“According to the law of the Medes and Persians.”
—Daniel, vi, 12
The sending of a small army to one’s home, and the imposing of rigid
Governmental regulations, would seem to be sufficient to give any rebel
pause. But not so Youkeoma. He stood faithfully by the traditions; and
unfortunately for him, the traditions obstructed or became entangled
with everything that a white official proposed for the best interests
of his community. No doubt the old man had been amazed, and I think
somewhat disappointed, when he was not sent away as a prisoner. He
could have made capital of another entry in an already lengthy record
as a political martyr. But he did not propose to soften in
consideration of this amnesty. He very likely thought it an exhibition
of the white man’s weakness, and gave his ancient oracles the credit.
Nothing was heard of him until the next early summer, when came time
for the dipping of sheep on the range. The Hotevilla flocks were the
poorest of all the Hopi stock, which is saying a good deal, since the
Hopi is a disgraceful shepherd at any pueblo. But whatever their
condition, the head man of Hotevilla did not intend to recognize the
sanitary live-stock regulations issued by the peculiar Bohannas. They
paid no attention to the Indian crier who announced the order, and they
did not move their sheep toward the vats. It was necessary to send
police, hire herders, drive the animals to the dip about twenty-five
miles from their village, and return them to the sullen owners.
Naturally, in such a movement, there are losses. Youkeoma came to the
Agency, at the head of a delegation, to file protest against this
action and to present claims for damages. He came modestly clad in one
garment, a union suit, and without other indication of his rank.
During the hearing a few of the Hotevilla children came in to greet
their relatives. It was a satisfied little group of clean and well-fed
youngsters, having no resemblance to the filthy, trachomatous urchins
we had gathered at the pueblo.
“Your people’s children are happy here,” said a clerk.
Youkeoma looked at the girls in their fresh frocks, and noticed their
well-dressed hair, which had not been weeded with a Hopi broom.
“They should be dirty like the sheep,” he answered, “as dirty as I am.
That is the old Hopi way.”
His claims for damage were disallowed, and for much angry disputing he
spent a few days in the jail; then, very much to my surprise, he
promised that he would not counsel resistance to future Governmental
orders.
“I will attend to my affairs hereafter,” he agreed. “For myself, I do
not promise to obey Washington; but the people may choose for
themselves which way to go—with me, or with Washington.”
This was all that was asked of him, and he departed.
A year passed without incident. When the pupils were not returned in
vacation time, the parents filed regular complaints. They very
truthfully admitted that, were their requests granted, they had no
intention of permitting the children to return, so it seemed best to
deny them.
And now the other children of the village were growing up. At the time
of the first gathering, only those above ten years of age were taken;
and given a few years among the Hopi, without epidemic, children spring
up and expand like weeds. A census was taken, not without acrid dispute
and a few blows, which showed that the pueblo held about one hundred
children of age to attend primary grades. So I proposed to build a
complete school-plant close to their homes. This was another terrible
blow to the traditions.
When selecting a site, great care was taken not to appropriate tillable
land or to invade fields. The school stands on a rock-ledge. For a
water-supply it was necessary to develop an old spring, one that the
Hopi had long since abandoned and lost. It is the only Hopi school on
the top of a mesa, and the children do not have to use dangerous
trails.
The villagers watched us very suspiciously as we surveyed the lines for
seven buildings, and they respected the flags marking the site-limits.
But when materials and workmen arrived, and the buildings began to go
up, they uttered a violent protest.
“We do not wish to see a white man’s roof from our pueblo!”
They declared that all such buildings would be burned. Guards were
necessary whenever the workmen left the camp. The school was built,
however, and the smaller children rounded up and into it. Two dozen men
managed what had required a troop of cavalry; but do not think that we
approached it in a spirit of indifference. The town held about one
hundred husky men, and one never knew what might happen. Once again I
had to crawl through the corn-cellars of the place.
The old Chief was not to the front, and his body-guard of elders was
conspicuous by its absence. Great credit was given them for keeping
their word. I flattered myself that the contentious Hopi spirit and the
backbone of rebellion had cracked together. But he was simply waiting
for a more propitious date, in strict accord with prophecy, perhaps.
The fire in the kiva had not burned with a flame of promise; the
cornmeal had not fallen in a certain sign; the auguries were not
auspicious. A little later and these things must have strengthened him,
for one night he appeared at the door of the field matron’s quarters,
accompanied by his cohort, the whole band evidencing an angry mood.
“It is time,” he said, wrathfully. “You have been here long enough. We
will not drive you away to-night, but in the morning do not let us find
you here. There will be trouble, and we may have to cut off your head.”
