AN UNUSUAL KINDNESS

“Yes, but how can I?”

His foot had been taken in the snare of the wise trapper.

Said the preacher: “You can; and this is the way. As you leave this city for your return to the West, get a cheap New Testament; indeed, here is a copy; please accept it. Tear it in two in the middle, retaining only the four Gospels––Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Read them; you will by yourself and by this means find the way to perfect knowledge.”

He of the throttle, hungry for the deepest knowledge, did as directed and advised.

Back to his cab and engine he went, under the deepest conviction. Yet he declared that he needed no extraneous assistance to be as good as any Christian; Jesus he considered a superfluity, and said so. The negative influences of the atheistic authors yet warped him. He said: “I dare any of you to watch me. I can and will be as upright as any Christian on earth.” But after a short time of exemplary conduct, he would wake up some morning only to discover to his hearty disgust that he had been on an extended period of dissipation.54Later he would attempt another straightening-up and try to “be good” without the necessary becoming so, only to fall again and harder than before.

Once, after such humiliating debauch, he entered a saloon which contained the only barber shop in the village, the railway division point where he had his “layovers” for regular rest. He sat down for his daily shave. It was the morning after pay-day among the employees, and, as he stated it to the writer, “everybody, even the barber, had been drunk.” Cigar stumps, empty bottles, cards, and other plentiful signs of the previous night’s carousals covered the floor with bacchanalian litter. Lying there, eyes shut, an Armageddon was taking place on the stage of his perturbed soul. His story is this:

“While lying there that morning a voice said to me, ‘You are not a square-dealer.’ I opened my eyes on the barber, only to see a bloated face with impassive and mute lips; he had said nothing, I could easily see. I closed my eyes again, only to hear, ‘You do not treat me as you would a gentleman.’ I now knew that the voice was that of an55unseen person, and I replied mentally but really. ‘Who are you, and what do you want?’ ‘I am Jesus, whom you deny without having known, and condemn without having attempted to prove. You have been saying all the while you can succeed without my assistance, and you know you have failed every time. All I want is a chance in your life that I may prove myself to you.’ Then I replied, ‘If this is what you want, just come in and we will talk it over.’ He then came in never to go out again. I went to my little shack-room and, locking the door, took out of a little old hair-covered trunk a Bible my mother had given me; it had lain there for thirty long years untouched. I opened it and read a while and then got down on my knees to pray. What I said was about like this: ‘Lord, if it is really the Lord who was talking to me (I have my doubts), you know I am a man of my word, and you can trust me. I want to make you a proposition: I’ll do the square thing by you if you’ll do the same by me. Amen!’”

“This,” said he, “was the beginning of56the struggle for rest to my soul; and I found it.”

An incident leading to his immediate, possibly ultimate safety, was a conversation in a saloon. It does not always transpire that we are benefited by the act of the talebearer, but in this case it was highly salutary. One of his engineer friends, drinking at the bar, said: “Never fear about H–––. He will soon get over all this and be along with us as usual.”

Hearing it, he became very righteously indignant and said: “By the grace of God, never! I’ll go up to the church my wife attends and join with her, and when they know I am a church member they’ll let me alone.” He did so at once. He was saved. He lived for many years, always happy, always helpful, and without fear he ascended the snowy hills of old age, with their enveloping mists.

Afflicted with a creeping paralysis, he lingered long, ever cheerful, and interested in his friends, to whom he sent many messages. To his brothers of the Odd Fellows he sent this message: “Boys, I’ll not see you any more. I am just like a boy at57Christmas Eve, who with stocking hung up, is anxious for daylight. The shadows have come over me. My stocking is hung up by the Father’s fireplace and I am almost impatient for the morning. I haven’t the remotest idea what I will get, but I am sure it will be something good.” A few days before his translation he was visited by one of his old-time railway associates, who said to him: “H–––, you are now up against the real thing, according to your belief; and it looks to us the same, just as if you would have to go some one of these days. How does it seem? What is it like?”

Looking at the questioner lovingly, the dying man said, “Charley, you’ve worked for the railway company a long time, and never had many promotions, have you?”

“Yes, about twenty years––and no promotions.”

