THE INDIANS--GEN. SHERMAN--KIT CARSON, ETC.
At Fort Garland, in San Louis Park, Sept 21st, Gov. Cumming, Gen.
Sherman, and the famous Kit Carson (then Bv't. Brig. Gen. U. S.
Vols.), met in council, concerning the Utes and the Indian question
generally. Sherman, as elsewhere intimated, was then in the midst of
a long tour by ambulance, through the heart of the Indian country
embraced in his then Military Division, and as he had already
travelled about 1200 miles, with no escort except a couple of
staff-officers and the necessary teamsters, without seeing a hostile
Red Skin, he was getting to be somewhat skeptical on the whole Indian
subject. The grand Treaty with the Utes was to come off Sept. 22d
and 23d on the banks of the Rio Grande, some thirty miles northwest
from Fort Garland; but as Sherman had decided to leave Garland on the
22d for his return east _via_ the Arkansas, a preliminary council
was called at Fort Garland on the 21st. Runners had been sent out a
day or two before, and the Big Chiefs of the Utes kept arriving all
that day. The council was held late in the afternoon, in a large room
back of the commandant's quarters. The chiefs were grouped on one
side of the room, squat upon their haunches, grave and dignified;
while on the other sat Sherman in loose uniform, puffing a cigar,
with Gov. Cumming on one side and Kit Carson on the other. Carson
served as interpreter, speaking Mexican well, which the chiefs mostly
understood. After some preliminary skirmishing, Sherman said he had
called them together to ascertain whether the Utes were willing to
quit their nomadic life and settle down on a Reservation. He urged
this upon them, as their true interest, if they wished to maintain
their tribal existence, and said he had only come among them to
promote their happiness and welfare. He added, he had recently been
visiting many other tribes with the same object and purposes, and as
a friend to their race was convinced their only hope for the future
lay in going on a Reservation. The chiefs debated the matter among
themselves for awhile, and presently made answer, that they thanked
the Big Warrior for his suggestions and approved them; but that their
young men were opposed to such a policy, and they feared it would be
difficult to persuade the Utes of its wisdom, until the Cheyennes
and Comanches--their hereditary foes--had first adopted it. The
council lasted an hour or more, with much skillful fencing and adroit
diplomacy on the part of Ooray and Ancantash, the head-chiefs; but
this was the substance of all that Sherman could worm out of them. He
tried to explain and reason with them in various ways, but at last
broke up the council in disgust, and blurted out in his peculiar way,
as he strode back to his quarters, "They will have to freeze and
starve a little more, I reckon, before they will listen to common
sense!" Subsequently he told us of a council that he had held about a
fortnight or so before, at Fort Laramie or somewhere up there, with
the Arrapahoes or the Sioux. He had urged upon the chiefs, that their
white brothers were opposed to war and desired peace, and he hoped
there would be no more bloodshed in that region between the Red Man
and the Pale Face. The chiefs presently replied, with a wariness
worthy of Talleyrand, that they reciprocated his Quaker sentiments,
and would do all in their power to enforce them; but that their young
men were rash and fiery sometimes, and it might be difficult to hold
them in. "Well, then," said Sherman to the interpreter, firing up,
"Tell the rascals so are _mine_; and if another white man is scalped
in all this region, it will be _impossible_ to hold _mine_ in." The
chiefs saw the point, and no doubt sagely concluded they would have
trouble, if ever they got Tecumseh Sherman fairly after them.
The grand Treaty with the Utes came off, as I have said, on Sept.
22d and 23d, on the banks of the Rio Grande, some thirty miles or so
northwest from Fort Garland. We left Garland early in the morning
by ambulance, and reached the treaty ground soon after noon. Gov.
Cumming and Indian Agent Hunt had preceded us, and on arriving we
found them just sitting down to discuss a Rio Grande trout, nearly as
large as an eastern shad. The Utes had pitched their lodges a mile or
so away, in a bend of the river, but they were constantly passing to
and fro on horseback and afoot. Apparently none of them ever walked,
if he could afford the luxury of a pony, and often one puny pony was
made to carry two or three lubberly fellows at a time. Evidently the
Plains Indians are as averse to walking, as the traditional Texan,
who is said never to leave his door-sill without mounting a mustang.
These Ute ponies are hardy, sagacious little fellows, some of them
very handsome, and are of course, the lineal descendants of the wild
horses of the Plains. Ooray, their head chief, rode a bright little
bay, that would have taken a first-class premium almost anywhere. Of
course, they get no grain, but subsist exclusively on grass. They
constitute their owners' chief wealth, and a Ute will part with
almost anything sooner than his pony. Braves, squaws, papooses, all
ride astride, and generally at a gallop. They seldom use the spur,
but rarely mount without a whip, and this they keep going pretty
steadily while on the road. Their saddles are rude affairs of wood,
with very short stirrups; but their bridles are better made, and
usually have some kind of an iron bit, if at all obtainable.
In the course of the afternoon, hundreds of the Indians thronged
our little camp, in all varieties of costume, though chiefly in
breech-cloth and blanket or buffalo-robe. Both sexes dress much
alike, and at first it was difficult to distinguish one from the
other, though you soon came to know the squaws from their smaller
stature. The paraphernalia of some of them was ludicrous in the
extreme. One young buck had managed to secure an old-style artillery
hat, with long scarlet horsehair plume, and a dilapidated white
shirt; and as he strutted about in these (only these and nothing
more!) considered himself wholly _en regle_. Another, the princess
and beauty of the tribe, a dirty belle of seventeen, resplendent in
paint and feathers, was arrayed in much gorgeousness of beads and
buckskin, and whiffed her cigarritos by the hour together. During the
morning she had ridden her thirty miles, man-fashion, with the chiefs
from Fort Garland, and in the afternoon she lolled about camp in
magnificent indolence. Her laugh was rich and musical, and she seemed
indeed quite a pet with the tribe.
