THE INDIANS OF LAKE TAHOE
Since Lake Tahoe was the natural habitat of one of the most
deliciously edible fishes found in the world, the Indians of the
region were bound, very early in their history here, to settle upon
its shores. These were the Paiutis and the Washoes. The former,
however, ranging further east in Nevada, were always regarded as
interlopers by the latter if they came too near to the Lake, and there
are legends current of several great struggles in which many lives
were lost, where the Washoes battled with the Paiutis to keep them
from this favored locality.
Prior to the coming of the emigrant bands in the early 'forties of the
last century, the only white men the Indians ever saw were occasional
trappers who wandered into the new and strange land. Then, the
beautiful Indian name, soft and limpid as an Indian maiden's eyes, was
_Wasiu_--not the harsh, Anglicized, _Washoe_. Their range
seemed to be from Washoe and Carson valleys on the east in winter, up
to Tahoe and over the Sierras for fishing and hunting in the summer.
They never ventured far westward, as the Monos and other mountain
tribes claimed the mountain regions for their acorns and the game
(deer, etc.), which abounded there.
While in the early days of the settlements of whites upon their lands
the Washoes now and again rose in protest, and a few lives were lost,
in the main they have been a peaceable and inoffensive tribe. The
Paiutis were far more independent and warlike, placing their yoke upon
the weaker tribe. Indeed, when I first talked with the older Washoes
and Paiutis thirty years ago they were full of stories of big wars
between themselves. They showed me rocks near to the present town of
Verdi, on the line of the Southern Pacific, on which their ancestors
had made certain inscriptions which they interpreted as warnings to
the Paiutis not to dare trespass beyond that sign, and the Paiutis had
similar notices inscribed upon bowlders near to their boundary lines.
As a result of one of their fights the Washoes were forbidden the use
of horses, and it is only since the whites have exercised control that
the weaker tribe has dared to disregard this prohibition.
To-day they number in the region of six hundred men, women and
children. On account of their nomadic habits it is impossible to
secure a complete census.
In appearance they are heavy and fat, though now and again a man of
fine, muscular form and good height is found. The women have broad,
shapeless figures and clumsy, deliberate movements. The older they
get the more repulsive and filthy they become. While young some of the
women have pleasing, intelligent and alert faces, while children of
both sexes are attractive and interesting. But with them as with all
aboriginal people who have absorbed the vices and none of the virtues
of the whites, the Washoes are fast losing power, vigor and strength
by disease and dissipation. The smoke of the _campoodie_ fire is
also ruinous to their eyes and ophthalmia is prevalent among them. It
is no uncommon thing to see a man or woman entirely blind.
The old-time methods of clothing have entirely disappeared. When I
first knew them it was not unusual to find an old Indian wrapped in
a blanket made of twisted rabbit-skins, but I doubt if one could be
found to-day. The white man's overalls, blouse and ordinary coat and
vest for the men, with calico in variegated colors for the women, seem
to have completely taken the place of their own primitive dress. A
pair of moccasins, however, now and again, may be found in use at a
dance or on some special occasion.
They still paint and tattoo their faces, hands and wrists, in lines,
triangles and circles. On their bodies also stripes of irregular
design and varying colors are often used, all having a symbolic
meaning originally, now lost, however, at least to all the younger
members of the tribe. Painting the face has a definite and useful
purpose. It softens the skin and prevents the frosts of winter from
cracking it.
Their dwellings are of the rudest character, mere brush shacks in
summer, and in winter, nondescript structures of brush, old boards,
railroad ties, tin cans, barrel-staves, old carpet, canvas, anything
that will sustain a roof and keep out wind, rain and as much of the
cold as possible. Their name for this structure is _campoodie_.
Of course there is no pretense of sanitation, cleanliness or domestic
privacy. The whole family herds together around the smoking fire, thus
early beginning the destruction of their eyesight by the never-ceasing
and irritating smoke.