“Well, Charley, suppose there’d come to you to-day a wire from headquarters saying there’s a big promotion waiting for you on your arrival, and at the same time a pass for your free transportation. How do you think that would seem to you?”

“My soul, but that’d be fine,” said he.

“Well, Charley, that’s just my case exactly,” said the radiant man. “I’ve been working for God and his company for about that same length of time and never had much promotion so far as I could see, and now I have a summons direct from the glory land telling me there’s a big advancement for me, and it sounds mighty good.”

He was dressed for the wedding, the Christmas morning, or whatever awaited him, and was anxious that the couriers of the King should come. When the moment came the old engineer’s headlight was undimmed, the switch signals showed green, and when he called for the last board at the home station the signal came back: “All’s well; come on in.”

He had received his coveted promotion.

59AN UNUSUAL KINDNESS

That best portion of a good man’s life––His little, nameless, unremembered actsOf kindness and of love.

––Wordsworth.

The Methodist locomotive engineer had died joyful. “I am so glad to go,” he said. “I am like a boy when there’s a circus in town; I’ve got the price, and my baggage is checked clear through.”

I was holding a memorial service for him in his old home town, and at the close a big, broad-shouldered man came forward to the altar rail and quietly said, “You did not know that man.”

The remark startled me a little, for I had been acquainted with him for many years; in fact, had once been his pastor.

“I thought I did,” replied I.

“No, you never really knew him,” was the insistent rejoinder; “let me tell you something about him. Years ago I was not living as I ought, and I had all sorts of60trouble. My wife was very sick, and we were living in a bit of a shack back here a little way where she finally died. I was down and out. The fellows wanted to be good to me, and they were––in their way of thinking––but it did me no good. They would say, ‘Come, brace up, old fellow, have a drink and forget your troubles.’ But there are some troubles drink will not drown; mine was one of them.

“One night our friend came up to my shack, and having visited a while he said: ‘Old man, you’re up against it hard, ain’t you?’ I replied, ‘Yes, I am, just up to the limit.’ ‘Well, let’s pray about it.’ I told him I didn’t believe in prayer. ‘All right,’ said he, ‘I do, and I’ll pray any way.’ You should have heard the prayer he made. It was about like this: ‘God, here’s my friend, Charley; he’s in an awful fix. We’ll have to do something for him. I’ve done all I can; now, it’s up to you to see him through. Amen.’

“Then he arose from his knees and, handing me his check book, he said, ‘My wife and I ain’t got much, only a couple o’ thousand in the bank; but here’s this61check book all signed up; take it and use it all if you need it, and God bless you!’

“But,” added the narrator of the story, “I couldn’t use money like that.”

The tears were fast falling over his bronzed cheeks as he told with tenderness the story, and as I looked into his eyes I knew that through knowledge of the dead engineer’s kingly kindness had come to him the knowledge of the new life.

63INDIANS OF THE TRAIL

Man’s inhumanity to manMakes countless thousands mourn.––Burns.

CHIEF JOSEPH, NEZ PERCE INDIAN

65INTRODUCTORY WORDS

Indian character is human character because the Indian is human. Being human he is susceptible to all human teaching and experiences. None yields more readily to love and kindness.

Few can speak of the Indian with absolute propriety, for very few know him. To the mind of most Americans, I venture to say, the very name “Indian” suggests scalpings, massacres, outrages of all kinds and an interminable list of kindred horrors; all too true. But it must be remembered that the Indian presented to his first discoverers a race most tractable, tenderhearted, and responsive to kindness. He was indeed the child of the plain, but a loving child.

The chevaliers both of Spanish and English blood taught him in the most practical manner the varied refinements of deceit, treachery, and cruelty. He was an apt scholar, and the devotee of social heredity,66which has here so striking an example, cannot curse the redman if the sins of the fathers are meted out to succeeding generations.

Under definite heads I am giving some very brief sketches of living, down-to-date aborigines, such as have come under my own observation in Utah and Idaho.

67POCATELLO, THE CHIEF

The nodding horror of whose shady browsThreats the forlorn and wandering passenger.

––Milton.