The afternoon was passed in preliminary arrangements for the Treaty,
and towards evening a number of us walked over to the Indian village
to return our calls. We found it to consist of perhaps three hundred
wigwams, arranged pretty regularly in streets, and containing in
all some twelve hundred souls. The wigwams or lodges were made of
skins and hides, stretched over circularly inclined poles--rude
originals evidently of our army Sibley tents--with an opening at the
top for the smoke to escape through. At the door were planted their
spears or lances, and shields; inside, on skins or blankets, the
braves were fast asleep or playing cards; without, the youngsters
were playing ball or practicing with the bow and arrows. We wandered
through the streets until nightfall, striking up a talk or barter
in our broken Ute the best we could, and had some interesting
experiences. Just then the village was all agog with excitement and
joy. The day before, their Agent had given them several beeves,
which they had at once slaughtered and partly eaten; the surplus
was now hanging all about on lariats and poles, curing in the dry
atmosphere. "Jerked-beef," I suppose, our Plains-men would call
it. A flock of sheep had also been given them, and the squaws were
now busy "corraling" these, as we happened along. A few refractory
ewes refused to enter the corral--a slight enclosure of brush--and
these were being hotly pursued by the boy-braves and dogs. The
dogs headed them off on all sides, while the boys lassoed them one
after another, until the squaws came up and caught them. It was
fine practice for the lasso, and the youngsters seemed to enjoy it
greatly. Dogs abounded everywhere. Each wigwam seemed to have a
goodly supply, and the village at large a brigade besides. They were
small wolfish-looking curs, as a rule, and the most vociferous and
incessant yelpers I ever listened to. They had no regular bark--only
a wild yelp, like their savage ancestors, the cayotes of the Plains.
It is only the civilized dog, that "bays deep-mouthed welcome"--that
has a full, open "bark"--and this he loses when he relapses to
savagery again. There was no moving anywhere about the village,
without having a score or more of them yelping at your heels; but
this seemed to be the extent of their hostile intentions. When they
became rather noisier than usual, some passing squaw would dash at
them with a stick and a shower of "God dams," and that would scatter
them for the time. Most of our Indians have all learned to swear the
rough oaths of the Border, and always swear in English, as they have
no corresponding words in their own language. In describing cavalry,
they put the thumb and forefinger of one hand on the palm of the
other, and then move them along in imitation of a gallop. In speaking
of ox-trains, they stretch out their arms, and say, "Whoa-Haw! Git!"
But when they come to mule-teams, they invariably speak of them as
"God dams! Go 'long!" because of the copious oaths our teamsters hurl
at them. Indeed, the average Indian always speaks of the donkey, as a
"God dam," and thinks that the correct name. These Utes in general,
I must say, seemed to be much more thrifty and comfortable than we
had anticipated, though doubtless some of this was due to the recent
generous issue of supplies by the Agent.
Our party scattered pretty well through the village, one after
another halting to palaver with acquaintances we had picked up;
but as it grew dark, we gradually drifted together and prepared to
return. Dr. M. was still bargaining with a chief for a fancy shield
he wanted as a souvenir, when the rest began moving off, and begged
me to wait a minute until he was through. Several minutes passed by,
and then his bargaining ended in failure--the Big Chief refusing
to "swop"--their universal word for selling or trading. Then we
started to overtake the rest, but they had passed out of view in
the deepening twilight, and though we hallooed to them could get no
answer--the hubbub of the village evidently drowning our voices.
Emerging from the wigwams, we soon discovered, that neither of us
had taken any proper notes of the landmarks, as we came over, being
busy talking with the rest, and consequently neither knew the way
back. Here was a pretty predicament, surely, for two ambitious
young men--cast away in a village of a thousand savages, unable to
speak a sentence of their language intelligibly or they ours, night
already come, and no hint of how to extricate ourselves. To make it
doubly absurd, we presently discovered, that our only belligerent
weapons, whether for offence or defence, consisted of a Rogers'
penknife apiece. We had been so remiss, as to leave camp without our
revolvers--a precaution that no Mountain or Plains-man ever neglects.
While pondering the "situation," we luckily caught sight of the
Sierra Blanca glistening in the moonlight, and as we knew this to be
southeast of our camp we concluded our route lay toward it. We set
off accordingly, and had made perhaps a quarter of a mile, across
sloughs now dry and through the rank grass, when one of us suggested,
that we could not be going right, or our camp-fires would appear.
