OLD INDIAN LORE
Mr. Gordon stayed over night, but was off early in the morning. Bob
and Betty watched his rickety car out of sight, and then, determined
to keep busy and happy, set out to explore the Watterby farm.
The family, they had discovered at supper the night before, consisted
of Grandma Watterby, her son Will, a man of about forty-five, and the
daughter-in-law, Emma, a tall, silent woman with a wrinkled, leathery
skin, a harsh voice, and the kindest heart in the world. An Indian
helped Mr. Watterby run the farm. In addition there were two
boarders, a man and his wife who had come West for the latter's
health and who, for the sake of the glorious air, put up with many
minor inconveniences. They were very homesick for the East, and asked
Bob and Betty many questions.
"Just think, Bob," said Betty, as she and Bob went out to the barn
(they had been told that they were free to go anywhere), "there's no
running water in the house. Mrs. Watterby carries in every bit that's
used for drinking and washing. She was up at four o'clock this
morning, carrying water to fill the tubs; she is doing the washing
now."
"Water's as hard as a rock, too," commented Bob. "I suppose that's
the alkali. Did you notice how harsh and dry Mrs. Watterby's face
looks? Seems to me I'd rather drill for water than for oil, and the
first thing I'd do would be to pump a line into the house. They've
lived on this farm for sixty years, your uncle said. At least Grandma
Watterby has. And I don't believe they've done one thing to it, that
could be called an improvement."
"Here's the Indian," whispered Betty. "Make him talk, Bob. I like to
hear him."
The Indian had eaten at the same table with the family, after the
farm fashion, and Betty had been fascinated by the monosyllabic
replies he had given to questions asked him. He was patching a
harness in the doorway of the barn and glanced up unsmilingly at
them. Nevertheless he did not seem hostile or unfriendly.
"You come to see oil fields?" he asked unexpectedly. "You help uncle
own big well, yes? Indians know about oil hundreds of years ago."
"Uncle Dick is working for a big oil company," explained Betty. "I
don't think he owns any wells himself. Tell us something about the
Indians? Are there many around here?"
There was an old sawhorse beside the door, and she sat down
comfortably on that, while Bob, picking up a handy stick of wood,
drew a knife from his pocket and began to whittle.
The Indian was silent for a few minutes. Then he spoke slowly, his
needle stabbing the heavy leather at regular intervals.
"Wherever there is oil, there were Indians once," he announced. "Ask
any oil man and he will tell you. At Lake Erie, in Pennsylvania and
some parts of New York State, where dwelt the Iroquois, many years
after oil was found. It is true, for I have read and heard it."
"Were the Iroquois in New York State?" asked Bob interestedly. "I've
always read of the Mohawks, but not about them."
The Indian glanced at him gravely.
"The Mohawks were an Iroquois tribe," he explained courteously.
"Mohawks, Senecas, Tionontati, Cayuga, Oneida--all were tribes of the
Iroquois. Yes I see you recognize those names--many places in this
country have been named for Indians."
"Are you an Iroquois?" asked Betty, rather timidly, for she feared
lest the question should be considered impolite.
"I am a Kiowa," announced the redman proudly. "Oklahoma and Kansas
were the home of the Kiowas, the Pawnees and the Comanches. And you
see oil has been found here. In Texas, where the big oil fields are,
once roved Wichitas. The Dakotas, some tribes of which were the
Biloxi, the Opelousas and the Pascagoulas, lived on the gulf plains
of Louisiana. Out in southern California, where the oil wells now
flow, the Yokut Indians once owned the land. They tell me that where
oil had been discovered in Central America, petroleum seeps to the
surface of the land where once the Indian tribes were found."
"Did the Indians use the oil?" asked Bob. He, like Betty, was
fascinated with the musical names of the mysterious tribes as they
rolled easily from the Kiowa's tongue.
"Not as the white man does," was the answer. "The Senecas skimmed the
streams for oil and sometimes spread blankets over the water till
they were heavy with the oil. They used oil for cuts and burns and
were famed for their skill in removing the water from the oil by
boiling. Dances and religious rites were observed with the aid of
oil. The Siouan Indians, who lived in West Virginia and Virginia,
knew, too, of natural gas. They tossed in burning brands and watched
the flames leap up from pits they themselves had dug.
"You will find," the Indian continued, evidently approving of the
rapt attention of his audience, "many wells now owned by Indians and
leased to white-men companies. The Osage have big holdings. They are
reservation Indians, mostly--perhaps they can not help that. I must
go to the plowing."
He gathered up his harness and went off to the field, and Bob and
Betty resumed their explorations, talking about him with interest.
Their tour of the shabby outbuildings was soon completed, and just in
time for a huge bell rung vigorously announced that dinner was on the
table.
That afternoon they found Grandma Watterby braiding rugs under the
one large tree in the side yard, and she welcomed them warmly.
"I was just wishing for some one to talk to," she said cheerfully.
"Can't you sit a while? There isn't much for young 'uns to do, and I
says to your uncle it was a good thing there was two of you--at least
you can talk."
"What lovely rugs!" exclaimed Betty, examining the old woman's work.
"See, Bob, they're braided, just like the colonial rag rugs you see
in pictures. Can't I do some?"
"Sure you can braid," said the old woman. "It's easy. I'll show you,
and then I'll sew some while you braid."
"Let me braid, too," urged Bob. "My fingers aren't all thumbs, if I
am a boy."
"Well now," fluttered Grandma Watterby, pleased as could be, "I don't
know when I've had somebody give me a lift. Working all by yourself
is tedious-like, and Emma don't get a minute to set down. My brother
used to make lots of mats to sell; he could braid 'em tighter than I
can."
She showed Betty how to braid and then started Bob on three strips.
Then she took up the sewing of strips already braided.
"We were talking to the Indian this morning," said Betty idly. "He
told us a lot about Indians--how wherever they have been oil has been
discovered. Does he really know?"
"Ki has been to Government school, and knows a heap," nodded Grandma
Watterby. "What he tells you's likely to be so. I don't rightly know
myself about what they have to do with the oil, but Will was saying
only the other night that the Osage Indians have been paid millions
of dollars within the last few years."
Her keen old eyes were sparkling, and she was sewing with the
quick, darting motion that they soon learned was characteristic of
everything she did. She must be very old, Bob decided, watching her
shriveled hands, knotted by rheumatism, and the idea of age put
another thought into his head.
"Mr. Gordon said you'd lived on this farm for sixty years, Grandma,"
the boy said suddenly. It had been explained to them that the old
lady liked every one to use that title. "You must know 'most every
one in the neighborhood."
"Fred Watterby brought me here the day we were married," the old
woman replied, letting her sewing fall into her lap. "Sixty years ago
come next October. I was married on my seventeenth birthday."
She sat in a little reverie, and Bob and Betty braided quietly,
unwilling to disturb her, although the same question was in their
minds. Then Grandma Watterby took up her sewing with a sigh, and the
spell was broken.
"Know everybody in the neighborhood?" she echoed Bob's statement.
"Yes, I used to. But with so many moving in and such a lot of oil
folks, why, there's days when I don't see a rig pass the house I
know."
Betty and Bob spoke simultaneously.
"Do you know any one named Saunders?" they chorused.