The field matron was alarmed, but she did not leave as directed. She
waited until they had gone away, and then slipped across the
half-cleared desert space to the school principal’s home. He promptly
saddled a horse and came into the Agency that night. There were no
telephones across the Desert then. Next day he returned with definite
instructions.
It is not wise to permit Indians of an isolated place to indulge
themselves in temper of this kind. One bluff succeeds another, until
finally a mistake in handling causes a flare-up that is not easy to
control, and one is not thanked in Washington for fiascos. I have
pointed out how quickly Washington moves itself to aid when there is
revolt.
A capable field-matron or field-nurse is a good angel among such
people. She supplements daily the work of the visiting physician,
dispensing simple remedies according to his direction; she is
foster-mother to the little children of the camps and to the girls who
return from the schools. All social ills have her attention. She
maintains a bathhouse and laundry for the village people, and a
sewing-room for the women. In times of epidemic, these field matrons
perform extraordinary labors, and have been like soldiers when facing
contagious disease. With one other, Miss Mary Y. Rodger at the First
Mesa, Miss Abbott of Hotevilla ranked as the best in the Service; and
having ordered her to remain on that station, I determined that she
should live at the pueblo of Hotevilla in peace, if every one of the
ten-thousand sacred traditions reaching straight back to the Underworld
went by the board.
It is necessary first to catch your rabbit.
Whenever wanted and diligently sought for, Youkeoma was somewhere else,
and an unknown somewhere. While it was said that he and the other old
men spent their time in the kivas, I had failed to find them there.
Like the coyote that scents gun-oil, he smelt business from afar; and
this time it was business, and I wanted him.
Summoning the Indian police, I dispatched them under two white officers
to attend a Navajo dance in a distant cañon, forty miles east of the
Agency. Hotevilla was directly west from the Agency and about the same
distance removed. Having placed eighty miles between my police and the
scene of action, I informed my office force that I intended visiting
the railroad town on business. This would take me eighty miles to the
south. Others of the white men were sent to work at different range
points. No one suspected a Hotevilla mission. We went our several ways.
But I did not go to the railroad town. A messenger, sent from the
Desert, recalled the two officers and the Indian police from the Navajo
encampment and, going roundabout the trails, they joined me at the
Indian Wells trading-post on the south line of the Reserve. After dark
on the second night we hiked across the southern Desert, avoiding all
Indian camps and settlements, to reach the Second Mesa about midnight.
There we halted for a pot of coffee, and rested an hour or two. Then on
again, crossing the Second Mesa in the wee sma’ hours, we avoided
alarming Oraibi, that always suspicious pueblo. The rangemen were
collected from their different stations. In the black, before the stars
had begun to pale, we arrived at Hotevilla and, without disturbing a
soul, strung out around the town.
With the first streak of red in the east, the Hopi became aware that
strangers were present. A perfect bedlam of noise arose. It seemed that
thousands of dogs came into vociferous action, and made the morning
ring with their challenges. But no man got out of the place.
We found our slippery friend Youkeoma and his supporters. They were
taken to the school and identified as those who had threatened the
matron. And once again the wagons started for the Agency guardhouse.
This time friend Youkeoma joined our Cañon community permanently, for I
had no idea of releasing him while in charge of the post. This occurred
in the summer of 1916 and he remained at the Agency until the autumn of
1919.
He did not complain. In fact he seemed quite contented in his quarters.
He was not imprisoned in the sense of being locked-up, but was given
the work of mess-cook for the other prisoners. This in no way offended
his dignity. The more able of the men were required to work at odd
jobs—the cutting of weeds, the herding of sheep, the tilling of small
fields, and an occasional bit of road-mending.
Life as prisoners was not very irksome for these old men. The
guardhouse was very like their home kiva. Instead of cold stone
benches, they slept on good beds; for rabbit-skin quilts and
sheepskins, they had good blankets; and in place of a central smoky
fire there was an excellent egg-shaped stove. Aside from being clean,
with walls freshly painted and floors scrubbed, it was very like their
kiva indeed. No one disturbed them in it. I fancy their discussions
were the same, and the ceremonies conducted according to the calendar.
Certainly they occupied themselves in weaving belts and other
talismanic articles.
And as prisoners they developed fully some very peculiar tastes.
Required to bathe regularly, they came to like soap and water very
much. I recall the first time Youkeoma found himself under a shower. He
had soap and towels, things considered entirely unessential at home,
and he looked for a tub and water. Suddenly the ceiling opened and the
water came down from Lodore. He was scared speechless at first, and
then began chattering as if this were some rare form of white man’s
magic. And he liked it!