This seemed reasonable, the country was so level; so a halt was
ordered, while we scanned the horizon for fires elsewhere. Presently
far away to the left, we descried a fire blazing loftily up, and
concluded this must be ours, and that our comrades had put on extra
fuel to guide us the better home. The direction seemed wrong, judging
by the position of the Sierra Blanca; but as it was the only fire
visible, except those at the Indian village, we concluded it must be
ours, and changing our course struck for it accordingly. A trudge
of a mile or more, with an occasional tumble into a dry slough, at
length brought us to the fire, when to our disappointment we found
it to be only the camp-fire of two rough-looking customers, who said
they were out "prospecting" for mines. They said they had reached
there just at nightfall, from a long trip through the Mountains, and
as yet had seen nothing of our camp, and of course knew nothing of
its whereabouts. Two Utes were squatted before the fire, who they
said had just rode over from the village, and we asked one of the
men, who had been talking with them in Mexican, to inquire the way
to "Kit Carson's Camp" for us. He did so, and the Indians jumping up
responded, they would conduct us there. We thought now we were in
luck, surely, and thanking the miners for their kindness prepared
to follow our copper-colored friends. Unloosing a little pony, that
was picketed near by, they both clambered upon him, and then with
grunts and mutterings to each other, of which we only understood an
occasional "God dam," they rode along ahead for perhaps a quarter of
a mile, when suddenly they turned round on the pony without stopping,
chattered and gibbered away at us for a minute or two like monkeys,
and then with a wild whoop, that for a moment quite dazed us,
galloped wildly off toward the Indian village.
We were now worse off than ever, and our affairs were evidently
coming to a crisis. Of course, we halted again, and called another
"council of war." M. advised going back to the miners' camp-fire, and
trusting our fortunes for the night with them. I objected that we
knew nothing about them; that they were suspicious looking customers
anyhow--hadn't the air of genuine miners; and suggested that we camp
down where we were, on the banks of a bayou, as there was plenty of
dry wood there for a fire, and when morning came we would hunt up
the Rio Grande, and follow it down to our lost camp. He assented
to this, but on reflection I further suggested, whether it wouldn't
be better, after all, to go boldly into the Indian village, and
govern ourselves by circumstances. We knew Ooray and Ancantash, the
head chiefs, and why not ask for them? If we could find _them_, our
troubles would be over. If we couldn't, at the worst, we could claim
the hospitality of some other chieftain, and quarter for the night
in a Ute wigwam. I urged that the Indians already knew where we were
anyhow, and also knew that we were unarmed and lost; that it would
be disagreeable to hear their arrows whizzing around us there, or
perhaps be scalped and tossed into the bayou before morning; and
that, in short, I would risk the Utes, if he would. M. approved the
plan, as the best we could do under such dismal circumstances; so off
we trudged again for the Indian village, which by that time we were
beginning to wish we had never seen. We tried to keep our courage
up by discussing Mark Tapley, and his philosophy of the "jolly;"
but the result could hardly be called a success. Perhaps the two
braves who had so suddenly deserted us, with such unearthly whoops,
were lying in wait for us somewhere ahead! Perhaps the next step we
would hear an arrow whiz by, or over us--perchance _through_ us!
Nevertheless, I remember also a ludicrous feeling at the idea--after
escaping unscathed from the rebellion--of falling ignominiously
there, on the banks of the Del Norte, by the hand of a Ute, with only
a pocket-knife to defend myself with!
However, we proceeded cautiously forward, with many a halt and
"hist," and presently without molestation reached the village again.
The dogs, of course, challenged our approach with a multitudinous
yelping, as before: but some friendly squaws appeared, and soon
dispersed them with a copious shower of "God dams." Approaching a
lodge in which we saw a number of Indians reclining around a fire, we
tried to make them understand, that we were lost and wanted to find
the way to "Kit Carson's Camp;" but met with the same poor success as
before. Then we inquired for Ooray and Ancantash, but they either did
not comprehend, or else were unwilling to bother with us, as their
only answer was a grunt--"Ugh"--or a stare. Evidently, on reflection,
they concluded we were _bores_, for they soon resumed their pipes,
and the low drawling song they were crooning when we entered. We
tried two or three more lodges, with the same result, and had about
made up our minds to camp down for the night, where we were, when
M. suggested that we try one more wigwam, and if we failed there to
give it up. This seemed almost providential; for as we entered the
lodge-door, up sprang a lithe young chief, whom we had met during the
day, and came smiling toward us with the greeting, "How, Gen-e-ral!
How, Doc-tor! Know me? Me, Wellington!" (_How_ is all the Indian
has learned yet of How do you do? or How are you?) Greasy and dirty
as the fellow was, we could have hugged him with delight; for now
we knew our troubles were all over. We answered him, "O yes! Know
Wellington, of course! In our wigwam to-day! But lost now! No find
wigwam! Kit Carson's Camp?" He comprehended our lingo, and "the
situation," in a moment, and quickly replied, "Yes! Wellington go!"
and then, with an eye to the main chance, shrewdly added, "How much?"
We answered, "Two paint, and some tobacco." He held up three fingers,
and bargainingly responded, "Three paint, and 'baccy a heap?" By
"paint" he meant little packages of Indian paint--blue, vermillion,
yellow--such as some in camp had brought along for barter, and
we readily acceded to his terms. As it was growing late, he asked
another young buck to go along, who demanded the same terms, which
of course we cheerfully granted. Then they took up their bows and
arrows, drew their blankets around their shoulders, and bidding the
rest "_bueno noche_" we moved off.
We soon observed, that they were conducting us toward the Sierra
Blanca, in the same direction that we took originally. We questioned
Wellington about this, but he persisted it was right; and so we
pushed on, though not without some misgivings. A half hour or so,
however, brought us safely to camp, where we found our friends
discussing our absence, and wondering what had become of us. We
cautioned each other to say nothing about our adventure; but the joke
was too good to keep, and the facts all came out in the course of the
evening, as we sat around the camp-fire and smoked our fatigue away.
However tame it may read now, it was exciting and romantic enough at
the time, and I record it here for the moral involved, to wit: 1.
Mind your topography, on leaving camp; 2. Never quit camp, without
your rifle or revolver!