Their native food consists of fish, the products of the chase, which
include deer, antelope, an occasional bear, rabbits, squirrels and
even coyotes, mountain-lions and wildcats, with acorns, manzanita
berries, currants and the seeds of wild peaches and the various
grasses, together with a large assortment of roots. While they gather
and eat pine nuts, they generally save them for purposes of barter or
sale. Their carrying baskets contain a good wheelbarrow load and are
called _mo-ke-wit_.
They are great gamblers, their chief game being a guessing contest,
where sides are chosen, the fortune of each side depending on its
ability to guess who holds a certain decorated stick. Men and women
alike play the game, though generally the sexes separate and play by
themselves. Quiet chanting or singing often accompanies the game. All
alike smoke the cigarette.
[Illustration: Dat-so-la-le, the artistic Washoe basket maker]
[Illustration: One of Dat-so-la-le's masterpieces, 'Our Hunters'
design]
[Illustration: 'Our Ancestral Hunters' design]
[Illustration: Washoe baskets made by Dat-so-la-le, 'Happy Homes'
design]
Of their religious beliefs little can be said. The fact is their
simple nature-worship and the superstitions connected with it have
been abolished, practically, by their association with the whites, and
we have given them nothing as substitutes. As Mrs. W.W. Price says in
a letter to me:
In several talks with Susan and Jackson, after the death
of Susan's sister, I endeavored to find out some of their
religious beliefs. But these talks were not very satisfactory.
Neither one knew what he did believe. Their old Indian
religion--whatever it may have been--seemed to have passed,
and the religion of the white man had not taken very deep
hold.
While Susan felt that she must cut her hair short and burn all
her sister's things and do just so much wailing each day to
drive off the evil spirits (on the occasion of her sister's
death), she took most _comfort_ in doing as "white woman"
do--putting on a black dress.
The most interesting result of my talks with Jackson was the
following ghost story, which he told me to show that Indians
sometimes did live again after death. His grandmother had told
him the story and had heard it herself from the man to whom it
had happened. It is as follows: "An Indian woman died,
leaving a little child and her husband. The latter spent the
accustomed four days and nights watching at her grave without
food or drink. On the fourth night the grave suddenly opened
and the woman stepped out before him. 'Give me my child,' said
she. The man said not a word but went quickly and brought the
little child. The woman did not speak but took the child and
suckled it. Then holding it close in her arms, she began to
walk slowly away. The man followed her, but he did not speak.
On, on they went, through forest and meadow, up hill and down
dale.
"By and by the man made a movement as though he would take
hold of her to stop her. But the woman warded him off with a
wave of her hand. 'Touch me not,' she said. 'If you touch me,
you must die too!' She stood and suckled the child once more,
then laid him gently in her husband's arms. 'Go home,' she
said, and faded from his sight.
"Home he went with the child, full of awe and fear.
"A few days afterwards the child died, though there was
nothing the matter with it. The man, however, lived to be very
old."
Jackson was not sure whether he believed this story or not.
But his manner of telling it indicated that it was very real
to him.
Now and again near Tallac one may see one of the dances of the
Washoes. Though war is past with them they still occasionally indulge
in their War Dance and its consequent Scalp Dance. There are not more
than ten or a dozen of the old warriors still living who actually
engaged in warfare in the old days, and these are too old and feeble
to dance. But as the young men sing and throw their arms and limbs
about in the growing frenzy of the arousing dance, and the tom-tom
throbs its stimulating beat through the air, these old men's eyes
flash, and their quavering voices become steady and strong in the
excitement, and they live in the conflicts of the past.
Another of the dances that is still kept up is the Puberty Dance.
Many white people have seen this, but not having any clew to its
significance, it seemed absurd and frivolous. When a girl enters the
door of young womanhood the Washoe idea is to make this an occasion
for developing wiriness, strength, and vigor. Contrary to the method
of the white race, she is made, for four consecutive days, to exert
herself to the utmost. She must walk and climb mountains, ride and
run, and when night comes on the fourth day, she and her mother, and
as many of the tribe as are available, begin to dance at sunset and
keep it up all night. The girl herself is designated by a long and
slim pole which she carries in her hand, and which towers above her
head. By her side stands her mother. The leader of the dance begins a
song, a simple, rhythmic, weird chant, the words of which are archaic
and have no significance to the Indians of to-day, but merely give
syllables to hang the tune upon. As the leader sings he slowly moves
his legs in a kind of oblique walk. The young men take his hand
and follow. The women unite, and a rude circle is made, generally,
however, open, at the place where the dance-leader stands. After once
or twice around, the leader moves first one foot, then the other,
sideways, at the same time jogging his body up and down in fairly
rapid movement, in perfect time to his song. In a few moments all are
bobbing up and down, with the onward side-shuffling movement, and the
real dance is on. This continues according to the will of the leader.
