I don’t know that it was any more inhuman than a “Yankee clam-bake,” where brave men and fair women murder thousands of animated bivalves without a thought of inflicting pain. The Indians had the advantage in a moral point of view, for the cricketswere their enemies. When thebakeis over they shovel them into home-made sacks, and then, sewing them up, put them to press.
An Indian cricket-press does not work by steam, with huge screws. Plat rocks are placed on the ground, and the sack full of cooked crickets is placed thereon, and then another rock is laid on the sack; finally stones, logs, and other weighty things are placed upon the pile, until the work is complete. Meanwhile, look away down the sloping plane and see the line of battle, with sprightly young squaws on the outside, deployed as skirmishers. See how they run, and laugh, and shout, until the enemy is turned, and then the victory is followed up, each anxious to secure trophies of the battle. This is one kind of war where the women wield implements of destruction quite as well as their masters.
The battle has been fought and won, and the intruders routed and driven into the rapid current of Sprague’s river. The people rest from the siege contented, for the growing crop—carrots, and turnips—has been saved. This is not the only cause of gratulation, for now comes the best part of the war. The luscious cakes of roasted crickets are taken from the rude presses, and the brave warriors of this strange battle celebrate the victory with a feast of fresh crickets, and a grand dance, where sparkling eyes and nodding feathers, and jingling bells keep time to Indian drums.
Fastidious reader, have you ever been to a clam-bake, and seen the gay dancers celebrate the funeral of a few thousand sightless bivalves?—things that God had placed in hardened coffins and buried onthe shore, while godlike man and woman brought them to a short-lived resurrection.
Well, then, you understand how little human sympathy goes out for helpless things, and how much of thoughtless joy is experienced in this civilized kind of feasting. The Indian has the advantage, for his roasted cricketsare sweetand nutritious. I speak from “the card,” as a Yankee would say.
O-che-o and Choc-toot are safe from want. The compressed cakes are “cached” away for winter use; that is to say, they are buried in a jug-shaped cellar, dug on some dry knoll, and taken out as necessity may require. The cakes when taken from the bag—as Yankee people would say, for they call everything a bag that western people call a sack—present the appearance of a caddy of foreign dates or domestic plums when dried and put in shape for merchandise.
Since my-visit to Yai-nax, at the time of locating O-che-o and his people, others have been added to the station. Old Chief Schonchin, the legitimate leader of the now notorious tribe of Modocs, has taken up his residence at Yai-nax.
At the time of planting this Indian settlement, it was not known that any adverse claim could be set up to this portion of Klamath Reservation; since then, however, a military road company has laid claim to alternate sections of land, granted them by an act of the Oregon Legislature, by virtue of congressional legislation, giving lands to certain States to assist in making “internal improvements.”
The Government has been apprised of the state of affairs, and may take action to meet the emergency.There is, however, an embryo Indian war in this claim, unless judiciously managed.
In the treaty of 1864 this land was set apart as a home for the Klamath Indians, and such other tribes as might be, from time to time, located thereon by order of the United States. Subsequently the grant in aid of internal improvements was made. Suppose the Government concedes the right to the road company to sell and dispose of these lands, to which the Government has never had a title, and the purchaser takes possession; thus occupying alternate sections, of the country belonging to these Indian tribes, and giving them nothing in compensation. The result might be another cry of extermination, and another expensive spasmodic effort to annihilate a tribe who, in desperation, fight for their rights.
The land never did belong to the United States; else why treat with its owners for it? If the road company are entitled to lands for constructing a military road through this Indian Reservation, give them other lands in lieu thereof, or make the compensation to the Indians equivalent to the sacrifices they may make; otherwise more blood will be shed.
Their nationality and manhood were recognized in making the treaty by which this tract of country was reserved from sale to the United States. Let it be recognized still; treat them with justice, and war and its bloody attendants will be avoided.
OVER THE FALLS—FIRST ELECTION.
Taking up our narrative, let us resume our journey to Klamath Agency, accompanied by O-che-o and a few of his head men; Tah-home and Ka-ko-na taking charge of the loose stock, and riding, for once in their lives,a lawhite people, side by side. This was a sad day to them; they were, human-like, more ardently in love than ever, as the hour for departure approached.
The route from Yai-nax to Klamath Agency follows down the valley of Sprague’s river for twenty miles, over rich prairies skirted with timber. To the eye it is a paradise, walled in on the north and south by ranges of mountains five miles apart, traversed by a stream of clear water, and covered with bunch-grass and wild flax. It is the natural pasture land of elk, who run in bands of fifty to one hundred over its beautiful plains. Leaving the river, the road crosses a range of low hills passing down to Williamson’s river,—a connecting link between the “Great Klamath Marsh” and “Big Klamath Lake.” At the crossing it is one hundred yards wide; the ford being on the crown of a rocky ledge of twenty feet in width, over which the water thirty inches’ depth runs very swiftly, and falls off about two feet into deeper water below. The Indians cross on their ponies without fear; but white men with tremblinglimbs, with an Indian on each side. We made the trip with a silent prayer to Heaven for safety as we went through. Not so, however, with the driver of one of our six-mule teams. The wagon was partly loaded with infantry soldiers, who were returning to Fort Klamath from some duty, and had been granted the privilege of riding. The driver, when about midway, became dizzy, and for the moment panic-stricken and wild; drew the leaders’ line so strongly that, mule-like, they jumped off into the boiling flood below. The soldiers leaped from the wagon before it crossed the precipice.
Soon the six mules and the driver were struggling in thirty or forty feet depth of water. The wagon rolled over and over down the water-covered, rocky slope, finally resting on the bottom. The driver and five mules were saved by the heroism of a quiet little fellow named Zip Williams. He had driven his team through, and was out of danger. Seeing the other going over the falls, he quitted his own, and throwing off his boots, drawing his knife and clasping it between his teeth, he rushed among the struggling mass of floundering mules, and succeeded in cutting the harness, thereby liberating five of the animals. The remaining one, attached to the wagon tongue, being tall, would touch the bottom with his hind feet occasionally, and, with his head and front feet out of water a portion of the time, would plead earnestly for succor; but his struggles were so furious that even the heroic Zip could not extricate him. Those present witnessed with regret this brave old mule sink beneath the flood. The wagon and part of the harness were recovered, and also the “big-wheel mule;”but the latter “was not of much account,” as Zip expressed it, “except to make a big Indian feast,” to which purpose he was applied.
From Williamson river our route lay through a heavy forest. The agency is situated on the east side of a small river which rises at the foot of a long ridge extending west to the Cascade Mountains. This stream runs several thousand inches of water, and would afford immense power. The buildings were made of logs, and are arranged in a row, one hundred feet apart, resembling one side of a street. The long row of twenty whitewashed houses fronting east was a welcome sight for those of our party who had for three months been almost entirely out of society, and, in fact, away from civilization.
