ON A CATTLE RANCH NEAR THE COSUMNE RIVER--"NAME BILLY"--INDIAN GRUB
FEAST.
We left the Fort and grandma's house far behind, and still rode on and
on. The day was warm, the wild flowers were gone, and the plain was
yellow with ripening oats which rustled noisily as we passed through,
crowding and bumping their neighborly heads together. Yet it was not a
lonesome way, for we passed elk, antelope, and deer feeding, with
pretty little fawns standing close to their mothers' sides. There were
also sleek fat cattle resting under the shade of live oak trees, and
great birds that soared around overhead casting their shadows on the
ground. As we neared the river, smaller birds of brighter colors could
be heard and seen in the trees along the banks where the water flowed
between, clear and cold.
All these things my sister pointed out to me as we passed onward. It
was almost dark before we came in sight of the adobe ranch house. We
were met on the road by a pack of Indian dogs, whose fierce looks and
savage yelping made me tremble, until I got into the house where they
could not follow.
The first weeks of my stay on the ranch passed quickly. Elitha and I
were together most of the time. She made my new dress and a doll
which, was perfection in my eyes, though its face was crooked, and its
pencilled hair was more like pothooks than curls. I did not see much of
her husband, because in the mornings he rode away early to direct his
Indian cattle-herders at the _rodeos_, or to oversee other ranch work,
and I was often asleep when he returned nights.
The pinto colt he had promised me was, as Leanna had said, "big enough
to kick, but too small to ride," and I at once realized that my
anticipated visits could not be made as planned.
Occasionally, men came on horseback to stay a day or two, and before
the summer was over, a young couple with a small baby moved into one
part of our house. We called them Mr. and Mrs. Packwood and Baby
Packwood. The mother and child were company for my sister, while the
husbands talked continually of ranches, cattle, hides, and tallow, so I
was free to roam around by myself.
In one of my wanderings I met a sprightly little Indian lad, whose face
was almost as white as my own. He was clad in a blue and white shirt
that reached below his knees. Several strings of beads were around his
neck, and a small bow and arrow in his hand. We stopped and looked at
each other; were pleased, yet shy about moving onward or speaking. I,
being the larger, finally asked,
"What's your name?"
To my great delight, he answered, "Name, Billy."
While we were slowly getting accustomed to each other, a good-natured
elderly squaw passed. She wore a tattered petticoat, and buttons,
pieces of shell, and beads of bird bones dangled from a string around
her neck. A band of buckskin covered her forehead and was attached to
strips of rawhide, which held in place the water-tight basket hanging
down her back. Billy now left me for her, and I followed the two to
that part of our yard where the tall ash-hopper stood, which ever after
was like a story book to me.
The squaw set the basket on the ground, reached up, and carefully
lifted from a board laid across the top of the hopper, several pans of
clabbered milk, which she poured into the basket. Instead of putting
the pans back, she tilted them up against the hopper, squatted down in
front and with her slim forefinger, scraped down the sides and bottom
of each pan so that she and Billy could scoop up and convey to their
mouths, by means of their three crooked fingers, all that had not gone
into the basket. Then she licked her improvised spoon clean and dry;
turned her back to her burden; replaced the band on her forehead; and
with the help of her stick, slowly raised herself to her feet and
quietly walked away, Billy after her.
Next day I was on watch early. My kind friend, the choreman, let me go
with him when he carried the lye from the hopper to the soap fat
barrel. Then he put more ashes on the hopper and set the pans of milk
in place for the evening call of Billy and his companion.
[Illustration: PAPOOSES IN BICKOOSES]
[Illustration: SUTTER'S MILL, WHERE MARSHALL DISCOVERED GOLD, JANUARY
19, 1848]
He pointed out the _rancheria_ by the river where the Indian herders
lived with others of their tribe, among them, Billy and his mother.
He also informed me that the squaws took turns in coming for the milk,
and that Billy came as often as he got the chance; that he was a nice
little fellow, who had learned a few English words from his white papa,
who had gone off and left him.
Billy and I might never have played together as we did, if my
brother-in-law had not taken his wife to San Francisco and left me in
the care of Mr. and Mrs. Packwood. Their chief aim in life was to
please their baby. She was a dear little thing when awake, but the
house had to be kept very still while she slept, and they would raise a
hand and say, "Hu-sh!" as they left me, and together tip-toed to the
cradle to watch her smile in her sleep. I had their assurance that they
would like to let me hold her if her little bones were not so soft that
I might break them.
They were never unkind or cross to me. I had plenty to eat, and clean
clothes to wear, but they did not seem to realize how I yearned for
some one to love. So I went to Mr. Choreman. He told me about the
antelope that raced across the ranch before I was up; of the elk, deer,
bear, and buffalo he had shot in his day; and of beaver, otter, and
other animals that he had trapped along the rivers. Entranced with his
tales I became as excited as he, while listening to the dangers he had
escaped.
One day he showed me a little chair which I declared was the cunningest
thing I had ever seen. It had a high, straight back, just like those in
the house, only that it was smaller. The seat was made of strips of
rawhide woven in and out so that it looked like patchwork squares. He
let me sit on it and say how beautiful it was, before telling me that
he had made it all for me. I was so delighted that I jumped up, clasped
it in my arms and looked at him in silent admiration. I do not believe
that he could understand how rich and grateful I felt, although he
shook his head saying, "You are not a bit happier than I was while
making it for you, nor can you know how much good it does me to have
you around."