Fort Hall Reservation, until 1902, embraced a large territory of which Pocatello was the center. These Idaho red people are the remnants of the once powerful tribes of the Bannocks and Shoshones, which ranged from the Blue Mountains in Oregon to the backbone of the Rocky Mountains. The compressing processes used by the aggressive white people have encircled, curtailed, and squeezed their borders so that now they are centered at Fort Hall, half way between Pocatello and Blackfoot. Here the government has a school for them, and the Protestant Episcopal Church a mission.

Pocatello is named for a wily old chief of that name, who became an outlaw to be reckoned with. He once led a cavalcade of his sanguinary followers against the68newly made non-Mormon town of Corinne, Utah; but a Mormon who had been notified of the proposed massacre, by a coreligionist, likewise told a friend among the Gentiles, and a precautionary counter plan was formulated. Nothing more came of it than an evening visit from Brigham Young and his staff, who, as reported, pronounced and prophesied an awful and exterminating curse upon the town and people. However, because of the warning, his curses went elsewhere.

Until recently there lived in the region of the city of Pocatello an old squaw-man (white man with an Indian wife). His home was within the borders of the reservation, and he had been there since before the time when the boundary line between the United States and England (Canada) was settled. The old man was called “Doc,” and once when visiting him I said, “Tell me about old Pocatello, Doc, and what became of him.”

The old man, half reclining on the pile of household debris in one corner of his shanty, permitted me to sit by the door––for there were no chairs in the place. The69four corners were occupied as follows: in one were his saddle and accouterments for range work; in another the accumulation of rags and blankets on which he slept (for he lived alone now, the wife being dead); in another was his little stove, and the last held the door where I sat. The air was fresher there, I thought. The veteran of eighty or more years, bronzed by the winds and roughened by the sweeping sands of the desert, lighted his pipe and said: “It war in the days o’ them freighters who operated ’tween Corinne an’ Virginny City when Alder Gulch was a-goin’ chock full o’ business. The Forwardin’ Company hed a mighty big lot o’ rollin’ stock an’ hosses to keep the traffic up. The hull kentry was Injun from put-ni’ Corinne to that there Montanny town. The Bear Rivers an’ the Fort Hall tribes, the Bannocks an’ the Blackfeet uste to make life anything but a Fourth-o’-July picnic fer them fellers an’ their drivers. Right h’yur was the natterelest campin’ place fer the Company, or, ruther, a natterel spot fer the stage-station, where they could git the stock fresh an’ new an’ go on, as they hed70to do, night an’ day, so’s to keep business a-movin’, ye see. Fer ’twas a mighty long rout fer passengers.

“Now, Pocatello an’ his bunch o’ red devils got into the habit o’ runnin’ off the stock, an’ sometimes the Company’d haf to wait half a day to git enough teams to go on north; or to wait till the fagged ones’d git a little rest an’ then push on wi’ the same ones. Mr. Salisbury, of Salt Lake, was the head o’ the Forwardin’ Company, an’ he an’ his people got mighty all-fired tired o’ that sort o’ business. Hosses was dear them days, but Injuns was cheap; so he told a lot o’ us’ns he’d like tarnation well if this sort o’ thing’d stop kind o’ sudden like; an’ we planned it might be done jist that way too.

“We kind o’ laid low, an’ nothin’ happened fer quite a while; but one night a fine bunch o’ hosses was run off jist when they’s a big lot o’ treasure goin’ over the line, an’ the management was sure mad. They told us ’uns agin somethin’ had to be done, an’ despert quick this time. So we got busy. We begun to round ol’ Pocatello up, an’ he seemed to smell a rat or somethin’71wuss, an’ started up Pocatello Crick yander, that there cañon, see? He went almighty fast too when he got started; so did we, now I tell you, an’ we jist kep’ a-foller’n’, an’ foller’n’, an’ foller’n’, we did––a hull lot ov us––an’––an’––an’ Pocatello never come back.”

Then the old squaw-man tapped the ashes from his pipe, and rising said, “Well, I guess I’ll cinch up the cayuse an’ ride some this a’ternoon.”

72THE BABYLESS MOTHER

Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not.––Saint Matthew.