Klamath Agency is new, it having been established in 1865; the Indians who occupy it numbering, in 1869 (the time of my first official visitation), fourteen hundred. They are “Klamaths,” “Modocs,” “Yahooshin,” “Snakes,” “Wal-pah-pas,” and “Shoshone Snakes.” The Klamaths number seven hundred. They were the original owners of the country; have never been engaged in wars against the white race.
They are a brave, enterprising, and ambitious people. In former times they were often in the warpath against other Indian tribes; and among their ancient enemies are those who now occupy the country in common with them.
The practice of calling the Indians together for a “big talk” on occasions of the visits of officials was also observed in this instance.
This agency has been under the management of Lindsay Applegate, of Oregon,—a man who waswell qualified by nature, and a long residence on the frontier, for the office.
He had taken charge of them when they were only savages; and, during the short time he was in power, he, with the assistance of his subordinates, had advanced them greatly in civilization. Under his tuition they had abandoned the old hereditary chieftainships, and had elected new chiefs by popular vote.
They were slow to yield to the new plan; but when the election was ordered, they entered into the contest with earnestness and enthusiasm.
The manner of voting did not admit of ballot-box stuffing,—no mistake could occur,—but so natural is it to cheat and corrupt the great franchise, that even those wild Indians made clumsy imitation of white demagogues.
There were two candidates for the office of head chief,—each anxious for election, as in fact candidates always are, no matter of what race. They made promises,—the common stock in trade everywhere with people hunting office,—of favors and patronage, and evenbought votes.
This, the first election on this Reservation, was one of great excitement. There was wire-working and intriguing to the last minute. When the respective candidates walked out and called for votes, each one’s supporters forming in line headed by the candidate, the result was soon declared, and Bos-co-pa was the lucky man.
Agent Applegate named him “David Allen;” but, Indian like, they transposed the names and called him “Allen David,” by which name he is known and has become, to some extent, identified with the recentModoc war. He is a man of commanding appearance, being over six feet in height, large, well-developed head, naturally sensible, and, withal, highly gifted as an orator and diplomat.
He had met our party as we came in with O-che-o’s band of “Shoshone Snakes,” and, on our arrival at Yai-nax, had come on home in advance to prepare his people for the big council talk. He called them together the day after our arrival.
The weather was cold,—the ground covered with a few inches of snow. Allen David’s people began to assemble. Look from the office window on the scene: here they come, of all ages less than a century; some very old ones, lashed on their horses to prevent them falling off; others who were blind, and one or two that had not enjoyed even the music of thethunder-stormfor years; others, again, whose teeth were worn off smooth with the gums. Not one of the motley crowd wasbald; indeed, I never saw an Indian who was. They came in little gangs and squads, or families, bringing with them camp equipages.
As each party arrived they pitched their camps. In the course of the day several hundred had come to see the “New tyee.” Some were so impatient they did not wait to arrange camp, but hurried to pay honors to their new chief. They brought not only the old, the young, their horses and dogs, but also their troubles of all kinds,—old feuds to be raked up, quarrels to be reopened, and many questions that had arisen from time to time, and had been disposed of by the agent, whose verdict they hoped might be reversed.
The camp at nightfall suggested memories of Methodist camp meetings in the West.
Here and there were little tents or lodges, and in front of some of them, and in the centre of others, fires were built, and round them, sitting and standing, long-haired, dusky forms, and, in a few instances, the children lashed to boards or baskets.
I have selected this agency and these people to quote and write from, with the intention of mentioning, more in detail, the characteristics of the real Indian, in preference to any other in Oregon, for the reason that minutes and reports in my possession, of the councils, are more complete; also, because the people themselves present all the traits peculiar to their race. To insure the comfort of the people large pine logs were hauled up with ox-teams, with which to build fires, the main one being one hundred feet in length, and several logs high, and when ablaze, lighted up the surrounding woods, producing a grand night-scene, with the swarthy faces on each side changing at the command of the smoke and flames.
My reader may not see the picture because of my poverty of language to describe it. Suffice it to say, that these people were there to see and hear for themselves. Men, women and children came prepared to “stay and see it out,” as frontier people say.
While preparations for the council were being made, a portion of the department teams, which we had used on the Snake expedition, was despatched for Warm Springs Reservation.
A high dividing ridge of the Blue Mountains separates the waters of the Klamath basin from Des Chutes and Warm Spring country.
The snows fall early on this ridge, and sometimes to great depth; hence it was necessary that the teams should leave without delay, otherwise they might get into a snow blockade, and be lost.
Tah-home was ordered to accompany the train as a guide. He remonstrated, because he had about made up his mind to remain and join O-che-o’s band sooner than be separated from Ka-ko-na.
I knew if he remained it would be to his disadvantage, and probable ruin; and for that reason refused him his request, after fairly explaining the reasons therefor.
He acknowledged the validity of my arguments, and with a quick, quiet motion withdrew. I caught his eye, and read plainly what was in his mind. He had determined to take Ka-ko-na with him at every hazard.
Half suppressing my own convictions of right in the premises, I shut my eyes to what was passing; in fact, I half relented in my determination to enforce the new law in regard to buying women. I felt that the trial was a little too severe on all the Indian parties to this transaction.
The evening before the departure, in company with Capt. Knapp (the agent), I called at Tah-home’s tent, and found Ka-ko-na still weeping. Tah-home was downcast and sober-faced, and renewed his petition for the privilege of remaining. I confess that was tempted to suspend the new law, but steadied myself with the belief that some way, somehow, Tah-home would succeed without my aid, and without the retraction of the law, though I could not see just how. I was “borrowing trouble,” for, as I subsequentlylearned, the arrangement for Tah-home to get away with his wife had already been made through the intervention of a “mutual friend,” and at the time I visited his camp, Tah-home and Ka-ko-na were playing a part,—throwing dust in my eyes.
This mutual friend had satisfied O-che-o by giving him one of Tah-home’s horses, his rifle, and a pair of blankets, all of which had been sent off to O-che-o’s camp.
The snow began falling before morning, and in the meantime Tah-home and Ka-ko-na silently left camp for Warm Springs. On the following morning, when the teams were drawn up to start, I missed Tah-home and Ka-ko-na. Of course I needed no one to tell me that at that moment they were miles away, towards the summit of the mountain.
Having, at that time, no assurance that O-che-o had been “seen,” I hastened to his lodge. I found him sleeping, or pretending to sleep. On being aroused he sprang to his feet, and inquired the cause of my early visit. I think that no looker-on would have detected, in his looks or manner, anything but surprise and indignation, when the escape of Tah-home and his wife was made known to him. Reproach was in his eyes and his actions while he dressed himself. I was alarmed lest they should be pursued.
