open air to the tender mercies of cannibals within. Perceiving her reluctance, and surmising her feelings, the hospitable Indian rushed into his wigwam and held a hasty consultation with his wife, who, in a few minutes, also appeared, and, by certain signs and sympathies known only to females, calmed the stranger's fears, and induced her to enter their lowly abode. Venison was instantly prepared for supper, and Mrs. McDougal, though still alarmed at the strangeness of her situation, found the food well cooked, and, in her hungry condition, delicious. Aware that their guest was weary, the Indians stretched two deerskins across the wigwam, thus dividing it into two apartments. Mats and soft furs were then spread upon the floor of each, and the visitor was given to understand that the further room from the entrance was for her accommodation. But here again her courage failed her, and to the most pressing entreaties she replied by signs, as well as she could, that she would prefer to sit and sleep by the fire. This determination seemed to puzzle the two entertainers sadly, often they looked at each other and conversed softly in their own language, and, at last, the red took the white woman by the hand, led her to her couch and became her bedfellow. In the morning she awoke greatly refreshed, and anxious to depart, without further delay—but her host and hostess would on no account permit it. Breakfast was prepared—another savory and well-cooked meal—and then the Indian conducted his guest to the very spot where the cattle were grazing. These he kindly drove from the woods, on the verge of which Mrs. McDougal saw her husband running about everywhere, hallooing and seeking for her in a state of mind bordering on distraction. Great was his joy, and great his gratitude to her Indian benefactor, who was invited to the house and treated to the best the larder afforded, and presented on his departure with a suit of clothes.
Some time after this the Indian returned and endeavored to induce Mr. McDougal to follow him into the forest. But this invitation was positively declined—and the poor savage went on his way obviously grieved and disappointed. But again he returned and renewed his entreaties, yet without effect. At last he hit upon an expedient, which none save an Indian hunter would have thought of.
The McDougals had a nursling in the crib only a few months old, a fact the Indian failed not to observe. So, after his pantomimic eloquence availed nothing, he approached the crib, seized the child, wrapped a blanket around it, and darted out of the house with the speed of an antelope. The alarmed parents instantly followed (as he knew they would) supplicating and beseeching at the top of their voices. But the Indian's resolves were as fixed as fate—and away he went, slow enough to encourage his pursuers, but still in the lead by a good many paces. The Indian was in no hurry, only aiming to keep out of the reach of McDougal's arms, and glancing back now and then to see that his pursuers were still following. The parents noticed, too, that the Indian carried the babe very gently and took pains to keep the blanket carefully wrapped around it. They now realized that he meant no harm to the child, but they were still puzzled to know what he did mean. After traveling in this manner several miles the savage stopped abruptly on the margin of a most beautiful little prairie, teaming with the richest vegetation and comprising several thousand acres of choice land.
When McDougal and his wife reached the Indian, he quietly restored the babe to its mother, and spreading both hands toward the little paradise, he uttered the only English word he had acquired, which was, "look!"
The shrewd Scotchman did look with astonishment and delight, and the more he examined it the better he liked the prospect. He found the soil to be of the best quality of black prairie loam, which would need but the tickle of the plowshare to make it laugh with the golden harvest. As McDougal had sufficient cattle to break it, he could begin farming operations at once without the slow, laborious process of cleaning up forest. Moreover a good sized stream gushed out of a near-by cliff, affording abundance of never failing water for flocks and herds, and a fine mill site. It was one of the most beautiful and fertile spots in all Canada, and the white man immediately saw the propriety of the advice given by the untutored one.
By a sort of tacit agreement, a day was fixed for the removal of the materials of our countryman's cabin, goods and chattels; and the Indian friend, true to his word, brought a detachment of his village to assist in one of the most romantic "flittings" ever undertaken. In a few days a roomy log house was erected near the headwaters of the beautiful little stream, just in the edge of the prairie, with a forest on the north for a windbrake. A garden was enclosed, and preparations made to break the virgin prairie.
McDougal was greatly pleased at the change—and no wonder, seeing that he could almost boast a bodyguard as bold and true as the bowmen of Robin Hood. His Indian friend speedily became a sort of foster brother, and his tribe as faithful as the most attached Tail of Gillies that ever surrounded a Highland chieftain. Even, the stupid kine lowed, on finding themselves suddenly transferred to a boundless range of richest pasture, and soon began improving rapidly in condition and increasing in numbers.
