QUINAIULTS AND QUILLAYUTES
Beyond the black range of the Olympic mountains, which can be seen
standing out in such bold relief against the western horizon from the
bluffs about the cities of the Sound on bright days, sits the little
village of the Quinaiult Indians, whose last remnant of a once mighty
tribe now scarce numbers a hundred persons. There’s a long shingle of
beach, a glistening reach of sand, bright under the glare of summer suns,
with a broad sweep of salty bay, flecked here and there with a few jagged
and black-looking rocks, the sporting ground of the sea otter the year
round. Outside the line of pointed rocks the swells from the restless
Pacific ocean come tumbling in and are broken into white foam and dashing
spray upon the rocks or, missing those roll on upon the beach and curl
the shimmering reach of sand into pretty riffles. At the rear is a dense
background of forest that reaches far into the interior until it runs
out at the timber line far up the sloping sides of the Olympics. The
Quinaiult river rushes out through the tangle of forest past the village
and pours its purling waters into the long stretch of bay, as if glad to
escape from the imprisonment of woods and jungle. The little village is
an ideal scene, one to swell the ambitions of the artist, and to please
the fancy of the legend-lover or the story teller. To the north’ard many
miles and on clear days can be seen the jutting outline of Cape Flattery,
that most northwesterly point of land in these United States, and around
whose base the waters of the ocean surge and roll and never rest, and
where, ’tis said, “a day has never passed whereon it has not rained.”
To the south’ard is the long reach of coast land, with few breaks, that
runs away into the distant perspective and finally loses itself in a
hazy and blue horizon. Many, many moons ago, so runs the tradition of
the Quinaiults, their people were numbered by the thousands, and they
held a great power over other and adjacent tribes, above that of any
tribe that inhabited all the coast lands thereabouts. But many changes
have taken place since the sun of the ancient Quinaiult was in the
zenith. The warriors of the tribe lie buried in the dense copse and
wood that feather-edge the great sand stretches of the ocean beach, and
a degenerated handful of men and women and children, a few dogs and
chickens keep watch over the graves and cling to the little grass plats
that formed the nucleus of their once almost boundless domain. Worse
far, all their happy hunting grounds have been curtailed by a maternal
government until now but a stretch of ocean beach and a narrow breadth of
mighty forest land is all that is left that they can call their own.
One street, crooked in a right angle half way in its length, serves the
little village for a thoroughfare, aye, more than answers, for little use
have the handful of Quinaiults who are left for street or thoroughfare
other than the naked beach. The ocean shore is their highway and the
cedar canoe their favored and their only equipage, and they ask for
nothing better.
Of their habitations there is not much to attract except in their very
quaintness. There are very few and as the years roll by there will be
fewer still, for the Quinaiults will soon be known only in history or
musty tradition. Several of their rude structures, bare imitations
copied from the whites who have crowded them down upon the narrow beach,
are raised on stilts or elevated foundations just out of reach of the
turbulent tides. These raised structures are not, however, the rule, for
the larger number line the little foot-path out of reach of the restless
waters. The majority of the buildings have for the floor the mother
earth. The exteriors generally are as rude as the floor. An ordinary barn
far outranks the unclassic habitation of the older Quinaiults, and even
the rising generation fails in its efforts to approach the rudest ideal
of the Boston man.
The “renaissance” erections of Quinaiult and also the two government
buildings, for there is an agency on the ground, only serve to contrast
with the ultra-conservatism apparent in the greater portion of this
veritable wind-washed place. Hand-riven cedar, now darkly stained and
moss-covered by age, rudely but snugly laid together after the fashion
of a barn, describes the exterior. But within, what study! The colder
comfort of the exterior has vanished. There is little light, for there
are no windows, and the smoke from the fire which burns somewhere within
hides one’s view. Gradually, however, one can see.
The household is generally squatting upon rush mats, with darkened faces
and queer fashion presenting a strange picture illumined by the glow of
the small log fire. The most conspicuous of the group, perhaps, will be
an old woman or older man of short stature and appearing broken down
with age. The rank growth of heavy gray hair, for all wear it to its
full length, covers almost entirely the small, wizened features, now
characteristic of little but decrepitude and imbecility, but showing
a sharply receding forehead, sharp eyes, and small, regular teeth,
yet preserved with fair whiteness; covered with a parti-colored shawl
or blanket, clothed in an ordinary skirt and bodice, or with a dirty,
faded shirt, if it be a man, and decorated with ancient trinkets which
have dangled from the ears for perhaps a hundred years, forms one only
of the old dames or graybeards who are found attached to the Quinaiult
household. If a squaw, her time is occupied stirring the contents of
an iron kettle containing salmon, while other members of the family
engage in mat-making or basket-weaving. One or two fat and naked little
Quinaiults are also in view, playing with the domestic pets of all
kinds—chickens, cats and dogs. They are watched by the mother with a
truly maternal care. The latter displays, with average height but heavy
proportions, a healthy, active form, indicating a strength not much
inferior to that of her liege lord and husky-looking husband. Indeed, the
woman is built for the work in which she so exerts herself when poling in
the canoe on the rapids of her own Quinaiult river, for a long reach of
their favorite stream running back into the hills the tribe holds as part
of its own domain. Her features are full and round, of the usual Flathead
type, and display an intelligence immediately remarked in contrast
with her aged kindred. Though living in huts no better than stables or
outhouses, she is contented, rather neat in attire and not unhappy.