One of the many signs that the Indian is human is his slowness to learn. Ever since 1492 the whiter man has been trying to force some supposedly useful things into the mind of him of the darker skin. One of these is that he of the blanket has no rights that he of the dress coat is bound to respect. The Indian rises in practical debate to this question. His arguments are not words, but the rifle and the scalping-knife. The whiter man demurs when he receives his justice dished up to him in redskin style.

It is unreasonable to the Indian that the white man should take from him his hunting grounds and limit his access to the very streams whence his people for ages uncountable filled their pantries for the winter.73He has learned to his disgust (without place for repentance) that equivalents are equivocations, and that the little baubles the fathers of the tribes had for their broad acres were mostly worthless. The civilized trick of procuring the mystic sign manual known as signature had fastened on them the gyves of perpetual poverty.

In addition to this, the nation demanded they should send their children to the white man’s school in the far, far away Eastern land, where they could not see them and from which so many of the red-faced lads and lassies returned with that dread disease, pulmonary tuberculosis. But they were only Indians, and what rights had they? When boys and girls were not promptly surrendered, the soldiers were sent to chase them down. It would not seem good to us to have big, brawny Indians on horseback give chase to our children, and catch and tie them like so many hogs, to be carted off to a land unknown to us; but then these are only Indians. That makes all the difference imaginable.

Some years ago the Fort Hall Indians74went on their usual trip to the edge of Yellowstone Park––Jackson’s Hole––for the purpose of laying in their annual supply of elk and bear meat. The government had forbidden this, yet they went, with their indispensable paraphernalia and camp equipage, taking the squaws (and papooses, of course) to dress and care for whatever of provision fell into their hands.

When it was discovered that the Indians had gone in the face of the prohibitory order the soldiers were sent to drive them out. Such racing and chasing! “Wild horse, wild Indian, wild horseman,” as Washington Irving puts it. Every man and woman for himself now. Papooses were slung on the saddle-horns of their mothers’ horses, a loop being fastened to the back of the board to which every little copperfaced tike was strapped. In one of the hard flights through the thickly fallen and storm-twisted pines, firs, and chaparral a mother, pressed too hard by the soldiers and cavalry, lost her baby.

Her tribal friends ventured back after all was safe, and with an Indian’s trail-finding tact hunted high and low, far and wide,75but no trace was ever found of the wee baby.

“But, then, what mattered it? It was nothing but an Indian baby, and its mother only an Indian squaw! Who cares for a squaw any way?”

76MARY MUSKRAT

Now abideth faith, hope, love, these three; and the greatest of these is love.––Saint Paul.

When the “teacher” first went among the Indians at Fort Hall her reception was neither cordial nor cold, for she was not received at all. She had not been invited and she was not welcome. For the first eighteen months after reaching the fort she could often hear in the nighttime the movement of a moccasin, as some tired Indian spy changed his cramped position, for she was religiously watched and irreligiously suspected. They could not understand why she, an unmarried white woman, should leave her home and spend time among them.

The braves strode by her in sullen silence, eloquently impressing their contumelious hauteur. The no less stolid squaws, who observe everything and see nothing, disdainfully covered their faces with their blankets or looked in silence in the opposite77direction when the teacher met them or lifted the tent-flap.

After a long time she won her way with some of the wee ones, and thus touched the hearts of the mothers, through whom she made a road broad and wide into the affections of the tribe. They trusted her with the secrets of the people, and she was at home in every teepee in the reservation. Gathering the girls together, she taught them the beautiful words of the Bible, and for many years she lived, loved, and labored there.

Mary Muskrat was one of the Bannock girls in the mission school. The little shrinking, more-than-half-wild papoose of the desert had been toilsomely but surely trained by the teacher, that bravest of little women.

Pulmonary consumption is the bane of the civilized Indians. It carries them off in multitudes. Despite their outdoor living, it seems that few, if any, ever recover from an attack. The dread disease had fastened itself upon Mary and she was sick unto death. Her little shack was no fit place for a living person, and here was one78dying. Frequent visits from her teacher afforded the dying maiden her only relief. Once, after watching her through a severe paroxysm of coughing, it seemed that life had gone completely. Removing the squalid bunch of rags which served as a pillow, and lowering the head, the devoted teacher stood watching the supposed lifeless form. But she saw the lips moving, and, bending low, she heard the dying girl whisper, “What time I am afraid I will trust in Thee.” Continuing, she breathed out, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.... Yea, though I walk through the valley and the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” Pausing, while the heart of the white woman was praising God for his goodness to the dusky child, Mary opened her beautiful eyes, and, seeing her protectress and benefactress standing there, said, “O, dear teacher, the Lord is my shepherd.”

