The heart of the Enchanted Desert, consisting of the Hopi Reserve and a
wide strip of Navajo country surrounding it as a frame, was not
troubled by the liquor problem among its natives so long as the State
of Arizona remained generously wet. The Hopi Indians have no use for
liquor, and will not tolerate it. On one occasion men of the mesas, who
were without authority to act as policemen, arrested and brought in a
Navajo who had simply exhibited a suspicious bottle; a very singular
thing for Hopi to do, since they are not bold, even when commissioned.
For years Hopi and Navajo freighters packed Government stores from the
railroad town of Holbrook, distant eighty miles from the Agency and
nearly fifty of them outside the reservation, without engaging in
sprees or bootlegging. The Navajo rather likes his beverages, and they
do not improve him as a neighbor; but drunkenness was rare even among
the Navajo in those days.
When the State went dry, the acquisition of liquor presented something
of adventure to those who were naturally lawless. And it was not long
before cargoes of cheering fluids began to arrive in the Navajo country
from New Mexico. The town of Gallup became a point of interest for
Indians who never before had visited it. Gallup is one hundred and five
miles from the Hopi Agency, and of course contraband is not packed
along highroads. When the “special officers” of the Indian Liquor
Service descended on Gallup, the Navajo organized relays to serve the
back country; and the special officers did not follow into the lonesome
places. One might be sure that at every Navajo gathering there would be
boozing, and at points one hundred to one hundred and fifty miles from
the source, and that same distance from special officers. The smugglers
would hide the liquor beyond the great circle of campers, in the black
of some thicket, and along in the early morning hours, when chance
visitors had departed and watchers were tired out, the bibulous would
appear in various stages of intoxication. They were then dangerous.
My police force consisted of eight Indians, half of them Navajo. This
was the “army” granted me in 1911, with due regard for Colonel Scott’s
recommendation that I should have twenty-five men headed by a white
officer. And in 1921, ten years after that first recommendation,
Major-General Scott, retired, of the Board of Indian Commissioners,
reviewed the Hopi-Navajo situation, and again reported:—
In 1882 an Executive Order set apart 2,472,320 acres (3863 square
miles) of land for the Moqui Reservation, for the use and occupancy of
the Hopi and such other Indians as the Secretary of the Interior might
designate.
At that time someone with a ruler drew on a map a parallelogram which
represented an area, approximately 75 by 55 miles, for a reservation,
without the least regard to topographical and ethnological conditions,
and misnamed it the “Moqui Reservation.”
It is quite apparent that in 1882 the authorities in Washington either
were densely ignorant of the situation in this country at that time, or
were utterly indifferent to it; and by laying out the reservation with
a desk ruler and an utter disregard of the welfare of the Hopi, they
laid the foundations for trouble and suffering which have developed a
situation that calls for remedial action by the Indian Office.
This whole land is semi-arid, and a large portion of it is absolute
desert. The Navajo are aggressive and independent. There is no doubt
that the majority of those on the Moqui Reserve have come in from all
sides with a deliberate purpose of taking the grazing land which
rightfully belongs to the Hopi. When a Navajo sees a Hopi with anything
he wants, he takes it, and there is no recourse.
For years this preventable situation has continued. In 1911 I was sent
by President Taft to Keams Cañon with troops, to enforce some
regulations of the Indian Office. I then found the Navajo encroaching
on Hopi land and mistreating the Hopi Indians. The Agent, at that time,
was given but three policemen, too poorly paid to attract the right men
with which to maintain order on a reservation having the area of an
empire. I then recommended that he be given twenty-five well-paid
policemen with a white chief. The number was increased to eight without
change of compensation, which number has lately been reduced to six.
This statement is enough to show the absurdity of any expectation that
the superintendent can keep order. The superintendent is powerless to
maintain the dignity of his office, with the result that the authority
and dignity of the Indian Office and of the United States are made a
mock over a large section of Arizona.
You see, my successor was having his troubles too with the gentle
feudists, and the Hopi were petitioning as usual. So the Office changed
the name of the Reservation.