A “mutual friend” is, sometimes, a handy thing in life; in this instance the “mutual,” seeing that I was in the dark, and liable to make some rash promises, touched me on the arm, and called me away. I followed him. O-che-odid not follow me. If my memory is correct, the matter was not again referred to by either of us; but there was considerable slylaughing all over the camp, at the way in which the “tyee” (myself) had been outwitted by Indians.
“Such is life.” We are living a lie when we seem most honest, and justify ourselves with the assurance that “of two evils choose the least,” will whitewash us over to all other eyes. To the present writing, conscience has not kept my eyes open when I wished to sleep, because I shut them on Tah-home and O-che-o’s trick.
The grand council was opened by Allen David, the chief, saying, “Hear me, all my people—open your ears and listen to all the words that are spoken—I have been to the head of Sprague’s river, to meet the new tyee—I have looked into his eyes—I have seen his tongue—he talks straight. His heart is strong—he is a brave man—he will say strong words. His ears are large—he hears everything. He does not get tired. He does not come drunk with whiskey. What you have heard about him shaking hands with every one is true. His eye is good—he does not miss anything—he saw my heart. He washed my heart with a strong law—he brought some new laws that are like a strong soap. Watch close and do not miss his words—they are strong. We will steal his heart.”
The subjoined report to my superior in office was made on my return to Salem, and since it is an official communication, written years ago, it may be worthy of a place in this connection; supplementing which I propose to write more in detail matters concerning this visit and the series of meetings referred to. I make this statement here, because I do not wish the readers to be confused by the mixing of dates, sinceto finish this report in full without explanation would exclude incidents that are of interest in a book, though not justifiable in official reports.
Office Superintendent Indian Affairs,Salem, Oregon, Jan. 20th, 1870.Sir:—After the completion of the Snake expedition and previous to starting on the Modoc trip, I held a series of meetings and talks with the Klamaths.I understand, and have so represented on every occasion, that President Grant meant what he said in his inaugural address: that his policy in regard to Indians would be to prepare them by civilization for citizenship. Acting from this principle, so perfectly in accordance with my own judgment, I stepped out of the track of my predecessors, and said to them that my first business is to settle the financial affairs of the agency; then, to issue such goods as I had provided; and then to deliver a message from Mr. Parker to you; that I am ready to hear any and all complaints; settle any and all difficulties; decide any and all vexed questions; to tell you about the white people’s laws, customs, habits, religion, etc., etc.; in a word, I propose to remove the barrier that a condition has held between the different stations in life. Civilization may be yours—manhood—the American standard of worth. The course is clear and open to you Indian people—for the whole family of man.I had never stood, until now, before a people just emerging from the chrysalis of savage life, struggling earnestly and manfully to leave behind them the traditions and customs of an ancestry known onlyto mankind by the history of bloody acts and deeds of savage heroism.I would that I could portray these scenes: these dark-eyed men with long hair, women naturally good-looking, but so sadly debauched that virtue makes no pretensions among them; children of everyshade,—all gathered around a huge fire of pine logs, in a forest of tall trees, in mid-winter, with the little camp fires here and there; and notwithstanding the ground was covered with snow and thermometer sometimes below zero, these people would sit, or stand, for hours, with eyes, ears, and hearts all open to hear; catching with great eagerness the story of my superior in office, to whom I made all my reports and from whom I received instructions, who, by his own energy, had elevated himself to a level with the great men of the age; and that he, Parker, was of “their own race.”The Klamath chief, Allen David, arose to reply amid surroundings characteristic of Indian life,—a perfect solemn silence broken only by his voice.I then heard the notes of natural oratory, coming in wild, but well-measured words, and recognized for the first time fully that nature does sometimes produce noble menwithoutthe line of civilized life. I send you a verbatim report of his speech as taken by Dr. McKay; because I understand we are all trying to solve the problem of civilization for Indians.I am not, myself, longer scepticalon that subject; but I know that a large proportion of our public menare; and you would not wonder, either, could you visit some reservations and see for yourself the inside workings of moral law.But I assert that the Indians are not to blame;let censure fall where it belongs; viz., on the men who are entrusted with the care and responsibility of leading and protecting these people, yet wink at and tolerate, in subordinates, the most demoralizing habits, and may be, in some cases, participants themselves. I do not speak of this agency in particular.Said Allen David,—“I see you. All my people see you.—I saw you at Sprague river.—I watched your mouth.—I have seen but one tongue.—I have looked into your eyes.—I have seen your heart.—You have given me another heart.—All my people will have white hearts.—When I was a little boy I lived here.—I have always lived here.—A long time ago a white man told me I could be like him. I said my skin is red, it cannot change; it must be my heart, my brain, that is to be like a white man.—You think we are low people.—May be we are in your eyes.—Who made us so?—We do not know much; we can learn.—Some of the officers at the fort (referring to Fort Klamath, six miles from the agency) have been good men—some of them have been bad men.—Do you think a good white man will take an Indian wife?—A white man that will take an Indian wife is worse blood than Indian.—These things make our hearts sad.—We want you to stop it.... Your ears are large.—Your heart is large.—You see us.—Do not let your heart get sick.“Take a white man into the woods, away from a store; set him down, with nothing in his hands, in the woods, and without a store to get tools from; and what could he do?“When you lay down before us the axes, the saws, the iron wedges and mauls you have promised us, andwe do not take them up, then you can say we are ‘cul-tus’—lazy people.—You say your chief is like me—that he is an Indian—I am glad. What can I say that is worth writing down?—Mr. Parker does not know me.—When you do all Mr. Huntington promised in the treaty, 1864, we can go to work like white men.—Our hearts are tired waiting for the saw-mill.—When it is built, then we can have houses like white men.—We want the flour-mill; then we will not live on fish and roots. We will help to make the mills.—We made the fences on the big farms.—We did not get tired....“Give us strong law; we will do what your law says. We want strong law—we want to be like white men. You say that Mr. Parker does not want bad men among our people.—Is B. a good man?—he took Frank’s wife—is that good? We do not want such men. Is —— a good man?—he took Celia from her husband—is that right?—Applegate gave us good laws—he is a good man.—Applegate told us not to gamble. Capt. —— won thirty-seven horses from us. He says there is no law about gambling.—Applegate said there was.—Which is right?”...Mr. Meacham said, “You need not be afraid to talk—Keep nothing back. Your people are under a cloud. I see by their eyes that their hearts are sick; they look sorrowful. Open your hearts and I will hear you; tell me all, that I may know what to do to make them glad.”Allen David said, “I will keep nothing back.—I have eyes—I can see that white men have white hands.—Some white men take our women—they have children—they are not Indian—they are not white—theyare shame children.—Some white men take care of their children.—It makes my heart sick.—I do not want these things.—Indian is an Indian—we do not want any more shame children. A white man that would take an Indian squaw is no better than we are.“Our women go to the fort—they make us feel sick—they get goods—sometimes greenbacks.