The little garden was also smiling like a rose, the over-abundant grass gradually giving way to thriving crops. The Indians continued friendly and faithful, occasionally bringing presents of venison and other game, and were uniformly rewarded from the stores of a dairy overflowing with milk and cream, and filled with butter and cheese.
In time a small grist and saw mill was built on the banks of the little stream, for the profit of the owner, and the accommodation of neighboring settlers. The Indian friend who made all this prosperity possible was at length induced to form a part of the establishment in the capacity of head shepherd a duty he undertook most cheerfully, as it still left him opportunities for hunting, trapping and keeping in touch with his tribe.
Let us hope, therefore, that nothing will occur to mar this beautiful picture of sylvan life; that the McDougal colony will wax stronger, till every acre of the beautiful prairie is forced to yield tribute to the plow and sickle.
Se-Quo-Yah
VIII. STORY OF SE-QUO-YAH, THE CHEROKEE CADMUS.
About the year 1763 a child was born to an Indian woman in the old Cherokee country of Georgia. He was on his father's side the grandson of a German by the name of Guess, or Ghiest, and was given the name George Guess, though he is better known as Se-Quo-Yah. He was early impressed with the thought of the superiority of the white over the red race, and wisely concluded that much of this was due to the white man's learning, and ability to represent his thoughts on paper in a way to mean the same thing to every one who saw it; unlike the picture writing then in vogue among the Cherokees, which was necessarily lacking in clearness and liable to misinterpretation.
He could neither read nor speak any language other than Cherokee, but he was a close observer, and a mechanical genius, and determined to invent a system of writing his language. In some manner, Se-Quo-Yah found out that the writing of the white man consisted in the use of characters to represent sounds. At first he thought of using one character for each word; but this was not possible because there are so many words it complicated matters too much. He finally concluded that as there were eighty-six syllables in Cherokee, he would form a series of eighty-six characters to represent them. He found that these characters could be so combined as to represent every word in the Cherokee language. Many of these characters were taken from an English spelling-book which he managed to get hold of. Some are Greek characters, and others are letters of the English alphabet reversed, the rest were specially invented.
It happened, too, from the structure of the Cherokee language or dialect, that the syllabic alphabet is also in the nature of a grammar; so that those who know the language by ear and master the alphabet, can at once read and write. Owing to the extreme simplicity of this system, it can be acquired in a few days. Some have even learned it in one day; which is certainly very remarkable.
So much for the invention. The reader is no doubt interested in knowing more of the history of the inventor of this wonderful alphabet, which has proven such a blessing to the Cherokees.
The only remarkable thing about Se-Quo-Yah's early years appears to have been his preference for playing alone and building houses of sticks in the woods, rather than to join in the sports of Indian children of his age. His mother owned a few cows that furnished her the means of living. When her son was grown to be a sturdy boy he built a substantial milk house, where he helped his mother with the dairy work, showing himself an expert dairyman and adding materially to her profits.
He early displayed great interest in natural forms and unusual power of observation, and developed much skill in representing what he saw in drawing. His pictures were at first as crude as the common picture-writing of his people; but with practice his animals and men assumed more and more a living shape and an accurate expression of action. He became famed as an artist, and many visited his mother's cabin to see his pictures and to watch the wonderful process of their creation.
When he had reached early manhood this same artistic faculty led him to desire to create objects of beauty, and he turned his attention to making the silver ornaments so much prized by his people, such as armlets, brooches and clasps. There was great demand for these products of his hands, owing to the novelty of their design and the fineness of their execution. But Se-Quo-Yah possessed a practical vein of artistic talent. Not content with making silver trinkets, he became a blacksmith, and turned out from his forge the finest spades, rakes and hoes, which were highly appreciated by some of his tribesmen who failed to perceive the artistic quality of his silver work.
There was an individual quality about his hoes as well as his bracelets which he valued and desired to have the credit of, and he wished to put some mark upon his work that would prove it to be his own. With this thought in mind, he went to a white neighbor with whom he was on the most friendly terms, and asked him to write his name on paper. Mr. Lowrey wrote it, using his English name, George Guess. From this Se-Quo-Yah made a die with which he stamped all the articles of silver or iron that he made.