In addition to the eight men that had been granted me, several of the
range employees were commissioned as special officers of the Indian
Liquor Service. Perhaps I should say, “Deputy special-officers of the
Service for the suppression of the liquor traffic among Indians.” But
what is a title among friends? And the commission was a splendid
gratuity, carrying no extra compensation, whereas the employee so
acting, in a true missionary spirit, simply risked his life. Few men
care for this work, and fewer are zealous at it. Those who came into
the regular Service as farmers or stockmen did not relish finding
themselves drafted as policemen. It is dangerous work among such
Indians as the Navajo, and the man, white or Indian, who accepts this
duty expects assurance of consideration and backing should anything
unpleasant occur. And in time they all heard of the Walter Runke case,
plus the charming experiences of that Agent’s faithful subordinates.
Several times my white deputies, aided by Indian police, made arrests
in camps in the wee sma’ hours, and had their prisoners taken from
them. Several times they managed to deliver prisoners at the Agency,
and the apology of a guardhouse failed to retain them. After I had the
window-bars reënforced and the door double-grated, and chained a few
worthies to the wall, the effect of punishment slightly improved. But I
could do this only after having procured the guilty ones, and the
hunting of them was becoming more and more dangerous. One night,
between the hours of ten and two, I searched a number of Navajo camps
in the north, seeking an escaped prisoner. This was probably a
hazardous proceeding, for the innocent Indians felt aggrieved at the
invasion of their privacy, and the guilty had the pleasure of
outwitting me—a very easy performance.
When next a dance was advertised, I assembled the Indian police, the
judges, and a dozen of the influential head-men or chiefs of the tribe.
I counseled them all to assist in this campaign against liquor, which
was ruining their young men; and this they promised to do. Especially
were the older chiefs earnest about it. They did not wish the tribe to
suffer discredit, with the strong probability of a few murders to boot.
About twenty men departed to the place of the dance, all pledged to
exert their very best grade of moral suasion, fatherly counsel, and
peaceful penetration.
Two days later a squad of indignant head-men assembled in my office.
They were evidently angry about something; and the spokesman talked
plainly.
“We have failed,” he said. “After midnight the drunkards began to
appear, and dance and shout and annoy decent people. Several were
arrested by the police, but they were supported by others, and the
police could do nothing without fear of hurting someone. Then we old
men undertook to shame them. They rose against us all, and drove us
headlong from the camp—police, judges, chiefs. This matter places us in
a shameful position before our people. We want you to write to
Washington for soldiers. They have sent soldiers here before, and they
can do so again. We need them. You tell Washington that.”
But just at that time Washington had its hands full of typewriters,
holding the Germans to strict accountability on paper; and one Villa
was scouting along the Border.
My remaining hope was to trap the smugglers before they reached the
scene of disposal. And following this method, it came about that
One-eyed Dan and his partner, hailing from the Fort Defiance district,
were arrested as they traveled north on my reservation. They had a
trunk loaded with the most diabolical booze. It was in standard
bottles, with all seals intact; but the bottoms had been plugged by an
electric process, and the good stuff replaced with a concoction that
suggested Battle-axe tobacco in a solution of nitric acid. Two drinks
of this would cause a jack rabbit to assault a bobcat. And for this
enthusiasm Navajo Indians would cheerfully pay thirty-five dollars the
quart.
We lost little time in questioning these fellows. The Federal Court was
in session at Prescott, Arizona. One-eyed Dan et al., arrested at noon,
were delivered at the Agency by two o’clock; and by three, autos were
rolling with these gentry and witnesses and the evidence, toward the
railroad. We would catch the night train, and make a swift job of it;
one day peddling in the empire, the next in court and ready for
sentence. Dan and his compadre were made comfortable in a back seat,
handcuffed, and shackled together. A Navajo will not hesitate to leap
from a car if free, and then it is either let him go or wing him. It
doesn’t pay to wing him.