—We do not want them to go there—we want the store here at the agency; then our women will not go to the fort.... Last Sunday some soldiers went to Pompey’s—they talked bad to the women.—We do not want soldiers among our women.—Can you stop this? Our women make us ashamed.—We may have done wrong—give us strong law.”...Joe Hood (Indian), at a talk seven days after, said: “Meacham came here. Parker told him to come. He brought a strong law. It is a ‘new soap,’ it washed my heart all clean but a little place about as big as my thumb-nail. Caroline’s (his wife) heart may not all be white yet. If it was, my own would be white like snow. Parker’s law has made us just like we were new married. I told these Indians that the law is like strong soap; it makes all clean. I do not want but one wife any more.”...Allen David said: “You say we are looking into a camp-fire; that we can find moonlight. You say there is a road that goes toward sunrise. Show me that stone road. I am now on the stone road. I will follow you to the top of the mountain. You tell me come on. I can see you now. My feet are on the road. I will not leave it. I tell my people follow me, and I will stay in the stone road.”...I have given you a few extracts, that you may judge from their own mouths whether they canbecome civilized. If Lindsay Applegate, and his sons, J. D. and Oliver, could take wild savage Indians, and, against so much opposition, in the short space of four years bring them to this state, I know they can be civilized. If good men are appointed to lead and teach them,—not books alone, but civilization, with all that civilization means,—men whose hearts are in the work, and who realize that, as soon as duties devolve on them, great responsibility attaches; men who have courage tostand squarelybetween these people and the villains that hang around reservations from the lowest motives imaginable; men paid fair salaries for doing duty; that will not civilize the people by “mixing blood;” married men of character who will practise what they preach, and who can live without smuggling whiskey on to the Reservation; ten years from to-day may find this superintendency self-supporting, and offering to the world seven thousand citizens.I am conscious that this is strong talk, but it is surely true. I have not overdrawn this side of the case; nor will I attempt to show whathas been done, or will be done, with superintendents, agents, and employés in charge placed there as a reward for political service.The past tells the story too plainly to be misapprehended. While I am responsible for the advancement of these people, I beg to state my views and make known the result of observation and experience. As a subordinate officer of the Government, I expect to have my official acts scrutinized closely. I respectfully ask that I may be furnished the funds to keep faith with a people so little understood,—people so much like children that when they arepromised a saw-mill they go to work cutting logs, only to see them decayed before the mill is begun, but with logic enough to say, “When you have got us the things you promised, then you may blame us if we don’t do right.”I have now no longer any doubts about President Grant’s “Quaker Policy,” if it is applied to Indians once subjugated. These people have mind, soul, heart, affection, passion, and impulses, and great ambition to become like white men. There are more or less men in each reservation who are already superior to many of the white men around them. At Klamath they are now working under civil law of trial by jury,—with judge, sheriff, civil marriage, divorce; in fact, are fast assuming the habiliments of citizenship.I spent seven days, talking, and listening, and making laws, marrying and divorcing, naming babies, settling difficulties, etc., and finally started, accompanied on my journey by a large delegation of Klamaths, who insisted that I should come again and remain longer, and makelaws, and that I would build the mills, and tell them more about our religion; all of which I promised, if possible; but realizing fully and feeling deeply how much depended on the man who is inimmediate chargeof these poor, struggling people.I am, very respectfully,Your obt. servt.,A. B. MEACHAM,Supt. Indian Affairs.Hon. E. S. Parker,Commissioner,Washington, D. C.
Office Superintendent Indian Affairs,Salem, Oregon, Jan. 20th, 1870.
Sir:—After the completion of the Snake expedition and previous to starting on the Modoc trip, I held a series of meetings and talks with the Klamaths.
I understand, and have so represented on every occasion, that President Grant meant what he said in his inaugural address: that his policy in regard to Indians would be to prepare them by civilization for citizenship. Acting from this principle, so perfectly in accordance with my own judgment, I stepped out of the track of my predecessors, and said to them that my first business is to settle the financial affairs of the agency; then, to issue such goods as I had provided; and then to deliver a message from Mr. Parker to you; that I am ready to hear any and all complaints; settle any and all difficulties; decide any and all vexed questions; to tell you about the white people’s laws, customs, habits, religion, etc., etc.; in a word, I propose to remove the barrier that a condition has held between the different stations in life. Civilization may be yours—manhood—the American standard of worth. The course is clear and open to you Indian people—for the whole family of man.
I had never stood, until now, before a people just emerging from the chrysalis of savage life, struggling earnestly and manfully to leave behind them the traditions and customs of an ancestry known onlyto mankind by the history of bloody acts and deeds of savage heroism.
I would that I could portray these scenes: these dark-eyed men with long hair, women naturally good-looking, but so sadly debauched that virtue makes no pretensions among them; children of everyshade,—all gathered around a huge fire of pine logs, in a forest of tall trees, in mid-winter, with the little camp fires here and there; and notwithstanding the ground was covered with snow and thermometer sometimes below zero, these people would sit, or stand, for hours, with eyes, ears, and hearts all open to hear; catching with great eagerness the story of my superior in office, to whom I made all my reports and from whom I received instructions, who, by his own energy, had elevated himself to a level with the great men of the age; and that he, Parker, was of “their own race.”
The Klamath chief, Allen David, arose to reply amid surroundings characteristic of Indian life,—a perfect solemn silence broken only by his voice.
I then heard the notes of natural oratory, coming in wild, but well-measured words, and recognized for the first time fully that nature does sometimes produce noble menwithoutthe line of civilized life. I send you a verbatim report of his speech as taken by Dr. McKay; because I understand we are all trying to solve the problem of civilization for Indians.I am not, myself, longer scepticalon that subject; but I know that a large proportion of our public menare; and you would not wonder, either, could you visit some reservations and see for yourself the inside workings of moral law.
But I assert that the Indians are not to blame;let censure fall where it belongs; viz., on the men who are entrusted with the care and responsibility of leading and protecting these people, yet wink at and tolerate, in subordinates, the most demoralizing habits, and may be, in some cases, participants themselves. I do not speak of this agency in particular.
Said Allen David,—“I see you. All my people see you.—I saw you at Sprague river.—I watched your mouth.—I have seen but one tongue.—I have looked into your eyes.—I have seen your heart.—You have given me another heart.—All my people will have white hearts.—When I was a little boy I lived here.—I have always lived here.—A long time ago a white man told me I could be like him. I said my skin is red, it cannot change; it must be my heart, my brain, that is to be like a white man.—You think we are low people.—May be we are in your eyes.—Who made us so?—We do not know much; we can learn.—Some of the officers at the fort (referring to Fort Klamath, six miles from the agency) have been good men—some of them have been bad men.—Do you think a good white man will take an Indian wife?—A white man that will take an Indian wife is worse blood than Indian.—These things make our hearts sad.—We want you to stop it.... Your ears are large.—Your heart is large.—You see us.—Do not let your heart get sick.