When his voice gives a sudden drawling drop that dance ends. There are
a few minutes for relaxation and breath, and then he lines out a
new song, with new syllables, and a new dance begins. This continues
practically all night, the dance-leader showing his memory power or
his composing genius by the number of new songs he introduces. I have
counted as many as thirty to forty different tunes on one occasion.
Just at sunrise the mother of the girl fetches one or two buckets of
cold water, while the maiden undresses. The water is suddenly dashed
over her "to make her vigorous and strong," and the dance comes to an
end.
This rude and rough treatment, in the early days, was made to have all
the potency and sanctity of a religious rite. The reason for it was
clear. The Washoes were surrounded by people with whom they were
often at war. Indian warfare takes no cognizance of sex or its special
disabilities. In order that their women should not be regarded as
_hors de combat_, or enfeebled, at such times and thus hamper the
movement of the tribe in case a sudden flight was needed, the shamans
or medicine men taught that strength, activity and vigor were just as
possible at that time as any other. "Those Above" commanded that it
be so. Hence all the sanctity and seriousness of a religious rite was
thrown around these dances, and though the Indians of to-day have
lost many of their old customs, this is one that is still rigorously
observed.
Another singular custom that still obtains is where, after the birth
of a first child, the _husband_ and _father_ is required to
fast and work arduously from the day of the birth until the child's
navel shrivels off. This is to make him strong and vigorous, so
that he may be able to give as much strength to his second and later
children as he did to the first.
As soon as a girl matures she is marriageable. Several and simple are
the ways in which a Washoe youth shows his preference and desire
for marriage. Equally simple are the girl's signs of acceptance or
rejection. There is no ceremony as the White Race understands that
term, though to the Indian there is everything that is necessary to
make the rite as binding as it is to his white brother and sister.
Though polygamy has always been practiced, the custom to-day limits
the wives to two, and only a few men have more than one wife. Where
plural wives are taken they are generally sisters. There is little
intermarriage among other tribes. Though it occasionally occurs it is
fiercely frowned upon and all parties are made to feel uncomfortable.
Prostitution with the whites and Chinese is not uncommon, and children
born of such relationship have just as good a standing as those born
in wedlock. The Indian sees no sense in punishing an innocent child
for what it is in no way responsible for. He frankly argues that only
a silly fool of a white man or woman would do so cruel and idiotic a
thing.
Children are invariably welcomed and made much of at birth, though it
is seldom a Washoe woman has more than four or five babies. They are
always nursed by the mother, and not often weaned until they are four
or five years old.
In the early days the labor of the sexes was clearly defined. The man
was the hunter and the warrior, the guardian of the family. The
woman was the gatherer of the seeds, the preparer of the food, the
care-taker of the children. To-day there is not much difference in the
division of labor. The breaking down of all the old customs by contact
with the whites has made men and women alike indifferent to what work
they do so that the family larder and purse are replenished thereby.
In the early days the Washoes were expert hunters of bear and deer.
They used to cross over into the mountains of California for
this purpose, and the women would accompany them. A camp would be
established just below the snow line, and while the men and youths
went out hunting the women gathered acorns. My informant, an old
Indian, was a lad of eighteen at the time of which he spoke. In effect
he said: "One day while I was out I found the tracks of a bear which
I followed to a cave. Then I went to camp. But we Indians are not
like you white men. You would have rushed in and shouted to everybody,
'I've found a bear's track!' Instead I waited until night and when all
the squaws had gone to bed I leisurely told the men who were chatting
around the camp fire. They wished to know if I knew where the cave
was, and of course I assured them I could go directly to it. The next
morning early my uncle quietly aroused me, saying, 'Let's go and get
that bear.' I was scared but had to go. When we arrived he took some
pieces of pitch-pine from his pocket, and lighting them, gave me one,
and told me to stand at the mouth of the cave ready to shoot the
bear, while he went in and drove it out. I didn't like the idea, but I
daren't confess my cowardice, for he at once went in. In a few moments
I heard terrific growlings and roarings and then the bear rushed out.