His work had not only put much money in his pouch, but was fast making him the most popular young man of the tribe. This popularity came near being his ruin. The young men flocked about him, praised his skill, and envied him the gain it brought him. He requited their flattery with generous entertainment, according to the fashion of his people. Unfortunately contact with the white man had changed this fashion for the worse. Indians of an earlier generation had entertained their friends with feasts of game and sweet potatoes; but the young braves of 1800 and thereabouts preferred rum, Se-Quo-Yah would buy a keg of rum, and with a party of companions, would retire into the woods to remain until the rum supply was exhausted and they had recovered from its effects. The work of the forge stood still; money was getting low in the pouch.
Through the efforts of his good friend, Mr. Lowrey, Se-Quo-Yah was aroused to a sense of his folly and degradation before it was too late to break away from his bad habits; he gave up his idle companions, resumed his work with renewed industry and spent his leisure time among the more sedate and intelligent men of his tribe.
Among the people in whose society he was now to be found, a frequent subject of discussion was the wonderful power possessed by the white man of making curious marks upon paper, which meant the same thing to every white man to whom they might be shown; unlike the Indian's picture-writing, which meant this or that, according to the interpretation put upon it. Some characterized it as sorcery; some reverently called it a gift of the Great Spirit to his favorite children; some believed it to be a mere trick, and with the object of detecting the fraud would show a written sentence to one white man after another, expecting some variation in the interpretation. Se-Quo-Yah alone pronounced it an art which might be practiced by all men, if they had only the ingenuity. He expressed the belief that he could "talk on paper," and in spite of the ridicule of his friends set to work to make good his assertion.
In the woods he gathered birch bark which he separated into thin sheets; on these, with dyes extracted from plants, he painted pictures, each one of which represented the name of some natural object. This process was very laborious and he abandoned it when he found that he had accumulated a number of characters greater than he could remember, while the vocabulary of the language still remained far from complete.
He now procured coarse paper and made a rough book, in which he began another series of experiments. At this point he had some assistance from a collection of "talking leaves," as the Indians called a printed page. An English spelling-book fell into his hands, but he could not read a word of it; he did not even know any English, but the "talking leaves" were covered all over with figures of distinct shape, such figures as he was taxing his ingenuity to invent. Some of them he copied and adopted in his work, where, however, they play a part quite unlike that with which we associate them in the English alphabet. For instance, among the eighty-six characters of the alphabet invented by Se-Quo-Yah, we recognize the forms of our W, H, B and other letters, but W stands for the sound la, and the others represent sounds just as far from their English equivalents.
After about two years' work Se-Quo-Yah had the satisfaction of seeing that he had really achieved the end for which he had labored so patiently. He had made a complete alphabet of the Cherokee language, an alphabet of which it may safely be affirmed that it is the most perfect in the world, since its characters represent exactly the sound for which they stand, unlike the letters of our English alphabet, which in many cases do not even suggest the sound of the word they spell. For example, a Cherokee who read the letters b-u-t would take for granted that he had spelled the word beauty; reading l-e-g, he would pronounce it elegy. The consequence of this is that when a Cherokee school boy has once mastered the alphabet he knows how to read without any further labor. There are no spelling lessons to learn. If he hears a word correctly pronounced he knows exactly what letters must be used to form it.
Having composed his alphabet, Se-Quo-Yah tested it by teaching it to his little daughter, six years old. To his joy, he found that as soon as she had become familiar with the characters she could form correctly any word he spoke.
It had taken him two years to perfect his method; it took him a longer time to convince his people of its value. During those years, his neglect of his forge and the chase, his idle dreaming over his "talking leaves," had aroused the ridicule and contempt of his neighbors and the head men of his tribe, and angered his wife, who resented finding her husband a lazy drone in place of the prosperous blacksmith she had married. The most kindly opinion expressed of him was that he was insane; even the children laughed at the madman and his "talking leaves." When he assured them that those "talking leaves" contained a secret of inestimable value to the Cherokee nation, they only laughed the more and passed on, shaking their heads and saying, "Poor old Se-Quo-Yah!"