Gradually, Billy spent more time near the ranch house, and learned many
of my kind of words, and I picked up some of his. Before long, he
discovered that he could climb up on the hopper, and then he helped me
up. But I could not crook my fingers into as good a spoon as he did
his, and he got more milk out of the pan than I.
We did not think any one saw us, yet the next time we climbed up, we
found two old spoons stuck in a crack, in plain sight. After we got
through using them, I wiped them on my dress skirt and put them back.
Later, I met Mr. Choreman, who told me that he had put the spoons there
because I was too nice a little girl to eat as Billy did, or to dip out
of the same pan. I was ashamed and promised not to do so again, nor to
climb up there with him.
As time passed, I watched wistfully for my sister's return, and thought
a great deal about the folks at grandma's. I tried to remember all that
had happened while I was there, and felt sure they were waiting for me
to pay the promised visit. A great longing often made me rush out
behind a large tree near the river, where no one could see or hear me
feel sorry for myself, and where I would wonder if God was taking care
of the others and did not know where I lived.
I still feel the wondrous thrill, and bid my throbbing heart beat
slower, when I recall the joy that tingled through every part of my
being on that evening when, unexpectedly, Leanna and Georgia came to
the door. Yet, so short-lived was that joy that the event has always
seemed more like a disquieting dream than a reality; for they came at
night and were gone in the morning, and left me sorrowing.
A few months ago, I wrote to Georgia (now Mrs. Babcock), who lives in
the State of Washington, for her recollections of that brief reunion,
and she replied:
Before we went to Sonoma with Grandma Brunner in the Fall of 1847,
Leanna and I paid you a visit. We reached your home at dusk. Mr.
McCoon and Elitha were not there. We were so glad to meet, but our
visit was too short. You and I were given a cup of bread and milk
and sent to bed. Leanna ate with the grown folks, who, upon learning
that we had only come to say good-bye, told her we must for your
sake get away before you awoke next morning. We arose and got
started early, but had only gone a short distance when we heard your
pitiful cry, begging us to take you with us. Leanna hid her face in
her apron, while a man caught you and carried you back. I think she
cried all the way home. It was so hard to part from you.
Mr. Packwood carried me into the house, and both he and his wife felt
sorry for me. My head ached and the tears would come as often as any
one looked at me. Mrs. Packwood wet a piece of brown paper, laid it on
my forehead, and bade me lie on my bed until I should feel better. I
could not eat or play, and even Mr. Choreman's bright stories had lost
their charm.
"Come look, see squaw, papoose! Me go, you go?" exclaimed Billy
excitedly one soft gray morning after I had regained my spirits. I
turned in the direction he pointed and saw quite a number of squaws
trudging across an open flat with babies in bickooses, and larger
children scampering along at various paces, most of them carrying
baskets.
With Mrs. Packwood's permission, Billy and I sped away to join the
line. I had never been granted such a privilege before, and had no idea
what it all meant.
As we approached the edge of the marsh, the squaws walked more slowly,
with their eyes fixed upon the ground. Every other moment some of them
would be down, digging in the earth with forefinger or a little stick,
and I soon learned they were gathering bulbs about a quarter of an inch
in thickness and as large around as the smaller end of a woman's
thimble. I had seen the plants growing near the pond at the fort, but
now the bulbs were ripe, and were being gathered for winter use. In
accordance with the tribal custom, not a bulb was eaten during harvest
time. They grew so far apart and were so small that it took a long
while to make a fair showing in the baskets.
When no more bulbs could be found, the baskets were put on the ground
in groups, and the mothers carefully leaned their bickooses against
them in such positions that the wide awake papooses could look out from
under their shades and smile and sputter at each other in quaint Indian
baby-talk; and the sleeping could sleep on undisturbed.
That done, the squaws built a roaring fire, and one of them untied a
bundle of hardwood sticks which she had brought for the purpose, and
stuck them around under the fuel in touch with the hottest parts of the
burning mass. When the ends glowed like long-lasting coals, the waiting
crowd snatched them from their bed and rushed into the low thicket
which grew in the marsh. I followed with my fire-brand, but, not
knowing what to do with it, simply watched the Indians stick theirs
into the bushes, sometimes high up, sometimes low down. I saw them
dodge about, and heard their shouts of warning and their peals of
laughter. Then myriads of hornets came buzzing and swarming about. This
frightened me so that I ran back to where the brown babies were cooing
in safety.
Empty-handed, but happy, they at length returned, and though I could
not understand anything they were saying, their looks and actions
betokened what a good time they had had.
Years later, I described the scene to Elitha, who assured me that I had
been highly favored by those Indians for they had permitted me to
witness their annual "Grub Feast." The Piutes always use burning fagots
to drive hornets and other stinging insects from their nests, and they
also use heat in opening the comb cells so that they can easily remove
the larvae, which they eat without further preparation.
With the first cold snaps of winter, my feet felt the effect of former
frost bites, and I was obliged to spend most of my time within doors.
Fortunately Baby Packwood had grown to be quite a frolicsome child. She
was fond of me, and her bones had hardened so that there was no longer
danger of my breaking them when I lifted her or held her on my lap. Her
mother had also discovered that I was anxious to be helpful, pleased
when given something to do, and proud when my work was praised.
I was quite satisfied with my surroundings, when, unexpectedly, Mr.
McCoon brought my sister back, and once more we had happy times
together.