But we were delayed. One cannot make an average twenty miles per hour
through that country, and it was close to six o’clock when we reached
the Indian Wells trading-post, just across the reservation line. All
through that district the Navajo are settled upon alternate sections of
land governed by the Leupp Indian Agency, and it is not “reservation”
of a solid block. The intervening sections are “railroad lands,” bonus
grants for building what is now the Santa Fe system. In this fashion
the Government gave the first railway a very large part of the
Southwest, a seemingly unimportant and nonproductive country at that
time, and one could find Santa Fe titles forty miles either side of its
tracks. The Indians knew nothing of these paper records, and roamed
indiscriminately with their camps and sheep, wrangling about water with
range cattlemen who had leased from the railroad, viewing with
suspicion those few men who bought outright; and Washington found
it—still finds it—“a very perplexing question.”
The trading-post was closed, its owner at supper. But sitting on the
stone doorstep was a dejected Navajo who appeared to have had a
desperate and losing battle. His head, face, and shirt were covered
with blood, some of which had dried; and some of the fresh he was still
trying to staunch. Just then the trader appeared.
“Glad you arrived,” he said, seeming relieved. “I was wondering what to
do about this. I saw the whole affair. This man fought with two Navajo
off there in the flat. They were through here several days ago, going
to the railroad for liquor. Seems that they got back with it all right,
and wouldn’t give this chap his share. Anyway, they fought it out,
beating him over the head with their forty-fives. I’ve been washing his
scalp this last half-hour.”
He could give the names of the two, and the location of their home
camp.
“Just back in the hills,” he said, waving. “Not more than two miles at
most. They ought to be cinched.”
“It’s not my jurisdiction,” I said. “Their Agent is fifty miles away,
and one hundred miles roundabout the railroad.”
“Time he gets here,” said the trader, “booze and all will be gone, and
may be another scrap or two; like as not, murder done.”
“Have they been gathering for a sing?” I asked.
“No, nothing scheduled like that. They’re running north into your
country, peddling a little along the way.”
Now it looked as if someone should do something without waiting for
telegrams and a handful of printed tracts. I had One-eyed Dan already
in hand, and three “special deputies” to assist in the capture of those
who had trimmed the fellow on the doorstep. The injured man agreed to
identify and to appear against them. We would bag the whole outfit, and
stand four in court next day. The trail was warm, and the Leupp Agent
could not hope to arrive before the next afternoon. And it was only two
miles over the hill.
“We’ll have some supper, and then get those fellows, if you” (meaning
the trader) “will show the road.”
“I sure will,” he agreed.
After a meal, he led the way in his car, and we followed. Two miles
over the hill! It is true we found one deserted camp. And then we went
on and on. The orders were, silence, and lights out. The road into the
Castle Butte country is winding, over little steep-pitched hills and
down through narrow washes. When we had gone five miles, deep night had
shut down, lighted only by a misty moon that rather obscured things in
those twisted little vales and defiles. Suddenly the trader stopped his
car.
“I believe that’s one of them,” he called.
Ahead of us showed a pony. Two of the deputies jumped out and ran
forward, to find a man and a boy on the one horse. Off came the man,
and the boy too. At the car he was identified as one of the assailants.
The pony was turned loose to graze. The man joined One-eyed Dan et al.
in the rear seat, another pair of handcuffs making the three secure in
one squad.
But we had reckoned without the boy. He was about ten years old, and
these things seemed to him as mysterious, not to say alarming. When he
realized that strange men had chained up his kinsman, he raised a
soul-stirring bawl to Heaven. It was no time or place for explanations,
so we gagged him with a handkerchief and prepared to go on.
“How much farther?” I asked the guide.
“Just over the next hill.”
“Well, this speedometer says we have come seven miles.”
“From the next pitch we shall see the camp,” he assured me,
confidently.
“How many live there?”
“Two families.”
And from the next rise we could see the light of a fire.
“It looks like a larger camp than that,” I told him. “Are you sure
there is no sing going on?”
“Not a sign of it these last several days. That fire’s in the corral,
just beyond their hogans.”