They received new clothing, sufficient for the different seasons, but
they would refuse to don these garments until ordered to do so by
Moungwi. A clerk would make the issue from commissary, and would
succeed in getting them to pack the articles to the guardhouse. Next
morning they would appear in their old rags. When a solemn Governmental
pronunciamento was hurled at them, something smacking of
excommunication, the traditions were satisfied, and forthwith they
would array themselves.
They very diligently prepared and sowed certain fields—small patches of
corn, beans, and melons, such as they used at home. They weeded and
cultivated and watched the plants, until told that the harvest would be
theirs to supplement the guardhouse ration of staples. They refused to
work at once. It was against the traditions. They would not willingly
raise a crop, to accept it as a reward from Washington. Their work must
be wholly in the nature of punishment.
“So be it,” I said, washing my hands of them; and they continued
working those fields faithfully, once they knew that others would
possess the fruits thereof.
One by one, the men were released for good conduct, until only Youkeoma
remained. I told him plainly that he would not return to foment trouble
until I was relieved of authority. Often in the long, drowsy, summer
afternoons I would talk with him. He would sit on my porch-floor,
hugging his knees in his skinny arms, and amaze me by his observations.
“You see,” he would say, “I am doing this as much for you as for my own
people. Suppose I should not protest your orders—suppose I should
willingly accept the ways of the Bohannas. Immediately the Great Snake
would turn over, and the Sea would rush in, and we would all be
drowned. You too. I am therefore protecting you.”
He stated such things as an infallible prophet. There was no malice in
the old chap, and I did not bear him any grudge for his pertinent
reflections.
“Yes; I shall go home sometime. I am not unhappy here, for I am an old
man, little use, and my chief work is ceremonies. But I shall go back
sometime. Washington may send another Agent to replace you, or you may
return to your own people, as all men do. Or you may be dismissed by
the Government. Those things have happened before. White men come to
the Desert, and white men leave the Desert; but the Hopi, who came up
from the Underworld, remain. You have been here a long time now—seven
winters—much longer than the others. And, too—you may die.”
He had many probable strings to his bow of the future. I had to admit
the soundness of his remarks, but I did not relish his last sentence.
There was a little too much of hope in it.
And it came to pass that I was sent to another post. My last official
act as a Moungwi was the dismissing of Youkeoma. Our differences would
not affect the success of a newcomer. We shook hands this time,
pleasantly, and he smiled. I asked him for no promises, and preached
him no sermon. He departed down the Cañon afoot, for his hike of
forty-odd miles. Quite likely he would stop that night with his married
daughter at the settlement of the Five Houses, a Christian family, and
the next night with Sackaletztewa on the Chimopovi cliffs. He was too
old to make the journey in true Hopi fashion, jogging tirelessly. I
venture that he did not visit his hereditary rival, Tewaquaptewa, at
the original stronghold of his people—Oraibi had slipped too far from
the traditions. But I would like to have witnessed his entry into
Hotevilla in the sunset, a tired old man, but steadfast in spirit and
unconquered, and to have heard the talk at that first all-night
conference of the ancients in the kiva.
In 1921 I visited the Agency; and lo! he was in the guardhouse again.
He was squatted on the floor, sifting a pan of flour for the
prison-mess, his old trade. He looked up, to recognize me with a
whimsical, not unwelcoming smile.
“Hello!” he said, “You back?”
When I saw him last, he was talking to Major-General Hugh L. Scott, who
had spent ten days listening to him ten years before. Youkeoma was
again reciting the legend of the Hopi people. Many things had happened
in those wild and unreasonable ten years. The world had suffered
discord and upheaval; merciless war had lived abroad and bitter
pestilence at home. Nations had quite lost identity, and individuals
had become as chaff blown to bits in the terrible winds. Scott had
heard the great guns roar out across Flanders. Nearly everything had
changed except the Desert—and Youkeoma.
He was the same unwavering fanatic, “something nearly complete,” a
gnome-like creature that would have better fitted dim times in the
cavern cities of the Utah border, where his cliff-dwelling forbears
built and defended Betatakin, and Scaffold House, and the Swallow’s
Nest. In those wild days of the Dawn he would have been an evil power;
but now he was simply a belated prophet without honor in his own
country, one who had set his face against progress, and whose medicine
had failed. Quite lonely too, for most of his followers had drifted
from him.
But miserable and impotent as he seemed, and perverted as he proved, we
somehow admire steadfastness of purpose and the driving will that does
not flinch under adversity. This Youkeoma of Hotevilla was not
malicious. He was simply a deluded old savage, possessed by the witches
and katchinas of his clan, living in a lost world of fable. A
Ghost-and-Bird chief. The last of the Hopi caciques. A faint echo of
the Desert Dawn-Men.