Of course, we paid Wellington and his friend their paint and tobacco,
and dismissed them with hearty thanks. We won their hearts by
inviting them both to lunch next day, and continued fast friends
during the rest of our stay there.
The next day (Sept. 23d) having been set apart for the Treaty,
Indians of both sexes and all ages at an early hour began to swarm
through our encampment. All, of course, were naturally on hand, to
hear the Big Talk and share the many presents. The chiefs and braves
were there first, gorgeous in paint and feathers; but long before
the Council assembled, the poor squaws also arrived, freighted with
their papooses. The spot selected was a sloping sward on the banks
of the Rio Grande, and but a short distance therefrom. Blankets were
spread on the grass for the Commissioners and head chiefs: the young
chiefs and braves formed a rude circle around these; and beyond these
still were the women and children. The four leading men seemed to
be Ooray, _Arrow_, Sha-wa-she-wit, _Blue Flower_, Ancantash, and
Chi-chis-na-sau-no, also abbreviated into Shauno. The head chief of
the tribe, and the finest looking Indian we had yet seen, was Ooray.
He was a medium sized, athletic looking man, of about forty, with as
fine an eye and head, as you will see anywhere. Moreover, he was very
neat and clean in his person, as if he believed in the saving virtues
of soap and water--something wonderful for a Red Skin. Two or three
years before, he had made the tour of Washington and the East, and
to-day wore the handsome silver medal, that President Lincoln then
gave him. Kit Carson said he had made good use of this eastern trip,
and being already a rising man, the knowledge and experience then
acquired had since raised him to the king-ship, notwithstanding his
want of age--several of the chiefs being older, but none so shrewd as
he. The head-warrior, however, was Ancantash, and he was certainly
one of the coolest and bravest looking men I ever met. He was a
reticent, reflective, but very observant man, with many of the calm
characteristics of our own Grant, and no doubt is quite as desperate
and obstinate a fighter in his small way. Kit Carson cited instances
of his prowess, that showed supreme manhood and courage; but there is
not room for them here. Shauno, taller and more dignified, had a face
and form much like Tecumseh's, and altogether was about as fine a
looking specimen of the savage as history makes mention of.
The Council opened, as usual, with a general smoke, the pipe being
passed for a whiff or two from one to another all around, and then
Gov. Cumming proceeded to address his copper-colored friends. He
said the Great Father at Washington had made him Big Agent for
Colorado[8], and as such he had come down from Denver, to bring
them their annual presents, hear their grievances, if any, and have
a general talk about their future welfare. This was interpreted by
Kit Carson into Mexican, with profuse pantomime, after the Indian
fashion, and then reinterpreted by Ooray into Ute for the benefit
of his red brethren. It was received with a general grunt of
satisfaction all round, and then Ooray replied:
"Good! Let the Big Chief speak on!"
"Our Father at Washington has many children, both white and red, and
the Great Spirit bids him regard all alike. He has watched his red
children, the Utes, a long time, and generally found them peaceable and
friendly. Therefore, he loves them very much, and is pained to see them
diminishing in numbers from year to year. He thinks this is because
of their wars with other tribes, and increasing scarcity of game, and
believes if they would settle down in one place, like his pale-face
children, they would be much better off. Then they could raise cattle,
and sheep, and barley, and have comfort and plenty always."
To which, Ooray:
"True! So; a heap! Utes got plenty now. Hunt give. But soon all gone,
and then Utes starve a heap. Long time ago, Utes always had plenty.
On the prairie, antelope and buffalo, so many Ooray can't count.
In the mountains, deer and bear, everywhere. In the streams, trout,
duck, beaver, everything. Good Manitou gave all to red man; Utes
happy all the year. White man came, and now Utes go hungry a heap.
Game much go every year--hard to shoot now. Old man often weak for
want of food. Squaw and papoose cry. Only strong brave live. White
man grow a heap; Red man no grow--soon die all."
To which, Gov. C.:
"Our Great Father knows all this, and it grieves him very much. But
he can think of no way to remedy it, except by the Utes quitting
their wandering life, and settling down on a Reservation. If they
will do this, and will stop fighting the Cheyennes and Comanches, he
will have a good Reservation set apart for them, with water, wood,
and grass in abundance. He will give them cattle, sheep, seeds, and
implements. And he will send good white men among them, to teach
them farming, etc. By this means, the Utes will soon have houses and
fields, flocks and herds, the same as white men, and all will be
better off and happier."
To which, Ooray:
"Yes! So! Much true! Ooray and Big-Chief understand, and know Utes
must go on Reservation some day--raise beef, pony, and barley--or
perish. But young braves no understand; hard to make 'em. Some, too,
say, if Utes go on Reservation, Cheyennes and Comanches--enemies
of Utes always--will know where to find. Then some night, when
Utes all asleep, will come like a squaw and kill a heap. Utes hate
Cheyenne--Comanche--God dam!"
"But our Great Father will prevent that. He will build forts, and
station his blue coats near you, and they will keep off the Cheyennes
and Comanches."
When this was interpreted to Ooray, for the first time he lost his
savage dignity, and laughed outright. When he reinterpreted it to the
Utes, there was a general chorus of laughter, which lasted several
minutes. Evidently, they had little respect for the average soldier
of the Plains, whether infantry or cavalry. Presently, however, Ooray
recovering his dignity replied:
"Why don't our Great Father's blue-coats keep off the Cheyennes
and Comanches some now? Last snow the Comanches came right by the
forts, found the Utes in one place, and killed many. Utes killed
Comanches back a heap. Now Utes move about much--hunt buffalo on the
prairie--build wigwam in the mountains--fish in Del Norte. Utes stop
not in one place, and Comanches no find. But Utes settle down; then
Comanches come and kill. Tell Great Father, Cheyennes and Comanches
go on Reservation _first_; then Utes will. But Comanches first."