“Take a white man into the woods, away from a store; set him down, with nothing in his hands, in the woods, and without a store to get tools from; and what could he do?
“When you lay down before us the axes, the saws, the iron wedges and mauls you have promised us, andwe do not take them up, then you can say we are ‘cul-tus’—lazy people.—You say your chief is like me—that he is an Indian—I am glad. What can I say that is worth writing down?—Mr. Parker does not know me.—When you do all Mr. Huntington promised in the treaty, 1864, we can go to work like white men.—Our hearts are tired waiting for the saw-mill.—When it is built, then we can have houses like white men.—We want the flour-mill; then we will not live on fish and roots. We will help to make the mills.—We made the fences on the big farms.—We did not get tired....
“Give us strong law; we will do what your law says. We want strong law—we want to be like white men. You say that Mr. Parker does not want bad men among our people.—Is B. a good man?—he took Frank’s wife—is that good? We do not want such men. Is —— a good man?—he took Celia from her husband—is that right?—Applegate gave us good laws—he is a good man.—Applegate told us not to gamble. Capt. —— won thirty-seven horses from us. He says there is no law about gambling.—Applegate said there was.—Which is right?”...
Mr. Meacham said, “You need not be afraid to talk—Keep nothing back. Your people are under a cloud. I see by their eyes that their hearts are sick; they look sorrowful. Open your hearts and I will hear you; tell me all, that I may know what to do to make them glad.”
Allen David said, “I will keep nothing back.—I have eyes—I can see that white men have white hands.—Some white men take our women—they have children—they are not Indian—they are not white—theyare shame children.—Some white men take care of their children.—It makes my heart sick.—I do not want these things.—Indian is an Indian—we do not want any more shame children. A white man that would take an Indian squaw is no better than we are.
“Our women go to the fort—they make us feel sick—they get goods—sometimes greenbacks.—We do not want them to go there—we want the store here at the agency; then our women will not go to the fort.... Last Sunday some soldiers went to Pompey’s—they talked bad to the women.—We do not want soldiers among our women.—Can you stop this? Our women make us ashamed.—We may have done wrong—give us strong law.”...
Joe Hood (Indian), at a talk seven days after, said: “Meacham came here. Parker told him to come. He brought a strong law. It is a ‘new soap,’ it washed my heart all clean but a little place about as big as my thumb-nail. Caroline’s (his wife) heart may not all be white yet. If it was, my own would be white like snow. Parker’s law has made us just like we were new married. I told these Indians that the law is like strong soap; it makes all clean. I do not want but one wife any more.”...
Allen David said: “You say we are looking into a camp-fire; that we can find moonlight. You say there is a road that goes toward sunrise. Show me that stone road. I am now on the stone road. I will follow you to the top of the mountain. You tell me come on. I can see you now. My feet are on the road. I will not leave it. I tell my people follow me, and I will stay in the stone road.”...
I have given you a few extracts, that you may judge from their own mouths whether they canbecome civilized. If Lindsay Applegate, and his sons, J. D. and Oliver, could take wild savage Indians, and, against so much opposition, in the short space of four years bring them to this state, I know they can be civilized. If good men are appointed to lead and teach them,—not books alone, but civilization, with all that civilization means,—men whose hearts are in the work, and who realize that, as soon as duties devolve on them, great responsibility attaches; men who have courage tostand squarelybetween these people and the villains that hang around reservations from the lowest motives imaginable; men paid fair salaries for doing duty; that will not civilize the people by “mixing blood;” married men of character who will practise what they preach, and who can live without smuggling whiskey on to the Reservation; ten years from to-day may find this superintendency self-supporting, and offering to the world seven thousand citizens.
I am conscious that this is strong talk, but it is surely true. I have not overdrawn this side of the case; nor will I attempt to show whathas been done, or will be done, with superintendents, agents, and employés in charge placed there as a reward for political service.
The past tells the story too plainly to be misapprehended. While I am responsible for the advancement of these people, I beg to state my views and make known the result of observation and experience. As a subordinate officer of the Government, I expect to have my official acts scrutinized closely. I respectfully ask that I may be furnished the funds to keep faith with a people so little understood,—people so much like children that when they arepromised a saw-mill they go to work cutting logs, only to see them decayed before the mill is begun, but with logic enough to say, “When you have got us the things you promised, then you may blame us if we don’t do right.”
I have now no longer any doubts about President Grant’s “Quaker Policy,” if it is applied to Indians once subjugated. These people have mind, soul, heart, affection, passion, and impulses, and great ambition to become like white men. There are more or less men in each reservation who are already superior to many of the white men around them. At Klamath they are now working under civil law of trial by jury,—with judge, sheriff, civil marriage, divorce; in fact, are fast assuming the habiliments of citizenship.
I spent seven days, talking, and listening, and making laws, marrying and divorcing, naming babies, settling difficulties, etc., and finally started, accompanied on my journey by a large delegation of Klamaths, who insisted that I should come again and remain longer, and makelaws, and that I would build the mills, and tell them more about our religion; all of which I promised, if possible; but realizing fully and feeling deeply how much depended on the man who is inimmediate chargeof these poor, struggling people.
I am, very respectfully,Your obt. servt.,A. B. MEACHAM,Supt. Indian Affairs.
Hon. E. S. Parker,Commissioner,Washington, D. C.
In Allen David’s speech, he refers to the “Fort,” meaning Fort Klamath, six miles distant from the agency. It was established for the protection of the settlers on the Klamath frontier. Two and sometimes three companies have been stationed at this fort for several years.
The remarks of this chief need no comment;they tell the tale. If confirmation was wanting of the crimes intimated in his speech, a visit to Klamath Indian Agency, and even a casual glance at the different complexions of the young and rising generation, would proclaim the correctness of Allen David’s charges.
KLAMATH COURT—ELOPEMENT EXTRAORDINARY.
The Reservation furnishes abundance of real romance, mixed with tragedy, sufficient to make up a volume. The Indians tell, and white men confirm, the story of an officer of the fort, who loved an Indian’s wife, and how he sought to win her from home by presents; and, failing in this, came with armed soldiers, and, with threats of death to the husband, compelled him to give her up. This officer took this woman to the fort, dressed her in styles common among white women, and refused to return her to her husband. When the officer was “ordered away” to some other duty the squaw went home, bearing in her arms an infant not more than half Indian. Her husband refused to receive her. She was turned away from his lodge, and became a vagabond of the worst class. Fortunately for father, mother, and infant, too, the latter died a few months thereafter.