With considerable difficulty he persuaded his old friend, Mr. Lowrey to come to his cabin and make a test of his discovery. Mr. Lowrey consented from mere good-nature, not expecting to learn anything of interest. Se-Quo-Yah asked him to dictate to him some words and sentences, which he wrote in his characters. He then called in his little daughter, who read without difficulty the sentences that she had not heard spoken. There was no possibility of doubting that here was a great discovery. Mr. Lowrey became Se-Quo-Yah's earnest helper in his efforts to gain recognition. But the obstacles in the way were hard to overcome. Prejudice against "white men's ways," distrust of a thing so contrary to the traditions of the tribe, fear of sorcery, all had to be met and conquered. At length the chiefs of the nation consented to a public test of Se-Quo-Yah's claims. A number of the most intelligent young men of the tribe were selected and placed under his tuition. The result confirmed in the minds of the more superstitious their belief in the magical nature of Se-Quo-Yah's characters. Some of the scholars learned the alphabet in three days and were then able to read anything that Se-Quo-Yah had written at the dictation of any of the judges. The triumph of the inventor was complete.
The tide once turned swelled to a flood. So many students flocked about the master that he could not teach them all. The youth of the nation were seized with a mad desire for knowledge of the "talking leaves." The old men began to grumble about the spell of enchantment that Se-Quo-Yah had cast over the young braves, making them indifferent to the corn-dance and neglectful of the chase, while they spent their days poring over foolish bits of paper. But the objection of the conservatives was overruled by the enthusiasm of the more progressive party. Study of the new art became general among the younger generation. Schools were opened, text-books were prepared. English books were translated and printed in the Cherokee character. One of the earliest translations made was of the third chapter of the Gospel of St. John, which was prepared by a Christian Indian and printed before any other part of the Scriptures.
Se-Quo-Yah now made a journey to the West, visiting a portion of his tribe that had emigrated to Arkansas. To them also he communicated his discovery and instructed them in the use of his alphabet. After his return to Georgia, he held a correspondence with these disciples in the west that was eyed askance by the conservative elders as savoring too much of the black art.
During this absence in the West, his admirers in the East had secured from the council of the nation an appropriation of a sum of money to provide a medal to be presented to Se-Quo-Yah in commemoration of his great achievement. This medal was made in Washington. It was of silver and bore on one side the medallion portrait of the Indian Cadmus, on the other a complimentary inscription. During the remainder of his life he wore it constantly suspended about his neck, and took great pride in exhibiting it to his friends.
A natural consequence of the popular interest in the new art of reading and letter-writing was a demand for news—more news than could be had through personal correspondence. This demand was met five years after the nation had accepted the alphabet, by the publication of a newspaper, the first paper printed in the Indian character. It was calledThe Phoenix,and the editor was Elias Boudinot, a Cherokee, who had received a liberal education at the North.
The paper was printed partly in the Cherokee character and partly in English. Another paper, similarly arranged, was started one year after the death of Se-Quo-Yah by an appropriation of the national council, and is still issued weekly at Tahlequah, Indian Territory.
This paper is called theCherokee Advocate.A copy of it is on the author's desk as he writes this article, and he hopes some day to be able to read it.
In 1838, when the Cherokees were removed from their old home in Georgia, Se-Quo-Yah emigrated with them to western Arkansas. There he remained for about four years, extending the knowledge of literature among his people and enjoying his late-earned fame. Here in the new west there reached his ears rumors from the still remote West of a people whom he believed to be a lost portion of the Cherokee nation, and he felt a great desire to reach and extend to them also the benefits he had conferred upon the nation at large. He determined to go in search of these lost Cherokees. The means to carry out this plan may have been secured through a grant made to him by the nation about this time of an annuity equal to the salary of a chief.
He fitted up a prairie wagon with camp equipage and added books, writing materials, and everything necessary for the instruction of any who might come to him to be taught.
This indomitable old man, now in his seventy-third year, started across the mountains and prairies en route for New Mexico. His granddaughter, Mrs. Lucy Keys, of Woods, Indian Territory, writes, concerning this last journey: "I was about twelve years old when my grandfather, Se-Quo-Yah, left his home in the Cherokee Nation in 1843.