I banged away and he fell, and I was proud to tell my uncle, when he
came out, that I had killed the bear. 'No, you didn't,' said he; 'your
shots all went wild. Here's the shot that killed him,' and sure enough
it was a shot of a different size from that of my gun."
"Another time when I found a bear in a cave he said, 'You must go in
this time and drive out the bear.' I was sure I couldn't do it, but he
insisted, and thrusting the lighted sticks into my hands bade me crawl
in, keeping my eyes fixed the while, as soon as I saw them, upon those
of the bear. I was to keep my back to the wall, and when I got well
in, was to dash the light behind the bear and give a yell. I crawled
in all right and soon got to where I could just about stand up, but
when I saw the bear and he began to growl I was scared and backed out
pretty quick and said I didn't have light enough. My uncle grabbed the
sticks from me, called me a coward, rushed in, and as the bear dashed
out shot and killed it."
It is generally thought that Indians are good shots, but the testimony
of the hunters of the Tahoe region is that the Washoes are very
poor shots. One hunter tells me he has seen an Indian take as fine
a standing shot as one need desire, again and again, and miss every
time. On one occasion he was hunting deer with an Indian. The latter
had gone up a steep slope, when, suddenly, he began to fire, and kept
it up until fourteen shots were fired. Said he: "I was sure he must
have a bunch of deer and was making a big killing, and hurried up to
his side. When I got there I found he had sent all those shot after
one buck, and had succeeded only in breaking its leg. With one shot
I killed the wounded animal, went up to it and was about to cut its
throat, when he begged me not to do so, asserting that if I cut the
deer's throat that way I should never get a standing shot again, the
deer would always be able to smell me."
This is a quaint superstition. The Indians believe that though the
particular deer be slain it has the power of communicating with living
deer and informing them of the peculiar "smell" of the hunter. Hence,
as in the olden days they had no guns, only bows and arrows, and were
compelled to creep up much nearer to their prey than is needful with
a gun, anything that seemed to add to the deer's power of scenting the
hunter must studiously be avoided.
And, although the gun had rendered the old methods of hunting
unnecessary, this particular precaution still persisted and had all
the force of established custom.
My friend then continued: "Another superstition I found out as I
cleaned this deer. I cut out the paunch, the heart and the liver and
offered them to the Indian. He refused them, saying it was food fit
only for women, children and old men. If he were to eat them he would
never have luck in hunting again."
This superstition is common with many Indian tribes. It is based upon
the idea that one becomes like that which he eats. If one eats the
heart of a mountain-lion or bear he becomes daring and courageous.
But to eat the heart of the timid deer is to make oneself timorous and
cowardly.
As soon after puberty as possible a boy is taken out by his father
or uncle on a hunt. Prior to that time he is not allowed to go. But
before he can eat of the product of the chase he must himself kill a
deer with large enough horns to allow him to crawl through them.
A friend of mine was out with a Washoe Indian whose boy was along
on his first hunting expedition. They hunted a deer for nearly three
days, but as soon as they found tracks the father, after studying them
awhile, said: "This a little fellow. No good. He not big enough"--thus
signifying to his son that his horns were not large enough to allow
him to crawl through, hence it was no use following the animal
further.