Another young officer of the United States army, who was stationed at Fort Klamath, was a party to an elopement in high life,—as all life ishighat an altitude of forty-five hundred feet above the sea level; the other party being the wife of a handsome young Indian living on Klamath Reservation. However, they had but a few miles to travel, in order to reacha “Chicago” for divorces. All people without law are a law unto themselves.
The Indian husband appealed for redress, but found no one to listen to his appeals. His wife returned to him when the regiment to which the officer belonged was ordered away, bringing with her many fine clothes; her feet clad in good American gaiters, and with an armful of childhood, in which the Indian husband claimed no interest. The mother was turned away from what was once a happy home; and to-day, with her little girl, wanders from lodge to lodge, seeking shelter where she may. This woman was really good-looking, and had proved herself an apt scholar in learning the civilized arts of house-keeping and dress-making; she also learned something of our language, in which she tells the story of her own shame and the fatherhood of her child.
I am giving these statements as made to me by white men, who are responsible, and will answer, when called upon, for their authenticity. In respect to the families of these United States officers, not through fear of the men themselves, I withhold their names. In this connection I remember a conversation with a sub-chief of the Klamaths, who could speak “Boston” quite well. His name was “Blo.” He said, “Meacham, I talk to you. S’pose an Injun man, he see a white man’s wife. He like her. He give presents; he win her heart; he talk to her sometime. He tell her, “Come go with me.” She come. He take her away. White man come home. He no see his wife. He see him children cry. He get mad. He take a gun. He hunt ’em. He find em. He ‘shoot’em, one Injun man. What you think? You think white man law hang him?” We were travelling horseback, and “Blo” came up close to me, leaning from his saddle, and, peering into my eyes, continued, “What you think?” I looked into his face, and read murder very plainly. Had he been a white man I might have given him a negative answer. Half savage as he was, he was seeking for encouragement to commit a bloody deed in vindication of his honor. I replied that “the law would punish the Indians for stealing the white man’s wife. But if the white man was wise he would not kill the Indian, because the laws would take hold of him.” I felt that I was concealing a part of the truth, but I dared not do otherwise.
“Blo” was not so easily put off. He replied with a question that intensified my perplexity, “S’pose white man steal Injun’s wife, s’pose law catchhim?” Harder to answer than the first one. If I said “Yes,” he would have demanded that the law be enforced in his case, that had come under my own observation; and that, I knew, was impossible, with public sentiment so strongly against the Indians that white men would have laughed at the absurdity of calling one of their race to account for so trifling a thing as breaking up an Indian’s family, and leaving his children worse than orphans; yet knowing full well that the whole power of the United States would have been evoked to punish an Indian for a like offence. If I said “No,” I stultified myself and my Government. I could only reply, “Suppose a woman run away,—let her go. Get a divorce, and then another wife.”
“Now-wit-ka, Ni-kanan-itch.” “Yes, I see. Law not all the time same. Made crooked. Made for white man. Aha, me see ’em now.”
During the seven days’ council, “Little Sallie” came into the office, and in plain “Boston” said, “I want divorce; my man, Cho-kus, he buy another woman. I no like him have two wife. I want divorce.”
We had just completed the organization of a court, composed of the head chief and his eight subordinates. This was the first case on the docket, and the beginning of a new history with this people,—a new way of settling difficulties. The agent provided a book for making record of all proceedings. A sheriff was appointed from among the Indians. Each sub-chief was entitled to a constable, but, in all matters pertaining to their respective bands, as between themselves and others, neither sub-chief nor constable was permitted to take any part in the proceedings of the court.
Novel scenes indeed!—Indians holding court after the fashion of white men. The chief made a short speech on taking the middle seat on “The Bench.” He removed his hat, saying “that he knew but little about the new law, but he would endeavor to make it run straight, and not run around his own people,” referring to those of his band. The sub-chiefs took their places on either side, and we gave instructions to the sheriff to open court, ordering a white man to show him through, saying, “Oh-yes! Oh-yes! The Klamath Court is now open.”—“Now-witka, Now-witka, Muck-u-lux, Klamath, Mam-ook, Bos-ti-na Law, O-ko-ke, Sun,” rang out the Indian sheriff.
“Little Sallie” was the first to appear before the bar of justice, and, without an attorney, she filed a complaint against her husband, the substance of which was to the effect, that “Cho-kus”—her master—had made arrangements to buy another wife, paying two horses; and that these horses belonged to her individually, and she was not willing to furnish horses to buy another woman, because it would leave but one horse in the family, and that Cho-kus and the new wife would claim that one, and she would be compelled to go on foot. If Cho-kus had plenty of horses she might not object; but she thought that she could dig roots, and gather “wokus”—wild rice—enough for the family, and Cho-kus did not need another “nohow.” But, if he persisted, then she wanted a Boston divorce, otherwise she did not.
Cho-kus was required to show cause why “Sallie” should not be made free. He appeared in person, and expressed willingness for the separation, but asked to know who would be awarded the baby,—a little fellow twelve months old. The court decided that “Sallie” should have possession of the child. Cho-kus took it from its mother’s arms, and, holding it in his own, looked very earnestly and silently into its face for a moment. His speech ran in something like the following words: “Now half this baby’s heart is mine, half its heart belongs to ‘Sallie.’” Then slowly drawing the little finger of one hand from its forehead down its face and body, he went on to say, “I want this child’s heart, and ‘Sallie’ wants it; if we cut into it it will die; I can’t give up my part of it.” Sallie attempted to snatch it away, saying, “I won’t give up my part of the baby.” This broughtthe husband to terms. He said he would give up taking another wife. Sallie agreed, and the court proposed that, instead of being divorced, they should be married over by “Boston law.” They consented. The ceremony was deferred in order to make preparation for the approaching nuptials, under the auspices of the new law.
The white ladies of the agency, some of whom were unmarried, proposed to adorn the bride, while the employés furnished enough Sunday clothes to dress the husband in good style. Employés and Indians were notified of the important affair, and the court adjourned to the big camp-fire, in order to perform the marriage ceremony in the presence of all the people. The presiding judgepro tem.ordered the parties to appear.
The groom, dressed in a borrowed suit, was the first to stand up. Sallie hesitated; the husband insisted. The bride was reluctant, saying she wanted to know how long the new law would hold “Cho-kus.”—“Is it a strong law? Won’t he buy another wife some time?” When all the questions were answered to her satisfaction, she passed her child over to another woman, and stood beside herlover. Yes, her lover; for he then discovered that he really loved her, just as many a white-faced man has in similar cases, when he realized the danger of losing her.
The official reporter, on this occasion, did not furnish an account of the bride’s dress, but for the satisfaction, it may be, to my young lady readers, I will say that the toilet was elaborately gotten up a-la-mode, consisting of immense tilting hoops, bright-hued goods for dress, paint in profusion on her cheeks,necklace of beads, and shells, and tresses of dark hair, “all her own,” ornamented with cheap jewelry. This being the first marriage under the new law, the chief remarked that be wished them “tied very strong, so they could not get away from each other.”