This was about the same answer substantially, that they had given Gen.
Sherman down at Fort Garland; and with all his diplomacy, Gov. C. could
not extract more from them. There was a deal of good common sense in
it, too--the instinct of self-preservation--and the governor could
not help admitting this, much as he desired to enforce the views of
the Government. He rehashed his arguments, and presented them anew in
various ways; but to all of them, Ooray steadily made answer:
"Ooray has spoken!" And there the matter ended.
Subsequently, after some considerable talk with his brother chiefs,
Ooray resumed:
"Suppose Utes go on Reservation, and bad pale-face come and shoot
Indian; what will our Great Father do then?"
"Why," answered Gov. C., "Our Great Father will have him arrested
and tried in his courts; and, if found guilty, will hang him. If the
Great Father's own brother, he would hang him all the same."
Ooray had great difficulty in understanding this. Gen. Carson had to
repeat and explain it a number of times, before he could comprehend
what a court and jury were, and even then he seemed somewhat dazed.
Doubtless he found it hard to believe, that we would hang any white man
for killing an Indian, let alone our Great Father's brother, after what
he had seen and heard of law and justice on the border. But after much
questioning back and forth, he appeared to catch some glimpse of the
idea, and after pondering it awhile, sorrowfully answered:
"Yes! So! Ooray comprehend! Much good! But my people no comprehend.
No make them now."
He seemed to think there was no use, in even trying to get such an
idea into their heads, and communicated to them some short answer,
which apparently satisfied them.
Again, after much deliberation, he warily asked:
"Suppose pale-face steal pony from red-man, what will Great Father do?"
To which Gov. C.:
"He will compel the pale-face to restore the pony. And if the thief
can't be found, and his red children prove their loss, the Great
Father will pay for it in goods or money."
This seemed to give great satisfaction, when he first interpreted it;
but presently the chiefs became excited, and a hot discussion spread
among them. Kit Carson said, as well as he could make out, they
were canvassing among themselves, whether on the same principle the
government would not compel them to restore or pay for what _they_
stole from the whites; and as their thefts were evidently much the
larger, they speedily directed Ooray to dodge this question, without
further talk.
There was some other desultory conversation, and much repetition
necessarily; but the above is about the substance of it all. The
council lasted two or three hours, and finally wound up with a
dignified expression of thanks by Ooray, for the interest the Great
Father and Gov. C. took in them. This was followed by a general
expression of "Bueno! Bueno!"[9] by the rest of the Indians, and
so the pow-wow ended. The governor managed his side of the affair
with much shrewdness and ability, but failed to secure the positive
pledges the government so much desired. On the other hand, Ooray
certainly conducted himself with great dignity and good sense, for
an "untutored savage," and fully realized our old-time notions of an
Indian chieftain. Should he live, he will yet make a figure among
the Indians, and go down to history as a Logan or a Red-Jacket. His
trip to Washington, he told me, convinced him, it was idle for his
people to contend with the pale-faces, and his counsels were always
for peace and civilization. Subsequently, some months afterwards,
when the Utes rose in hostilities against his advice, he deliberately
repaired to Fort Garland and gave himself up, refusing to have
anything to do with the tribe, until they laid down their arms again.
All honor and praise to this dusky son of the Plains and Mountains!
After the council broke up, there came a grand distribution of
presents, the most sensible of which were a flock of sheep and a small
herd of cattle. The balance amounted to but little in a practical point
of view, though the Utes of course were delighted with their beads,
paint, scarlet blankets, gilt trinkets, etc. The Agents seemed to deal
fairly and honestly by their savage wards, and I doubt not Mr. Hunt
(since Gov. of Colorado) did his duty in the premises very faithfully.
During the day, and indeed most of the time we were there, there
was considerable bartering going on between some of us and the
Indians, though in a petty way. We were eager for Indian relics and
trophies, to send East as souvenirs, and they were equally eager
for some articles we possessed; so that barter was not difficult.
Neither party knew much, if any, of the language of the other, but
the bargaining went steadily on for all that. The Utes came into
camp, with such articles as they wished to dispose of. If we desired
them and had anything to exchange, we laid it on the ground, and
then--pointing to the Indian articles--uttered the classic word
"Swop?" If they assented, the bargain ended, and the exchange took
place immediately. But if they refused, or wanted more, they shook
their heads and answered "No swop!" These words, "Swop" and "No
swop," are about the only English necessary in trading with them,
and we found them current everywhere among our Indians, from the
Missouri to the Pacific. In this way, our party succeeded in securing
a few lances and shields, bows and arrows, grizzly-bear skins,
buffalo-robes, etc., though their stock of skins had been mostly
disposed of to the regular traders some time before. We found them,
as a rule, fond of trading, and keen at a bargain, but averse to
parting with their ponies or their bows and arrows. Their ponies
they held in special regard, and asked extravagant prices for them.