Then the Shepherd came and took her to dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

79BAD BEN

A little child shall lead them.––Isaiah.

Ben’s daughter, Mary[1], was the delight of the old man’s heart. She had been taken most unwillingly, so far as both were concerned, and placed in one of the Eastern schools for Indian youths. Ben had objected strenuously, but the stronger arm prevailed.

The teacher at the mission had never in all her many years in that place felt fear until after Mary was taken away. When the father would come to the school to ask for news of her, he had his face painted black, indicating madness or war––“bad heart” he called it. The little woman who had won the hearts of the people did not know what the enraged man might do or when he would do it. Once, after many such terrifying visits, he volunteered the information that he was making him a80house and a farm “all same witee man.” He had built it of some railroad ties he had found and had begun to cultivate a garden and cut some wild hay. “Me makee heap good wikiup, all same witee man; Mary he all same witee squaw, by ’um by.”

The white plague is the only disease the Indian fears or calls sickness. Once, when Ben went to the school where a dozen or so other happy-faced little girls were being taught and prepared for the Eastern school, Miss F––– was obliged to tell him Mary was sick. For a while his savagery was apparently renewed. He became wild again. His visits increased in frequency, and all the time the teacher was in mental torture, for he seemed to feel that the white woman was in some manner connected with his child’s going away and her present condition.

The dread day came when she must tell the loving father that there was now no hope for his “lil’ gal,” as he affectionately called her. Then another more dreaded day rolled round, and the last story must be told: Mary had died. She would be buried in the far east. Poor old father! He could81not even see her then. How could he be made to understand?

The only solution of the problem was the holding of a memorial service for her. One of the Pocatello pastors went up to hold such a service at the Agency and Ben was present. He was told that if he lived with his heart clean, “no have bad heart,” he would see his Mary again. No one could tell to what extent this message found place in his mind until later. One day he was seen approaching the mission school slowly and apparently sorrowful. Miss F––– met him at the door. On entering he said, “O, Miss F–––, bad Injun no liky me have hay, no liky me have wikiup all same witee man. Bad Injun burn me up; all me wikiup, all me hay, all me everyt’ing. But me no have bad heart [that means, “I do not hate them”], me no have bad heart, Miss F–––; me no have bad heart; me want see my lil’ gal some day.”

So the lonesome man went away to his one-time home to try to live among the unchristian and unprogressive Indians without having any hatred toward them, for he wanted to meet his Mary.

[1]Mary is a very frequent name among the Bannocks of Fort Hall.

Mary is a very frequent name among the Bannocks of Fort Hall.

82A THREE-CORNERED SERMON

So shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth: it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it.––Isaiah.

Thy word, Almighty Lord,Where’er it enters inIs sharper than a two-edged swordTo slay the man of sin.

––Montgomery.

A peculiar wireless telegraphy has ever been in vogue among the aborigines of many lands. The interior tribes of Africa have it and use it to perfection. The plains Indians and those of the mountains know its use, and messages are sent which cause much wonderment to the white man.

In 1899 the ghost-dancing was in progress among all the Indians of the United States. All Indiandom was excited to the highest degree. Disturbances among them were watched and feared by the government. The Bannocks and Shoshones of Fort Hall83were nerved to a high tension and quickly athrill to any new movement. Hearing that an unusual interest was being displayed among the Nez Perces of the north, a committee of the Fort Hall men was sent to ascertain what it was. It proved to be a revival of religion conducted by the Presbyterians. The committee was composed of heathens, but they saw, were conquered, and came home reporting it was good, and requested that there be similar meetings held among them. It was so planned and arranged. A Nez Perce Presbyterian minister was to be their visitant evangelist.