"I remember well the morning they left. His son, Teece, and several other men, I do not know their names, went with him. He limped a little as he walked, and coughed a great deal. It was said that he had the breast complaint. His friends thought a change of climate would help him. I was present when the men returned and reported his death.
"They told how his health began to improve, and they had great hopes of his recovery, until after passing Grand River. Then they found only bad water; and his health failed again; the provisions became scarce, and they depended entirely on game. It seemed that there was nothing for them. One of the men always stayed with Se-Quo-Yah, until at last he sent them all to hunt. They remained over night, and on their return to the place next day where they had left him, he was gone, but had left directions for them to follow him to another place which he described.
"They hurried on, but found him dead. They put his papers with his body and wrapped it with blankets and placed it away, upon a kind of shelf, in a small cave, where nothing could disturb it. They said they marked the place so they could find it, but the men sent to bring the body failed to find the place."
In the Council House of Tahlequah is a marble bust of Se-Quo-Yah, showing him a man of mild and thoughtful countenance. His true monument is the literature of his nation; the memory of his great achievement is perpetuated in the name of those giant trees that tower above the Western forests as he over topped other men of his tribe.
Shortly after the knowledge of Se-Quo-Yah's system became general among his people, Col. Thomas L. McKenney made a report to the War Department on the condition of the Cherokee Nation, in which he says: "The success which has attended the philological researches of one of the nation, whose system of education has met with universal approbation among the Cherokees, certainly entitles him to great consideration and to rank with the benefactors of men. His name is Guess and he is a native and unlettered Cherokee; but, like Cadmus, he has given to his people the alphabet of their language."
Big Tree
IX. JOHN JAYBIRD, THE INDIAN RELIC-MAKER, AND THE CITY DUDE.
A remnant of the Cherokees remained in North Carolina, Georgia and Tennessee, after the most of the tribe removed to Indian Territory. Among these was a young man named John Jaybird, known among both whites and Indians as "the Indian relic-maker." His chief employment is carving the images of men and animals in a kind of soft stone found near the Little Tennessee River, of western North Carolina. With no other implement than a pocket-knife he can carve an exact image of any animal he has ever seen, or of which he has ever seen a picture. For these curiosities, or "Indian relics," as he calls them, he finds a profitable sale among the whites. He lived on the banks of the Little Tennessee River, and when not carving was fishing.
E. E. White, the special Indian agent, tells the following amusing story in which this young Cherokee figured. He said "A dude came out from the city to visit Mr. Siler, a prominent young lawyer of Charleston, North Carolina. He professed to be fond of fishing, and from the first manifested great impatience to embark in that delightful pastime. He was very loud, and so extremely blustering and energetic that Mr. Siler's village friends stood off and looked on in amazement, and sometimes in great amusement also. But Mr. Siler was courteous and obliging and not disposed to be critical. Nevertheless it was whispered about among his home friends that at heart he would be glad enough to get the dude off in the woods out of sight. At all events, he said, the dude should fish as much as he wished.
"Equipped with bait and tackle they betook themselves to the river. To the dude's evident astonishment the fish refused to come out on the bank and suffer him to kill them with a club, and he shifted about too much to give them a chance at his hook. He could always see a better place somewhere else. He soon began to manifest disappointment in the fish and disgust for the country, and intimated that the people were shamefully deficient in enterprise and style, and in no respect what they should be. Rambling on down the river, the dude leading and Siler following—they came in sight of Jaybird, who was also fishing. Sitting motionless on a rock, with his gaze fixed on the cork on his line, he seemed the counterpart of 'the lone fisherman.'
"By Jove! Yonder's an Indian," said the dude; "let's make him get away and let us have that place." "Oh, no," replied Siler; "that's John Jaybird, one of the best fellows in the world. Let's not bother him."
Mr. Siler and Jaybird were close friends. "No," said the dude; "that's the most decent place I've seen, and I intend to have it; I do, by Jove!"
"Oh, no; don't do that," Siler pleaded; "he wouldn't disturb us. Besides, if we try to make him go, he's liable to get stubborn, and we had better not have any trouble with him. Wait and I'll ask him to let you have the place; may be he'll do it."
"Oh, get out," the dude ejaculated; "what's the use of so much politeness with a lazy, sleepy-looking Indian? Watch me wake him up and make him trot. By Jove, watch me!"
