The seven Moqui pueblos sent to me a deputation who presented
themselves on the sixth day of this month. Their object, as
announced, was to ascertain the purposes and views of the
Government of the United States toward them. They complained,
bitterly, of the depredations of the Navajos.—Report of James
S. Calhoun, First Indian Agent at Santa Fe, October 12, 1850
Now the Indians drifted in to greet their new Chief. Although possessed
by a great curiosity, they came shyly, diffidently, as is the Indian
way. One would suppose that a grand council of braves would have been
called to introduce a new Agent with some semblance of formality, a
thing that impresses a primitive people. But not so. The old Agent, who
was agent no longer, glad that someone else had succeeded to the petty
headaches which are worse than the problems, packed his gear and
departed. It was up to me to meet the savage in the course of business,
and to make what impression I could. There were no individual records
to guide one, and first impressions are not infallible; in fact, the
most serious mistakes of Agents, things that long affect their gaining
the confidence of the people, come about through the necessity of
accepting the Indian at his face value—a slipshod method. The census,
for example, was a string of names, having little accuracy, that had
not been annotated in years.
The prominent men of the several districts were not at all backward in
telling me how influential they were. The Navajo came first, and with
reason, for they held five-sixths of the range by right of might, and
were eager to impress one that they should not be disturbed.
Came Hostin Nez, “Tall Man,” a lean, shrewd genius, who could remember
the captivity after Carson’s campaigns. He stood proudly erect, and yet
had an ingratiating manner that was part of his profession; for besides
dominating a large faction of his people and being the hereditary chief
of all the Navajo, he was a Medicine Man of high degree. Came from the
north old Billa Chezzi, better known as “Crooked Fingers” because of a
crippled hand, who had in him nothing that was sullen or criminal
perhaps, but who pictured a bloodthirsty pirate on a desperate mission.
These two represented communities of Navajo, living and roaming north,
south, east, and west of the Hopi mesa settlements, and by whom the
Hopi have been throttled from the range. There were lesser men, headmen
of groups or families. I remember Senegathe, “Wanderer,” with his gray
hair blowing in long snaky wisps; and Scar Chin, who resembled a
good-natured friar, though a long rip in his face suggested a strenuous
past; and Silversmith Jim, and Yellow-Horse, and Bitani, and Whispering
Bill, each having something of distinction in his manner or personal
eccentricity.
But for the most part, my Navajo business was with Hostin Nez. He was a
Judge of the Indian Court, and carried a “pretty paper,” a ragged
commission, lithographed in bright colors. We had many a long and
dispassionate argument, he rolling cigarettes in pieces of newspaper,
which he evidently preferred to the “saddle-blankets” that came in
packages, and wiping his lips now and then with a Turkish towel that
was draped about his neck—a fashion in neckcloths that he affected. I
never knew Hostin Nez to lose patience, and he would return again and
again to a point at issue in the hope of gaining advantage—in
appearance a Tartar chieftain, in methods a Talleyrand.
“Think of it, Nahtahni,” he said to me, very shortly after our first
meeting, “I have never had a wagon. Here I am, an influential man among
my people, and all the others have been favored. When the children
first went to school, the Agents used to give each father a wagon; but
that was years ago, and my children are men, and I never had a wagon.”
Now this was hard lines, for a Navajo who did not possess a wagon was
prevented from hauling freight, at that time a most lucrative
occupation, and the camp need for a vehicle of some sort was great. The
Navajo has to haul wood and water, and must somehow transport his
products of wool and hides to the trader. So I promised him a wagon
from the next lot received.
This would not be a present. The Indians of the Empire are independent
and self-supporting; they do not receive rations, and the Nahtahnis do
not make presents of implements or other necessary things. The Indians
paid for such issues by laboring on the roads and at other constructive
work of the jurisdiction, and were credited at current rates for
laborers. The “wagon” meant the issue of a full freighting
outfit—everything save the horses, of which the Navajo have a surplus.
He would receive a stout farm-type wagon, having top-box, bows, and
cover; also harness for four horses, all at Government cost-price,
about one half the figure a trader would have quoted it. And at the
appointed time he would assemble from ten to twenty of his clan to
labor out the bill, his followers helping him as he would in turn help
them.
But Hostin Nez sent his son to sign the receipt for the issue. This was
Hostin Nez Bega Number 4, indicating that there were other scions
numbered one, two, and three, and perhaps even others bearing more
fanciful Indian names. A great suspicion dawned on me. The issue-papers
for several years back were examined, and lo! old Talleyrand had worked
that game many times. He had never received a wagon; but each of his
sons had received wagons after the father had made the plea for
himself. When they went for freight the Nez outfit comprised a caravan,
and at the scales their pay-checks totaled hundreds of dollars. Hostin
Nez did not go for freight. He was the main guy, and procured the
wagons!
When I taxed the Chief with this, he was not offended. He smiled
benignly and repeated:
“But, Citcili” (my younger brother), “I have never had a wagon.”
We let it go at that.
Now Billa Chezzi, chief of the northern steppes, was not so clever. He
was a rougher, blustering type of Indian, and lacked finesse. Once I
endeavored to make a census of the Navajo, a very difficult thing of
accomplishment because of their nomadism. Two enumerators cornered old
Billa and insisted that he give up the details of his private life. He
named six wives living, and counted forty-seven sons in various parts
of the Empire. Then he said he was tired, and getting old anyway, and
that his memory did not serve him as once it did. Had he followed the
system of Hostin Nez, he would have crowded the Studebaker wagon-works
to full capacity.
And came Kewanimptewa, chief of that third and weakest faction of the
Oraibi Hopi that had nearly perished in the hills. He was a stolid
fellow, not at all like his name, which signifies Chameleon. He gave me
the once-over, and then said frankly:—
“Well, you are a little man—a very little man. The last one was a big
man—very big man. But—perhaps you will do.”
Hardly had I moved the big desk to a place where I could see the
Indians as they came in at the main door, in order that their pleas
should not have to filter down through clerks, when the quiet of the
summer afternoon was broken by cries of dismay and excited grief. A
Navajo came running, weeping, his manner hysterical. He rushed into the
office and stammered:—
“Charlie Bega, he dead—kill—Charlie Bega!”
For the moment I thought someone had been murdered; and a second
thought did not lessen my dismay, for this man was a miner. His face
was streaked where the tears had washed down through the smudges of
coal-dust. The reservation has large deposits of soft coal, and fuel
for the Government plants is mined by Indians under a skilled white
miner. I had been down the mine that week, and had noted its sagging
pillars under the pressure of that heavy mesa roof. It flashed through
my mind that there had been a tragedy down the drift, and that other
miners were either dead or entombed. But the Navajo interpreter quickly
explained:—
“His son has just died. Their hogan is down the cañon near the mine,
and he came to tell you of it, and he wants a coffin built and a grave
dug.”