The various Protestant churches in Pocatello had been by turns supplying preaching to the people of Fort Hall’s tribes, and to the whites who were the residents at Ross Fork, the seat of the Agency. On the particular evening when the special meetings were to begin it was the turn of the writer to preach. The Rev. James Hays, a full-blood Nez Perce, was there as evangelist. But he could not speak a word of the Bannock-Shoshone mixed jargonized dialect. He had been educated in English84and could understand me so as to interpret, rather translate into Nez Perce, but who could reach the people to whom we had the message? There was present a renegade fellow, Pat Tyhee (big Pat, or chief Pat),not an Irishman. He was a Shoshone who years before had gone to live among the Nez Perces and had married a woman of them. He could interpret Hays, but could he be trusted? He was a very heathenish heathen. The missionary teacher, Miss Frost, consulted with Mr. Hays and myself as to the wisdom of asking Pat to play interpreter for the momentous occasion; after fervently praying we concluded to take the risk and trust to God’s leading. Pat, the heathen, was chosen. It was a queer audience. There were some whites, some Indians. It was odd to see Gun, the Agency policeman, there with his only prisoner. There were Billy George, the tribal judge; and Hubert Tetoby, the assistant blacksmith, as well as others of local importance. To add to the excitement of the evening, it was the night before ration day at the Agency, when all the Indians from the entire Reservation were85present––fifteen hundred of them––for their share. It was a wild time––the raw blanketed man was there for a Saturnalia. He knew no law but his desires. The unprotected young woman had no security from him. Indeed, while we were gathering in the mission house for this service, I noticed a slight stirring at my feet, and looked, and there was Mary, a young widow, who had scuttled in silent as a partridge and was snuggling down on the floor just back of my feet, successful in getting away from some red Lothario who had pursued her to the door.

The service began. I preached from the words of Martha to Mary, “The Master is come and is calling for thee.” It was an attempt to show that Jesus needs us as living agents to work with him. Mr. Hays, I suppose, and always have believed, translated to Pat in Nez Perce what I said. Pat in turn interpreted to the assembled band of mixed Indians. To be sure, I understood not a thing either said: but when I looked at the earnest, love-ridden, and sweat-covered face of the yearning Nez Perce, I believed that what he was saying86was all I said and more. And Pat––he was a sight! Had his hands been tied, I really believed he could not have expressed himself at all. He is about six feet six in his moccasins, and those long arms accompanied the lengthy guttural expressions in an intensely effective manner. At the close of the three-cornered sermon the question was asked, “How many of you from this time forward are willing to follow Jesus and be known as his assistants?” Among the most prominent and enthusiastic replies that came were those of Hubert Tetoby, Billy George,and Pat Tyhee, the heathen interpreter. Looking me straight in the eyes, swerving neither to the one side nor the other, these madly-in-earnest men of the mountains held their hands up high as they could reach them. And in six weeks from that date there was a Presbyterian church there composed of sixty-five members, of whom only one, the teacher, Miss Frost, was white; and Pat Tyhee was made one of the elders. There had been no Christians there at all before those meetings. It was an Indian Pentecost.

87THREE YEARS AFTER

Father of all! in every age,In every clime adored,By saint, by savage, and by sage,Jehovah, Jove, or Lord.

––Alexander Pope.

Some hypercritical person, and possibly some sincere soul, may ask: “Did such revival do any permanent good? Does not the so-near savage easily backslide?” To this may be given this partial reply: It depends somewhat on the sort of white folks there are in the immediate vicinity. As elsewhere stated in these pages, the pale face has been the great undoer of the red man. “Civilization” in some garbs is worse than savagery. The white skin has been the password for some awful systems of debauchery among the aborigines of America. An Indian speaker, and chief of police of one of the Indian reservations of Oregon, said at the Second World’s Christian Citizenship Conference in Portland,881913: “Before the white man came the Indian had no jails or locks on their doors. The white man brought whisky; there is now need of both jails and locks.”