The Indian is quite sure that deer can smell him and know when he
is on the hunt. He becomes skillful in detecting and following their
tracks, and knows just how to circle around their hiding-place and
suddenly walk in upon them. My friend, referred to above, who is a
great hunter, was once out with a Washoe. They had had three "bad"
days, when suddenly they found a deer's track. It was fresh, but when
they came to the hole where he had lain down to rest, though the place
was quite warm, the deer had gone. The Indian at once exclaimed: "That
deer smell me. I must get rid of the Indian smell." Accordingly he
scooped out a hole in the ground, heated a number of rocks in it,
then, spreading fir boughs over them, lay down over the rocks and
took a "fir-sweat" for fully ten to fifteen minutes. As he arose he
exclaimed: "Deer no smell me to-morrow," and my friend said he did no
longer smell like an Indian, but like burnt fir wood.
Turning to the Indian, however, he said: "You're all right, but how
about me?" to which the reply instantly came: "You all right. Deer
only smell Indian. He not smell white man."
Chief among the women's work is the making of baskets. The best
Washoe basket makers are not surpassed by any weavers in the world.
At Tallac, Fallen Leaf, Glen Alpine and several other resorts
basket-makers may be found, preparing their splints, weaving or trying
to sell their baskets.
Not far from Tahoe Tavern, about a quarter a mile away in the
direction of Tahoe City, is the little curio store of A. Cohn, whose
headquarters are in Carson City, the capital of the State of Nevada.
Mr. and Mrs. Cohn hold a unique position in their particular field.
Some twenty-five years ago they purchased a beautiful basket from a
Washoe Indian woman, named _Dat-so-la-le_ in Washoe, or Luisa
Keyser in American, for she was the wife of Charley Keyser, a general
roustabout Indian, well known to the citizens of Carson. Luisa was a
large, heavy, more than buxom--literally a fat,--ungainly squaw. But
her fingers were under the perfect control of a remarkably artistic
brain. She was not merely an artist but a genius. She saw exquisite
baskets in her dreams, and had the patience, persistence and
determination to keep on weaving until she was able to reproduce them
in actuality. She also was possessed by an indomitable resolution to
be the maker of the finest baskets of the Washoe tribe. While she was
still a young woman she gained the goal of her ambition, and it was
just about this time that she offered one of her baskets to Mr. Cohn.
He saw it was an excellent basket, that the shape was perfect, the
color-harmony superior to any he had seen before, the stitch small,
fine, and even, the weave generally perfect, the design original and
worked out with artistic ability. He saw all this, yet, because it
was Indian work, and the woman was a rude, coarse mountain of flesh,
a feminine Falstaff, of a lower order of beings and without Falstaff's
geniality and wit, he passed the basket by as merely worth a dollar
or two extra, and placed it side by side with the work of other
Washoe and Paiuti squaws. A Salt Lake dealer came into the store soon
thereafter and saw this basket. "How much?" he asked. The price was
given--rather high thought Mr. Cohn--. "Twenty-five dollars!" "I'll
take it!" came the speedy response.
A month or two later Cohn received a photograph from the purchaser,
accompanied by a letter. "You know the basket, herewith photographed,
which I purchased from you. Have you any more by the same weaver, or
of as good a weave? If so, how many, and at what price? Wire reply at
my expense."
Then Mr. Cohn awoke, and he's been awake ever since. He wired his
list of Dat-so-la-le's baskets, but he has had no reply, and that was
twenty-five years ago. He then made arrangements with Dat-so-la-le
and her husband. He provides them house, food, clothing and a certain
amount of cash yearly, and he takes all the work Luisa makes. Every
basket as soon as begun is noted as carefully as every breeding of a
thoroughbred horse or dog. Also the date the basket is finished. It
is then numbered and photographed and either offered for sale at a
certain price, which is never changed, or is put in the safety-deposit
vault of the bank, to await the time when such aboriginal masterpieces
will be eagerly sought after by the growingly intelligent and
appreciative of our citizens, for their museums or collections, as
specimens of work of a people--the first American families--who will
then, possibly, have passed away. The photographs, here reproduced,
are of some of Dat-so-la-le's finest work.
[Illustration: Susie, the Washoe indian basket maker, and narrator
of indian legends]
[Illustration: Jackson, the Washoe indian, telling traditions of
his people about Lake Tahoe and Fallen Leaf Lake]
[Illustration: Lake Tahoe near Tahoe Tavern, looking south]