Their bows and arrows were made of tough, elastic wood, very scarce
in that region, and they were loth to sell them, except for a pistol
or a "carabina." In this matter of trading, however, a young chief
named Jack Cox seemed to be a marked exception. He had a handsome
wolf-skin quiver, beautifully finished and embroidered--the finest
we saw there--and I was desirous of securing it, if he cared to part
with it. Various offers were tendered him, but all were refused. He
had set his heart on one of our repeating-rifles, and his constant
answer was, as he patted the barrel, "Me take carabina! Nothing
else!" Subsequently, others pressed him with various offers; but they
could not shake his resolution. At last he rose up, as if vexed and
irritated, and pointing to a group of Utes, who were crowding around
all eager for barter, indignantly exclaimed, "Mean Indian swop--pony,
bow, quiver, robe, any thing! Jack Cox no swop!" Instinctively I
handed him a pipe, and begged him to join in a smoke. Accepting
the courtesy, he sat down again, and as he spoke a little broken
English we managed to talk some on several subjects. But, all the
while, he watched the "swopping," that was going on about him, and
when he saw any one about to make what he considered a foolish or
bad bargain, he would sneer at his want of judgment, and set all the
rest of the Indians to laughing at him--a trick which usually broke
up the bargain. Subsequently, he went off to the village for a fancy
buffalo robe, which he said he would "swop" me for something that
pleased him, and kept his promise by returning with it an hour or so
afterwards. This Jack Cox was a bright, shrewd young fellow--lithe,
sinewy and straight as an arrow--about seventeen or eighteen years
of age; and, if he live, will doubtless yet distinguish himself
among the Utes. He was already much deferred to among those of his
age, and was decidedly the keenest one among them. He had heard of
Washington and the east, and asked many curious questions concerning
them. I inquired if he would not like to make a trip east, as Ooray
and others had done. He answered, after reflecting a little:
"How long be gone?"
I replied at hap-hazard:
"Perhaps five snows," meaning five years.
He rejoined,
"O, no! No! Not _five_ snows! One snow! Then Jack Cox go!"
He interested us very much at the time, and we all augured well of
his future.
The same evening Wellington and Jack Cox sent word, that they were
going to have a Big Dance over at the village, and invited us all
over. Accordingly soon after dark their tom-toms began to beat, and
at about 8 P. M., several of us walked thither. The dance had already
commenced, on a natural lawn that sloped down from the village to
the Rio Grande. Here were perhaps a hundred or so young braves, with
hand locked in hand and shoulder pressed to shoulder, moving slowly
round in a circle facing inward, while back of them were gathered the
whole village gazing on. Two or three of them beat time on rude drums
or tom-toms, while all joined in a wild chant or song. The music was
barbarous, and their movements not much of a dance; but they went
through it all with much gravity and earnestness, whatever they meant
by it. Jack Cox left the crowd as we approached, and invited us to
participate, which several did. One was allowed to beat the tom-tom,
as a special favor; but his performance proved to be not a "success,"
as he failed to keep time. We spent an hour with them, and no doubt
the Utes will long remember the occasion, when their pale-face
friends from the east danced with them by moonlight on the banks of
the Rio Grande. Altogether, it was rather a unique experience, and we
wondered what would come next. As we strolled back to camp, the moon
had mounted above the Sierra Blanca, and was flooding the whole Park
with a sea of light. The notched and jagged peaks of the Mountains
all about us, tipped with snow, glittered in her beams. And the hour
and the place seemed, for all the world, more like a chapter from
fairy land, than sober reality.
As already intimated, we found some striking characters among the
Utes--Ooray, Ancantash, Jack Cox, etc.--but they were few and far
between. The great mass of the tribe were small, undersized men,
with coarse, animal faces, that looked as if they went hungry half
the time, if not more. Their dress in general consisted of the usual
breech-cloth, a blanket or buffalo-robe, and deer-skin leggings and
moccasins. The nights and mornings were already sharp and chilly;
but they had a knack of twisting a robe or blanket about them, even
when on horseback at a gallop, that I have never seen equalled,
and they declared they were not uncomfortable. In winter, however,
especially their winter, we would suppose they must suffer from the
weather severely. They seemed to treat their poor squaws about as
shabbily as all other Indians--that is to say, about as bad as bad
can be. They compelled them to wait upon and serve them on every
possible occasion, no matter how degrading. In coming to and going
from our encampment, the braves always galloped or trotted along on
horseback, while the squaws as a rule trudged wearily by on foot,
with their papooses at their backs. It was the squaws, who made their
bows and arrows, spears and shields--dressed their skins--pitched
and struck camp--saddled and unsaddled their ponies--and, in short,
performed all other menial or laborious offices, that Indian life
is heir to. They carried their papooses strapped to a board, with
a wicker-work at the top to protect the child's head--the whole
swung over the shoulders or across the forehead by a rude thong.
This board was made round at the lower end, to rock backward and
forward when necessary, and thus serve as a sort of cradle. In camp
it is hung up on a tree, which places the child out of danger,
while at the same time the wind sways it to and fro. On the march,
the whole dangles from the mother's shoulder. Some of these Ute
cradles were quite neatly adorned with paint and bead-work, and
made as soft and cosy as buck-skin and buffalo-robe or beaver-fur
could make them. The papooses occupying them, with their jet-black
eyes and copper-colored cheeks, seemed to be model babies; for they
never even whimpered. The wretched and degraded condition of their
women, however, is everywhere the reproach of savage life. There
was a forlorn and hopeless look in the faces of these Ute squaws,
as if all their womanhood was crushed out, that would have touched
a heart of stone. A father, we are told, may chastise any of his
children, but a mother only her daughters. She must not lay a finger
on a boy-brave, on pain of death; and this is only a specimen of
her disabilities. On the whole, I must say, we were not favorably
impressed with Ute life, as a rule. It had its romantic features,
but their universal "shiftlessness," their long matted hair sweeping
loosely about their faces or hanging in heavy plaits around their
shoulders, their general squalor, raggedness and dirt, and above
all, their neglect and abuse of their poor squaws--all made a bad
impression and dispelled many of the poetic ideas about the "Noble
Red Man," "Lo, the poor Indian, etc." that we cherish in the east.