We extemporized the ceremony as follows: “Cho-kus, do you agree to live forever with Sallie, and not buy another squaw? To do the hunting and fishing, cut wood and haul it up, like white man? Never to get drunk, or talk bad to other women, and to be a good, faithful husband?” When the ceremony was interpreted, he answered, “Now-wit-ka ni-hi;” yes, I do. Sallie said, “Hold on,—I want him married to me so he won’t whip me any more.” We adopted the supplement suggested, and Cho-kus again said, “Now-wit-ka.” The bride said, “All right,” and promised to be a good wife, to take care of the lodge and the baby, to dress the deer-skins, and dry the roots.
Cho-kus also suggested a supplement, which was, that Sallie must not “go to the fort” any more withouthim. She assented, with a proviso that he would not go to see “old Mose-en-kos-ket’s” daughter any more.
The covenant was now completed, to the satisfaction of bride and bridegroom, and the Great Spirit was invoked to witness the pledges made; their hands were joined, and they were pronounced husband and wife. A waggish white man whispered to Allen David, the chief, that the bride must be saluted. The chief inquired whether that was the way of the new law, saying he wanted “a real Boston wedding.” We said to Cho-kus, “Salute your bride.” He replied he thought the ceremony was over; but, whenmade to understand what the salute meant, replied that it was not modest; that no Indian man ever kissed a woman in public. We urged that it was right under the new law. He remarked that somebody else must kiss her; he didn’t intend to. Our waggish friend again whispered in the ear of the chief, telling him that the officiating clergyman must perform the duty to make the marriage legal. With solemn face, the chief insisted that the whole law must be met.
The parties remained standing while this controversy was going on. The bride was willing to be saluted, but the question was,whowas to perform that part of the closing ceremony. The record don’t mention the name of the individual, and it is perhaps as well. The bride, however, was saluted.
No,Ididn’t, indeed; I—don’t press the question—but I di—. No, no, it was not m—, indeed it wasn’t; but I won’t tell anything about it. As a faithful reporter, I will only add that the happy couple received the congratulations of friends. They are still married, and Cho-kus hasn’t bought another wife yet.
The next case called was a young man who had stolen the daughter of a sub-chief. He was arraigned, “plead guilty,” and by the court sentenced to wear six feet of log-chain on his leg for nine months, to have his hair cut short, and to chop wood for the chiefs, who were to board and clothe him in the mean time. Care was taken to protect the convict’s right, in that he should not work in bad weather or on Sundays, or more than six hours each day. He objected to having his hair cut short, but otherwise seemed indifferent to the sentence.
The chiefs were satisfied, because they saw large piles of wood in prospect. However, long before the expiration of the term of sentence they united in a petition for his pardon.
Cases of various kinds came into court and were disposed of, the chief exhibiting more judgment than is sometimes found in more pretentious courts of justice.
They were instructed, in regard to law, that it was supposed to becommon sense and equal justice, and that any law which did not recognize these principles was not a good law.
This court is still doing business under the direction of a Government agent. The wedding of Cho-kus and Sallie was celebrated with a grand dance. Who shall say these people do not civilize rapidly? The occasion furnished an opportunity for the Indian boys to air their paints, feathers, and fine clothes; also for Indian maidens and women to dress in holiday attire.
Chief Allen David had given orders that this “social hop,” commemorating the first marriage in civil life, should be conducted in civil form. The white boys were willing to teach the red ones and their partners the steps of the new dance.
The ballroom was lighted up with great pine wood fires, whose light shone on the green leaves of the sugar pines and on the tan-colored faces of the lookers-on. Singular spectacle!—children of a high civilization leading those of wilder life into the mazes of this giddy pastime; and they were apt scholars, especially the maidens. The music was tame; too tame for a people who are educated to a love of exciting sports.
The chiefs stood looking on, and, when occasion required, enforcing the orders of the floor-managers, who were our teamsters, turned, for the nonce, to dancing masters. I doubt if they would have been half as zealous in a Sabbath school. But since dancing is a part of American civilization, acknowledged as such by good authority, and since Indians have a natural fondness for amusements, and cannot be made to abandon such recreation, perhaps it was well that our teamster boys were qualified to teach them in this, though they were not for teaching higher lessons. At our request we were entertained with an Indian play. No phase of civilized life exists that has not its rude counterpart in Indian life. This entertainment of which I am writing was given byprofessionalplayers, who evinced real talent. All the people took great interest in the preparations, inasmuch as we had honored them by making the request. The theatre was large and commodious, well lighted with huge log fires. Thefoot-lightswere of pitch wood. Theboardswere sanded years before, and had been often carpeted with velvet green or snowy white. The “Green-rooms” were of white tent cloths, fashioned for the purpose by brown hands, and were in close proximity to the scene. The front seats were “reserved” for invited guests. The rest was “standing room.” Circling round in dusky rows stood the patient throng. Nor stamps, nor whistles, nor other hideous noises gave evidence of bad-breeding or undue impatience. No police force was necessarythereto compel the audience to respect the players or each other’s rights.
As the time to begin comes round a silence pervadesthe assembly. No huge bill-posters, or “flyers,” or other programme had given even an inkling of the play. This was as it should be everywhere, for then no promises were made to be broken, and no fault could be found, whether the play was good or bad. The knowing ones, aware, by signs we did not see, that soon the performance would commence, by motion of hand or eye would say, “Be still.”
Now we hear a female voice, soft and low, singing, and coming from some unseen lodge. It grows more distinct each moment and more plaintive, and finally the singer comes into the circle with a half dance, the music of her voice broken by occasional sobs, makes the circuit of the stage, growing weary and sobbing oftener; she at last drops down in weary, careless abandonment. This maiden was attired in showy dress, of wild Indian costume, ornamented with beads and tinsel. Her cheeks and hair were painted with vermilion. The frock she wore was short, reaching only to the knee. Close-fitting garments of scarlet cloth, richly trimmed with beads, and fringe of deer-skin she wore upon her ankles, with feet encased in dainty moccasins. When she sat down, the picture was that of one tasting the bitter with the sweets of life, in which joy and sorrow in alternate promptings came and went. The sobbing would cease while she gathered flowers that grew within her reach, arranging them in bunches, seemingly absorbed in other thoughts, occasionally giving vent in half-stifled, child-like sobs, or muttering in broken sentences, with parting lips, complaints against her cruel father, giving emphasis with her head to her half-uttered speech.
Following the eyes of our Indian interpreter, whose quick ear had caught the sound of coming steps, we saw a fine-looking young brave enter the ring, crouching and silent as a panther’s tread, and, scanning the surroundings, he espies the maiden. We hear a sound so low that we imagine it is but the chirping of a tiny bird; but it catches the maiden’s ear, who raises her head and listens, waiting for the sound, and then relapses into half-subdued silence. Meanwhile the young brave gazes, with bright eyes and parted lips, on the maiden. Again he chirps. Now she looks around and catches his eye, but does not scream, or make other noises, until, by pantomimic words, they understand they are alone.