“Then run all three cars fairly close to the gate of it. Keep these
prisoners in the last one, back in the shadow, and don’t make a show of
guns. I’ll go in and investigate. If you fellows hear a row, you can
then come up.”
The light of the fire grew brighter as we crept on, driving the cars as
noiselessly as possible, and one learns to do that in the Desert. The
corral was a large one, the logs set on end, and the firelight streamed
through the crevices. One could not see inside until very close. About
twenty yards from the gate or entrance we lined the cars, throwing the
headlights on that opening. It is trying to face a brilliant auto-lamp,
and those behind it have an advantage. I jumped from the step and went
quickly forward, carrying a quirt.
In a strange country and among strange Indians, a gun may prove a
dangerous weapon; but that does not prevent one from carrying a quirt
having a loaded grip.
If anyone had caught the boy’s cries or had heard our approach, there
was no sign of it. Apparently there was no one to hear. The place
seemed deserted. Outside the corral, one could see only a silent camp,
untenanted, noiseless, painted by a great wave of brilliant light. No
dogs started up. It was very strange, and decidedly unlike most Navajo
camps.
At a brisk walk I went through the corral gate—to face fifty or more
husky Navajo Indians, all males, crowded together, waiting. And each
one of them eyed me as if to ask my business. They knew that I was not
their Nahtahni.
There was no going back. I would have to chance their sober or drunken
condition. I walked up to the fire, and asked, with as much unconcern
as possible to muster: “Where is Bitani Bega?”
Silence—that sullen, contemptuous silence of the suspicious Navajo who
has not come forward to greet one, and who will hide whatever he knows
behind a mask of indifferent and stolid ignorance. I looked them over,
wondering if they were all strangers to me. A colony of my Navajo lived
in the southern line and traded at the Indian Wells post; but not a man
of them could I see. Then, in all that crowd, I sighted an educated
face. One learns to distinguish between the Navajo who has been to
school and the one who has never had a hair-cut. The former has a
keener expression, a brighter cast of countenance, though his hair may
be once again uncared for. I walked up to him, and demanded: “Where did
you go to school?”
He wavered for a moment, as if to deny his knowledge of English, and
then answered: “At Leupp.”
“Why did n’t you speak up before? You know me?”
“Yes,” he said. “I remember you at Leupp. I was a little boy then, and
you went away. You are superintendent up here somewhere.”
I felt easier now. But I did not care to have any one of them straggle
outside, to learn that I had three Navajo handcuffed in my car, and one
of them their own, to say nothing of a boy who had been gagged. Just
then the trader and one of my deputies, who had waited long enough and
were wondering what had happened to me, appeared in the gateway. I told
them to stop there; and, as I expected, so long as they were there, no
one of the crowd sought to go out.
“You can interpret for me,” I said to the returned student. “I am
looking for a man named Bitani Bega, who lives in this district, and
who runs booze. He beat up another Navajo this afternoon at Indian
Wells. I want to know where he is.”
The young Navajo rattled this off to the crowd.
“Ep-ten,” they began to exclaim, in various tones, shaking their heads,
meaning that this was entirely outside their knowledge.
“Do you see that fellow here?” I called to the trader, wondering what I
should do if he did recognize him. But the trader shook his head.
At one end of the corral was a brush shelter or shed. Under it camp
equipment was scattered: harness, boxes, kegs for water-carrying, and
blanketed bundles.
“Tell them I am going to search the camp,” I said.
“Search for what?” several asked.
“For liquor,” and with no positive assurance that I would be permitted
to continue long, I went about it. It was simply a display, to keep up
appearances. Any quantity of liquor would have been cached outside, and
as all present were sober, it was not likely that any had been brought
in. My sole idea was to bluff them for a little, and then get away. I
sincerely wanted to get away without fuss. Undoubtedly they had
congregated for a drinking bout, and I had one of them, and the second
bootlegger was probably watching from some hillside brush at that
moment. Later in the night they would welcome him and his assortment of
bottled trouble. They moved away from their belongings, and I failed to
find any contraband in the various bales and kegs scattered under the
shelter.