About three years after the meeting at Fort Hall, where the three-cornered sermon was delivered, Mr. Roosevelt made a visit to the West. Major A. F. Caldwell, Agent of Indian Affairs at Fort Hall, told the fourteen hundred red natives that if they would turn out in their handsomest manner, he would give them all a “big eat” after the visit. Promptly on the day designated the famous rough rider and the desert riders were in evidence, the latter in abundance. They went far out along the railway to meet the train, and then galloped their wiry, pintoed ponies along by the side of the car, performing many feats of daring horsemanship, throwing themselves from the flying bronchos and remounting without a pause, and other stunts which they invented. After the “pageant had fled” the expectant and hungry Indians were herded into a large vacant lot in Pocatello, where all sorts of provisions had been collected for the feast.89I was anxious to see them, and so were many other equally bold and possibly a wee bit impolite people, for when they had assembled a great crowd of curious white folks was there gazing.

The Young Men’s Christian Association secretary and I overlooked the scene from a hotel whose wall formed one side of the enclosure where the long tables of loose planks were laid. All was hurry, bustle, and confusion, not much unlike what everyone has witnessed at the ordinary picnic.

The Christians and the non-Christians had divided as though not of the same tribe or blood. These had their tables on one side, those on the opposite. When all was ready the savage part of the divided company fell to with vim, vigor, and haste, just as white people often do at outdoor dinners; but see the others! After all had been carefully spread, odorous cans of tempting viands opened, and everything adjusted, the hungry horde was seated. A low word of attention was given by some one; every head was bowed, quiet was absolute, and Billy George in guttural tones said something the Lord of all could understand.90When he was through these also fell to with an unmistakable zest and the day ended merrily for the Indians and profitably for some of the onlookers.

This Billy George was crippled by the bullets of some of the reservation Indians who did not like his progressive ways. He had lost one leg for this reason. One night, as he was fastening up his animals, he stooped to lift one of the bars of his corral. Just as he raised himself, a shot that was doubtless meant for his lowered head struck his leg and it had to be amputated.

On the night of his conversion, when he had raised his hand high as he could reach, he in the after meeting mimicked the white folks who had slowly and with many side-lookings so slightly moved their hands upward. He said, “Huh, white folks heap scared, do this way;” and he imitated them grotesquely.

Often when leaving his teepee for the hills in order to haul his winter wood, he would go to the home of Miss F–––, the missionary, and tell her he was going away, and at the same time asking her to be sure to care for his squaw and papooses if he91did not return; for, said he, “Bad Injun ketchy me some day; no liky me; you savy me liky whity man.”

So fair of mind was he, and so humanely progressive, that the government had chosen him as one of the men before whom petty cases among the tribe were taken. If he could not solve the problems, they were then carried to the Agent; then on up if not there adjusted.

When the Presbyterian Missionary Board assisted these Christians to build a neat house of worship it was, and still is, known far and near as Billy George’s Church.

92CHIEF JOSEPH AND HIS LOST WALLOWA

Land where my fathers died.––Smith.

A Cornishman was once asked why there were no public houses (saloons) in his town. He replied, “Once a man by the name of John Wesley preached here, and there have been none since.”

Once a man by the name of General O. O. Howard passed through eastern Oregon and northern Idaho, and the country has not been the same since. The occasion was the uprising of the Nez Perces Indians in 1877. Ridpath, the historian, tells of the long chase of the red men and the weary pursuit of “sixteen hundred miles.” It was truly a Fabian retreat on the part of Chief Joseph and his band, but General Howard was dealing mercifully with them; at a dozen places he could have given battle, but he spared the useless slaughter, avoiding the needless scaring of the white93settlers and the complement of dire scenes and death that would necessarily follow.

The story of Chief Joseph is one of the most interesting unwritten chapters in the history of the great Northwest. The fact of the capture of this wily Indian leader with most of his band is well known. They were banished from the Alpine regions of eastern Oregon and compelled to make their home across the marble cañon of the Snake in the State of Idaho, far from their loved Wallowa.

The valley of Wallowa (an Indian name) is one of the most beautiful spots imaginable. At its southern end stand pillared peaks, eternally snow-crowned, rivaling the finest to be seen in Switzerland. Here lies the limpid, glassy Lake Wallowa, near the busy town of Joseph, so named in honor of the great chieftain. This emerald valley nestles in the lap of the Blue Mountains, and was from time immemorial the favorite home of the exiled natives. When Bonneville passed through that remote region in the early thirties they were in the enjoyment of that valley and the rugged recesses of the Imnaha between Oregon and Walla94Walla. The famous red fish, the yank, and others possibly peculiar to the place were found in abundance in the lake. It was their treasure house for finny food, and the hovering hills furnished flesh of deer and bear.