Swelling himself up to the highest tension, he strode up to Jaybird, who was still unaware of their approach. Slapping his hand down on Jaybird's head and snatching his hat off, he exclaimed:
"Here, you Indian; clear out from here! By Jove, clear out!"
Jaybird looked up at the intruder, but with a face as barren of expression as the rock upon which he sat.
Comprehending the demand, however, he replied: "Yes; me no clear out. Me heap like it, this place. Me heap ketch him, fish."
"Get out, I tell You! By Jove, get out!" roared the dude, with visible signs of embarrassment and rage.
"Yes, me no git out. Me heap like it, this." Before Jaybird could finish the sentence the dude slapped him on the side of the head with his open hand. Springing to his feet, Jaybird uttered a whoop and ran into the dude, butting him with his head and shoulders instead of striking him. The dude's breath escaped from him with a sound not unlike the bleat of a calf, and he fell at full length on his back. Jaybird went down on top of him, pounding and biting with a force and ferocity that suggested a combination of pugilist and wild cat. The dude tried to call Siler, but Jaybird put his mouth over the dude's and bit his lips half off. He bit the dude's nose, eyebrows, cheeks, ears and arms. He choked him and beat him from his waist to his head.
When Jaybird thus sprung himself head foremost at the dude, Siler fell over on the ground in a spasm of laughter. This did not escape Jaybird's notice, and he jumped to a wrong conclusion as to the cause of it.
Siler always said he had no idea the Indian was hurting the dude half so bad, but that the turn the affair had taken was so absurd and ridiculous, he would have been bound to laugh any way. His friends believed that he was simply glad to see the dude get a whipping. Possibly both these causes contributed to his hilarity.
But the conviction had fastened itself on Jaybird's mind that this man Siler, whom he had always regarded as a friend, was laughingbecause the dude was making him clear out.So, while thedude was performing that feat,Jaybird kept one eye on Siler and silently determined in his own mind what he would do for him when he got through with the dude.
The dude had scarcely raised a hand in resistance since this human catapult struck him, and now he lay there as limp and motionless as a dead man. Siler had laughed until he was almost exhausted, and was leaning against a sapling, still laughing. Suddenly Jaybird uttered another whoop, sprang from the dude and rushed furiously on Siler. Before the hilarious lawyer could recover from his surprise, he was down on his back, rapidly being pounded and chewed into pulp himself.
The dude dragged himself to the root of a tree, carefully placed his single eyeglass, and began, as Siler expressed it, "to hold an inquest on himself, and take an inventory of his bruises and mutilations!" Siler called to him for help. He seemed surprised, and could repress his resentment of Siler's conduct no longer. Readjusting his eyeglass, and taking a closer look at Jaybird and Siler, he exclaimed in a tone of mingled revenge and satisfaction:
"Ah, by Jove! You're calling for help yourself now, are you? You played the deuce helping me you did, by Jove! I hope he'll beat you to death and scalp you, and if it were not for the law I'd help him do it; I would, by Jove!"
Jaybird relaxed no effort until Siler was as badly whipped as the dude. Then rising and deliberatelyspitting on his baitafresh he resumed his seat on the rock, and again remarked in the same half deprecating tone, though with rather an ominous shake of his head: "Yes, me no git out. Me heap like it, this place. Me heap ketch him, fish."
None of their bones being broken, Siler and the dude were able to get back to Charleston. The whole town gathered in to look at them, and the affair provoked many witty comments. The doctor said he could patch up their wounds well enough for all practical purposes, but he shook his head discouragingly when asked if they would ever be pretty any more.
Mr. Jaybird came out without a scratch, and Siler said the last they saw of him he was sitting on the rock gazing at the cork on his line, precisely as he was when they found him.
It is certainly refreshing to read of one Indian who had rights white men were bound to respect, and who knew so well how to maintain them. "May his tribe increase."
X. PROOF THAT THE INDIAN POPULATION OF THE UNITED STATES IS INCREASING.
In order to disprove the impression which prevails among a large majority of our people that the Indians are decreasing constantly, we quote the following from the Government report relative to the population of our Reservations:
INDIAN RESERVATIONS IN THE UNITED STATES AND TERRITORIES.