The warrior breaks out in a wild song of love, and, keeping time with his voice, with short, soft, dancing step, he passes round the maiden, who plays coquette, and seems to be fully on her ground. He grows more earnest, and raises his voice, quickens his steps, and, passing close before her, offers his love, and proposes marriage, speaks her name, and, turning quickly again, passes back and forth, each time pleading his case more earnestly, until the maiden, woman-like, feigns resentment, and he, poor fellow, thinks she means what she does not, and slowly and sadly, in apparent despair, retreats to the farther side of the stage. When he came upon the scene, clad in his dress of deer-skins, hunting-shirt and leggings, with moccasins trimmed with beads and scarlet cloth, his long hair ornamented with eagle feathers, and neck encircled with the claws of wild cayotes, his arms with a score of rings, his scarlet blanket girded round his waist, and reaching nearly to the ground,—swingingto his back, his quiver full of painted arrows, whose feathered ends shone above his shoulder; his left hand clasping an Indian bow, while his right held his blanket in rude drapery around him,—he was the very image of the real live young Indian brave. But now, with blanket drawn over his shoulder, covering his arms, while the feathers in his hair and the arrows were held tightly to his head and neck, he seemed the neglected lover he thought himself:
Poor Ke-how-la, you do not appear to know that Ganweta is playing prude with you. Ke-how-la breaks out afresh, in song and dance, and, circling around the maiden, gives vent to his wounded pride, declares that he will wed another, and, as if to retire, he turns from her. Ganweta, as all her sex will do, discovers that she has carried the joke too far, springs up, and, throwing a bunch of flowers over his head, begins to tell, in song, that she dare not listen to his words, because her father demands a price for her that Ke-how-la cannot pay, since he is poor in horses; but that, if left to choice, she would be his wife, and gather roots, and dress deer-skins, and be his slave.
Ke-how-la listens with head half turned, and then replies that he will carry her away until her father’s anger shall be passed.
Ganweta tells how brave and strong her father is, and that he intends to sell her to another.
Ke-how-la boasts of his skill in archery, and, dropping his blanket from his shoulder and stringing his bow, quickly snatches an arrow from his fawn-skin quiver, and sends it into a target centre, and then another by its side, and still another, until he makes a real bouquet of feathered arrows stand out on the target’sface, in proof of his ability to defend her from her father’s wrath.
Snatching his arrows, and putting them in place among their fellows, save one he holds in his hand, he motions her to come, and, bounding away like an antlered deer, he runs around the circle with Ganweta following like a frightened fawn. They pass off the scene. The braves sent by the father come on stealthily, scanning the ground to detect any sign that would be evidence that the lovers had been there. Stooping low and pointing with his finger to the tracks left, a warrior gives signal that he has found the trail, and then the party starts in quick pursuit, following round where Ke-how-la and Ganweta had passed, who, still fleeing, come in on the opposite side, and, walking slowly backward, he, stepping in her tracks, intending thus to mislead the pursuers, then, anon, throwing his arm around her, would carry her a few steps, and, dropping her on the ground, they would resume the flight.
The pursuers appear baffled; but with cunning ways they find the trail, and resume with quickened steps the chase.
Suddenly Ke-how-la stops and listens. His face declares that he has knowledge of the coming struggle,—that he must fight. Bidding Ganweta haste away, he takes a station near a tree, and awaits the pursuers. They seem to be aware that he is there, and, drawing their bows, prepare to fight. See Ke-how-la expose his blanket, the pursuers letting two arrows fly, one of them striking it, the other the tree. A twang from Ke-how-la’s bow, and a howl of pain, and a red-skinned pursuer in agony has anarrow in his heart, and then the arrows fly in quick succession, until the hero sends his antagonists to the happy hunting-ground of their fathers, and with apparent earnestness he scalps his foes.
With his trophies hanging to his belt, he calls, “Ganweta, Kaitch Kona Ganweta!”—Beautiful Ganweta; but he calls in vain. While Ke-how-la was fighting, a brave of another tribe carries off the shrinking maiden, and escapes to his people.
Ke-how-la takes the trail, and follows by the signs Ganweta had left on her involuntary flight, and discovers her surrounded by his enemies. He returns to his own people for assistance. He finds friends willing to follow him. Ganweta’s father is reconciled with him, and gives his consent to his marriage when he shall have brought Ganweta home. A party is formed, and after the war-dance and other savage ceremonies, they go on the warpath. Then we see the warriors fight a sham battle with real war-whoops and scalping ceremonies. The arrows fly, and the wounded fall, and the victors secure the scalps and also the captive maiden, and, with wild sports, return to the lodge of Ganweta’s father.
This performance lasted about three hours, and from the beginning to the end the interest increased, winding up with a scalp-dance.
I have never witnessed a play better performed, and certainly never with imitation so close to reality. It demonstrated that talent does not belong to any privileged race; that Indians are endowed with love for amusements, and that they possess ability to create and perform.
If it is urged that such plays foster savage habitsamong the Indians, the excuse must be that they were true to the scenes of their own lives and in conformity with the tastes of the people, as all theatricals are supposed to be.
It had one merit that many plays lack. Its actors were natural, and no unseemly struts and false steps, or rude and uncouth exhibitions of dexterity or unseemly attitudes, that make modest people hide their eyes in very shame, were indulged in by the players.
The Indians of Oregon and of the Pacific coast wear long hair; at least, until they change their mode of life, they have a great aversion to cutting it, and, in fact, it is almost the last personal habit they give up. Before leaving this agency, I proposed to give a new hat to each man who would consent to have his hair cut short. The proposition was not well received at first, because of their old-time religious faith, which in some way connected long hair with religious ceremony. It is safe to assert, that, whenever an Oregon Indian is seen without long hair, he has abandoned his savage religion. Before leaving, however, I was assured that I might send out the hat for over one hundred.
The following summer, when making an official visit, I took with me four hundred hats. When the question was brought up, and the hats were in sight, a flurry was visible among the men. The chief, Allen David, led the way, begging for a long cut. A compromise was made, and it was agreed that the hair should be cut just half-way down. With this understanding, the barber’s shop was instituted, and long black hair enough to make a Boston hair merchant rich was cut off and burned up.
The metamorphosis was very noticeable. Many ludicrous scenes were presented in connection with, and grew out of, this episode. A great step forward had been made, and one, too, that will not “slip back.”
When O-che-o came out of the room, after his head had been for the first time in his life under a barber’s hands, he presented a comical spectacle. His children did not know him; some of his older friends did not recognize in him the chief of other days.