At a point in the valley twenty miles north of the lake, Old Joseph, father of the more famous son, lies buried; his bramble-covered grave is to be seen by the roadside to-day. For this reason something more than an instinctive affection dominated the heart of the younger man.

Not long before his death, accompanied by guards, Chief Joseph was taken into the valley on some sort of errand, and was thus permitted to see again the enchanting beauties of his birthplace and early home. How hungry were his eyes as he viewed the great opaline pool which reflected the sinewy cedars and pointed pines; as he looked upon the surrounding glen, the ancient game-range, the distant dissolving plain, the hills heightening through their timber-covered sides up to the very sky! His bursting heart cried out, “I have but one thing to ask for from the White Father: Give me this lake and the land around it, and some few acres surrounding the grave of my father.”

WALLOWA LAKE

The white man’s ax had cleared the timber about the old man’s grave; the white man’s plow might menace the sacred sod above the mute dust of his honored sire. He wished to protect that place hallowed by love––his own father’s grave. But his plea was denied. He was not permitted to have what in all reason seemed his very own.

He was now an old man, with eyes that had never shed tears, a soul that was unacquainted with fear, and a heart that had never weakened in the presence of danger. But at the thought that he was no more to see his lovely Wallowa his eyes melted, his soul sank, his heart broke.

Chief Joseph died near Spokane not many years since, wailing out the one great desire of his life, a final glimpse of the land of his birth, the hunting ground of his manhood and the graves of his sires.

96THE WHITE MAN’S BOOK

The book––this holy book, on every lineMark’d with the seal of high divinity,On every leaf bedew’d with drops of loveDivine, and with the eternal heraldryAnd signature of God Almighty stamptFrom first to last––this ray of sacred light,This lamp, from off the everlasting throne,Mercy took down, and, in the night of timeStood, casting on the dark her gracious bow;And evermore beseeching men, with tearsAnd earnest sighs, to read, believe, and live;And many to her voice gave ear, and read,Believed, obey’d.

––Pollok.

Having heard the early explorers speak of God, the Bible, and religion, and knowing that on Sundays the flag was raised and work suspended, the Indians wanted to know more about these things, and two chiefs, Hee-oh’ks-te-kin (Rabbit-skin Leggins) and H’co-a-h’co-a-cotes-min (No-horns-on-his-Head) set out to find the white missionaries who could inform their troubled minds. They did not reach Saint97Louis until 1832, where they found General Clark, whom they had known. The messengers were of the Nez Perce tribe. General Clark took them to the cathedral and showed them the pictures of the saints and entertained them in the best and most approved Christian style; but they were heart-hungry and went home dissatisfied. One of them made the following speech to the kindly soldier, General Clark:

“I came to you over a trail of many moons from the setting sun. You were the friend of my fathers who have all gone the long way. I came with one eye partly opened, for more light for my people who sit in darkness. I go back with both eyes closed. How can I go back with both eyes closed? How can I go back blind to my blind people? I made my way to you with strong arms, through many enemies and strange lands, that I might carry much back to them. I go back with both arms broken and empty. The two fathers who came with us––the braves of many winters and wars––we leave asleep by your great water and wigwam.[2]They were tired in98many moons, and their moccasins wore out. My people sent me to get the white man’s Book of heaven. You took me where you allow your women to dance, as we do not ours, and the Book was not there; you showed me the images of the good spirits and the pictures of the good land beyond, but the Book was not among them to tell us the way. I am going back the long, sad trail to my people of the dark land. You make my feet heavy with the burden of gifts, and my moccasins will grow old in carrying them, but the Book is not among them. When I tell my poor, blind people, after one more snow, in the big council, that I did not bring the Book, no word will be spoken by our old men or our young braves. One by one they will rise up and go out in silence. My people will die in darkness, and they will go on the long path to the other hunting grounds. No white man will go with them and no white man’s Book will make the way plain. I have no more words.”

It was the rumor of this address that started Jason Lee and Marcus Whitman westward over the old Trail.

Back to Index Next