In spite of our preconceived notions, we could not help regarding
the great majority of them, as but little above the wild animals,
that roam over the Plains and through the Mountains with them; and
as a whole--for all practical purposes of citizenship--infinitely
below the colored race, even of the cotton states. Of course, there
were some noble exceptions, such as Ooray and Ancantash, but then
they only proved the rule. In point of intellect and character, and
promise of improvement, the African will certainly beat the Red Man
all to pieces, as the future will show. Nevertheless, I must say, we
found the Utes truthful and honest in their way, and Kit Carson--a
good judge--credited them with being the bravest and best Red Skins
he had ever met, in all his wide wanderings.
I have spoken several times of Kit Carson, and as he is a real
historical character, perhaps can not conclude this chapter better,
than with a word or two more in regard to him. We met him first
at Fort Garland, where we found him in command of a battalion of
New Mexico Volunteers, and Brevet Brigadier-General. When the war
broke out, and most of our troops were withdrawn from the Plains
and Mountains, he applied to Mr. Lincoln for permission to raise a
Regiment of Volunteers in New Mexico, to protect our settlements
there, and the "good President" very properly granted it. At the
head of these, Kit did excellent service during the war, on one
occasion taking 9,000 Navajoes prisoners with less than 600 men, and
at its close was ordered to Fort Garland and given command of a wide
region there. We found him in log quarters, rough but comfortable,
with his Mexican wife and half-breed children around him. We had
expected to see a small and wiry man, weather-beaten and reticent;
but met a medium sized, rather stoutish, florid, and quite talkative
person instead. He certainly bore the marks of exposure, but none
of that extreme "roughing it," that we had anticipated. In age,
he seemed to be about forty-five. His head was a remarkably good
one, with the bumps of benevolence and reflection well developed.
His eye was mild and blue, the very type of good nature, while his
voice was as soft and sympathetic as a woman's. He impressed you
at once as a man of rare kindliness and charity, such as a truly
brave man ought always to be. As simple as a child, but brave as a
lion, he soon took our hearts by storm, and grew upon our regard
all the while we were with him. He talked and smoked far into the
night each evening we spent together, and we have no room here for
a tithe of what he told us. Born in Kentucky, he emigrated to the
Plains and Mountains when a child, and attached himself to a party
of trappers and hunters, when he was so small that he couldn't set a
trap. When he became older, he turned trapper himself, and as such
wandered all over our possessions, from the Missouri to the Pacific,
and from British America to Mexico. Next he became a government
scout and guide, and as such piloted Fremont and others all over the
Plains and through the Mountains. He confirmed the accounts, we had
heard, that Fremont, as an explorer, was somewhat of a charlatan,
and said the worst time the Pathfinder ever had was, when on one of
his expeditions, he disregarded his (Kit's) advice, and endeavored
to force the Mountains northwest of where Fort Garland now stands.
Kit told him he could not get through or over them at that period of
the year, and, when Fremont nevertheless insisted on proceeding, he
resigned as guide. The Pathfinder, however, went sternly forward, but
got caught in terrible snow-storms, and presently returned, with
half of his men and animals perished outright, from cold and hunger.
Subsequently, Kit became a U.S. Indian Agent, and one of the best we
ever had. Familiar with their language and customs, he frequently
spent months together among them, without seeing a white man, and
indeed became sort of half Indian himself. In talking, I observed,
that he frequently hesitated for the right English word; but when
speaking bastard Spanish (Mexican) or Indian, he was as fluent as
a native. Both Mexican and Indian, however, are largely pantomime,
which may have helped him along somewhat. The Utes seemed to have
the greatest possible confidence in him, and invariably called him
simply "Kit." Said Sherman, while at Garland, "These Red Skins think
Kit twice as big a man as me. Why his integrity is simply perfect.
They know it, and they would believe him and trust him any day before
me." And Kit returned this confidence, by being their most steadfast
and unswerving friend. He declared all our Indian troubles were
caused originally by bad white men, and was terribly severe on the
barbarities of the Border. He said he was once among the Indians
for two or three years exclusively, and had seen an Indian kill
his brother even, for insulting a white man in the old times. He
protested, that in all the peculiar and ingenious outrages for which
the Indians had been so much abused of late years, they were only
imitating or improving on the bad example of wicked white men. His
anathemas of Col. Chivington, and the Sand Creek massacre of 1864,
were something fearful to listen to. He pleaded for the Indians, as
"pore ignorant creatures," whom we were daily despoiling of their
hunting grounds and homes, and his denunciations of the outrages and
wrongs we had heaped upon them were sometimes really eloquent.