“You tell these men that I am going on to Leupp. If there is any
boozing here, you may expect that Nahtahni will hear of it.”
They received this in silence, but it was a silence that seemed to bode
me no great blessing. The men at the gate swung the cars around to head
away from there, and then I strolled out of the corral, carrying a
belief that I had narrowly missed something. And if you do not grasp my
emotion, if you think I was unnecessarily alarmed, I cannot hope to
convince you or explain how one feels hostility and resentment among
these desert people. I was not welcome in that camp, and very likely it
was a good thing for me that I did not find Bitani Bega.
The road away from the camp was now better known to us, and we did not
waste time. At the first camp we dropped the boy, and he scuttled away
in the shadows, followed by a lecture in Navajo.
“How’s the Cottonwood crossing?” someone asked the trader.
“It’s all right, if you know where to hit it,” he replied. “Go on down
there and wait for me. I’ll get my coat at the store, and a couple of
shovels, and then pilot you across. Don’t attempt it without me. You’ll
get bogged, sure.”
He left us at the next turning, and we went on to the crossing. There
was no bridge in those days, and the Cottonwood was a nasty place. At
times one could go straight across, and at other times he would do well
to go several miles up the wash to cross and return. We drove on
carefully and worked our way to the edge of a hummocky place, and there
was nothing to do but wait for the trader’s return. The night had grown
clearer now; the air was crisp and the stars bright.
“I’ll see if the engine needs any water,” said one of the men.
The three prisoners drowsed in the rear seat. We both got out and
leaned our rifles against a front fender. The driver of the other car
did the same. Having watered the iron horses, we stepped off a few
yards and stood talking, when suddenly, one of the men threw up his
hand and called: “Listen!”
One can hear noises a long way in the open spaces, and we had left the
hills and were now in a great flat. On the quiet air came the sound of
many hoofs, drumming, racing down on us. A quick scramble back to the
cars and the rifles. There was no crossing that wash without a guide.
We swung the cars broadside of the road, and turned off the lights.
Of course, we thought the boy had returned, and they were now about to
rescue their captured neighbor. Naturally they would seek us at the
crossing. I threw the rifle lever and a shell into the breech, and
leaned across the engine. We would have the car between us.
The hoofs pounded nearer, a dozen or more ponies.
“Uptohulloa!” roared the big stockman, a word he could fire like a
broadside. They reined in, a group of shadowy horsemen.
“Where you going?” was pieced out from our smattering of Navajo. Then
one of them rode forward, and we recognized a man from a camp below the
wash.
“Going home,” he said, simply.
We had no fault to find with this, and said so. Their ponies slowly and
gingerly began crossing the bog, following a devious trail. Another
thrill shattered. It is a land where nothing ever happens until,
through misfortune or misunderstanding, the wholly unexpected occurs.
When our guide came up, we too crossed, and three hours later we
reached the Holbrook jail. The deputy sheriff in charge said that all
hotels were filled, and we were too tired to seek lodging elsewhere.
What would do for the prisoners would be gratefully accepted by the
posse. So we all slept that night behind the bars.
Very early I found a physician to examine and dress the wounds of our
battered witness, and I telegraphed the Leupp Indian Agent for
instructions as to the one prisoner from his Bidahoche province. He
replied that he would come for the man. We went on to court with the
liquor cases. [3] There One-eyed Dan and his partner pleaded guilty,
and were sentenced to a rest of several months in jail; whence, having
recuperated and made new plans, they returned to the back-country game
with renewed spirits.
My colleague of the Leupp Agency managed things differently. The
complainant and prisoner were taken to his headquarters, where he heard
the case as Nahtahni, and sentenced the guilty to break rock for a
considerable period. However, this was not nearly so impressive to the
Indian as action in a foreign court, removed from the Indian country;
but it is a pity that the circumstance of capture and the possibility
of crime weigh so little when the Indian culprit is arraigned before
those not conversant with his daily life.