Said he, "To think of that dog Chivington, and his hounds, up thar at
Sand Creek! Whoever heerd of sich doings among Christians! The pore
Injuns had our flag flyin over 'em, that same old stars and stripes
thar we all love and honor, and they'd bin told down to Denver, that
so long as they kept that flyin they'd be safe. Well, then, here
come along that durned Chivington and his cusses. They'd bin out
several days huntin hostile Injuns, and couldn't find none no whar,
and if they had, they'd run from them, you bet! So they just pitched
into these friendlies, and massa-_creed_ them--yes, sir, literally
massa-_creed_ them--in cold blood, in spite of our flag thar--women
and little children even! Why, Senator Foster told me with his own
lips, (and him and his committee investigated this, you know), that
that thar d----d miscreant and his men shot down squaws, and blew the
brains out of little innocent children--even pistoled little babies
in the arms of their dead mothers, and worse than this! And ye call
_these_ civilized men--Christians; and the Injuns savages, du ye?
"I tell ye what; I don't like a hostile Red Skin any better, than you
du. And when they are hostile, I've fit 'em--fout 'em--as hard as any
man. But I never yit drew a bead on a squaw or papoose, and I loathe
and hate the man who would. 'Tain't nateral for brave men to kill
women and little children, and no one but a coward or a dog would do
it. Of course, when we white men du sich awful things, why these pore
ignorant critters don't know no better, than to follow suit. Poor
things! I've seen as much of 'em as any white man livin, and I can't
help but pity 'em! They'll all soon be gone anyhow."
Poor Kit! He has already "gone" himself to his long home. But the
Indians had no truer friend, and he would wish no prouder epitaph,
than this. He and Sherman were great friends, and evidently had
a genuine regard for each other. They had known each other in
California in '49, when Sherman was a banker there, and Kit only
an Indian guide. In '65, when Kit was at Leavenworth on a visit,
Sherman sent for him to come down to St. Louis, and they spent some
time together very pleasantly. Now Sherman returned his visit, by
coming to Fort Garland, in the heart of the Rocky Mountains. It will
be betraying no secret to say, that Sherman had but a poor opinion
of the Plains country, especially of New Mexico and Arizona; for
he did not hesitate to say so anywhere. While at Garland, he told
the following good story one night, as we all sat smoking around
the fire, and he will pardon me for repeating it here. He said the
Quartermaster General during the summer had written him several
letters, calling his attention to the enormous cost of our posts
on the Plains, in New Mexico, etc., and begging him if possible to
suggest some plan, that would reduce expenses, etc. "At first," said
Sherman, "I paid no attention to these letters, because I could not
help the matter. The Posts were there--established by order of the
Hon. Secretary of War--and he knew it. Moreover, the people would
have them there, and I could not help it, if they did cost a 'heap.'
Above all, I was _ordered_ to keep them up, and I always obey orders;
so what could I do? So, at first, I did not answer his letters, but
let him write away! But finally they got to coming so thick and long,
that one day I sat down and replied, that the Posts were all there,
and ordered there, as he knew, and we were bound to supply them, no
matter what it cost. But that, in my judgment, of the whole vast
region there, the greater portion was not worth a Confederate note
to us, and never would be; and if he wished my opinion as to the best
way of reducing expenses, I would respectfully recommend, that the
United States sell New Mexico, and all the region round about, to
Maximilian for $15,000,000, and lend him the greenbacks to pay with!
"I must say, the government don't seem to have considered my
recommendation favorably yet. But neither have I received any more
letters from the Q. M. Gen'l. So, I suppose, he is satisfied!"
He told this with infinite gusto, as if he enjoyed the joke hugely,
and presently added:
"The idea, however, wasn't wholly my own, but was suggested by an old
story we used to hear about Gen. Sumner. You knew Sumner, I suppose,
in the East? We used to call him Bull Sumner, in old times, because he
was so obstinate, and so thoroughly a soldier. Well, some years ago,
he was sent out to command in New Mexico, and he certainly entered
upon his duties with great alacrity and enthusiasm. He was going to
explore the country, he said, make known its vast resources, pacify
the Red Skins, induce immigration, settle up the country, and thus do
away with our costly Posts, and all that. Of course, he was sincere in
the matter--always was sincere--one of the honestest men I ever knew.
So, he went to work, and for two or three years worked hard, summer
and winter--did a vast amount of work. But, finally, he came to the
same conclusion I have--viz. that the whole region was worthless--and
reported to the Secretary of War, that in his judgment, the wisest
thing we could do, would be to buy out the New Mexicans and pay them to
emigrate--to old Mexico, if possible--and then throw the whole country
open (and keep it open) to the buffalo and the Indians!
"Sumner, they say, recommended this seriously, and thought it a good
thing. But I have never heard that the government agreed with him,
any more than it will with me!"
These were the stories substantially; but it is impossible to give
the twinkle of his eye, the jocular toss of his head, and the
serio-comic twitch of his many-wrinkled features, as he got them
off. Meanwhile he smoked furiously, and kept up that everlasting
long stride of his up and down the floor, with his hands deep in his
trowsers' pockets, as if he would never weary. Sherman is a great
talker and smoker, and beyond doubt a great man and original thinker
in many ways. At the Denver banquet, he made a better speech than his
distinguished brother (the Senator from Ohio); and it is no wonder
he outwitted Joe Johnston, and smashed Hood as he pleased, when
"marching through Georgia." Neither is it any wonder, when you come
to scan him closely, that he should sometimes err a little, as he did
at Raleigh. Evidently, with all his great talents, now and then he
needs a "governor" to steady him, as much as any other steam-engine
does. Then, he is a hundred horsepower or more; and as General of the
Army, long may he live!
The Treaty over, we returned to Denver through the heart of the
Mountains, as related in the preceding chapter; and now for Salt Lake
and beyond.
FOOTNOTES:
[8] As Governor he was _ex-officio_ Superintendent of Indian Affairs
there.
[9] Good! good!