But the truer type of the tribe, the head of the household, is also
there, a living study for the enthusiast—a portrait not yet portrayed.
His face and his bearing recall the Indian stoic of romance and bring to
mind the heroes of the sun dance. In youth this full-blooded nomad of
the water had slain three men in single-handed combat or accomplished
other warlike deeds. There is some trace of thought in his countenance,
and, notwithstanding the flat head he bears himself as a freeman. The
eye of the man is small and oblique, well lashed, and surmounted by
heavy eyebrows. The nose is wide, not very prominent; mouth large, and
of impressive line. His figure is well balanced—a heavy frame covered
by rounded flesh, not particularly sinewy. His negligee is a shirt
only—there is no orthodox dress for the male portion of the tribe.
Types in the tribe are greatly varied at this late, or rather last,
period of existence. The specific characteristic is the flat head.
In physique the Quinaiult cannot compare with his brother of the plains.
He has matured in the damp shadows of the forest and in the cramped
limits of the cedar canoe—not on the boundless prairie. The group before
us, however, shows signs of health and strength, without great vivacity.
The method of dining is as simple as the meal itself, for each of the
family dips promiscuously into a kettle with a small ladle of horn.
Salmon, often without other addition whatever to the bill of fare, is
relished to excess.
Since the days to which their earliest tradition extends the lordly
salmon has graced the Quinaiult’s frugal board. True the waters that wash
up against his rude dwelling contain countless thousands of other fish,
but they never show themselves in the fresh water streams.
Of game they have but little, and as the years go by what little they
have been used to gradually diminishes. Salmon is the chief staple diet
and will continue to be so until the last Quinaiult has departed to the
happy fishing grounds.
Besides the salmon and other fish the older Quinaiults lived upon the
products as well of the forest and the stream, as do in a measure the
remnant of the tribe now left. Encroaching civilization has driven the
game almost out of his reach now, for the Quinaiult is a hunter who
doesn’t like trailing through the dense woods. He must now depend on a
relish from the garden of some sort to take the place of the juicy steaks
of the game of the forest.
In the waters of the ocean they still seek the valuable sea otter, the
seal, and sea lion, and at times the whale from which everything eatable
almost is sent to the larder. In the woods they still track the deer, the
elk and the bear and trap the otter, the beaver and the mink at the river
brink, though had they still to depend upon these for sustenance they
would go to bed on half rations. The furs they secure, however, go a good
ways in keeping the proverbial wolf from the door of their hovels.
In the ocean and river chase, however, is where these redmen excel,
for they have literally been bred, born and brought up on the waters.
Bravery in the canoe, on the surf or in the rapid rivers where no other
craft can live, is the leading virtue of the Quinaiult. He will pack in
his ictas and his household, and course the waters of the river or the
coast and send the canoe spinning through the strongest currents that
chase about the base of Flattery Rocks with the daring hardihood of a
Dohomian warrior in battle. He will course along the coastland in waters
that no ordinary vessel will attempt and seldom is it that the Quinaiult
population is decreased by wrecks at sea.
The Quinaiult has no excessive love of life. He is stoic, living in the
hope of the happy hunting or fishing ground, and a few years ago the
custom of slaying the pony of the dead at the grave was still practiced.
It is even now the custom to place the gold of the dead in the mouth
and hands, burying it with them. “They will need it on the journey to
the happy hunting grounds,” and the cupidity of the Quinaiult is never
aroused at the sight of gold when one of his people dies, for they like
all other western Indians have an excessive love of family.
Along the somber banks of the Quinaiult river at this day are many
graves, bearing on the exterior, in decorative form, the minor personal
belongings of the body within. There were graves pointed out which were
made earlier than their tradition records and once graceful canoes of
cedar placed above their dead owners are now crumbling into unshapely
forms.
Marriage is a simple institution of “take a wife and live with her.”
The potlatch dance, or gift feast, is the year’s social event at
Quinaiult.
Upon the acquirement of wealth the fortunate man issues a manifest to
his own and other tribes that it is his intention to hold a potlatch
merriment. He gives up his entire fortune, for he acquires thereafter the
title of “tyee” or chief. Presents of all values are lavishly distributed
to those who attend. It is a grotesque ceremony and lasts many days.
The superstition of the tribe forms a weird chapter. The medicine man is
the chief factor. He has in his possession hideously painted and carved
wooden images, shamens of wonderful power in Quinaiult. Representing
grossly exaggerated human proportions, and of no merit as a work of art,
they bear no description. It is in sickness that these “big medicines,”
as they are called, are used by the doctor, who remains in practice
against all devices of the evil one to suppress his power.
One of the latest affairs in which this big medicine was practiced,
resulted in the death of three children, all of the same family, after
many weeks of noisy demonstration by the doctors. The father’s wealth was
spent in heavy payments to the medicine men, called by him from various
tribes to administer to his sick girls, who at first showed nothing
more than the symptoms of a simple disease. In company with the doctors
also were many neighbors, who crowded the limited quarters of the sick
room to suffocation, in the performances of their wild orgies. Night
and day would be heard the hoarse chant of the medicine men, chorused
vociferously by the crowd, and the beating of the tom-tom drum. The young
ones lay helpless and unattended, without hope or chance of recovery.
Few strangers pass through the village without hearing the noise of the
tom-tom, and the chant of death at the sick bed. However trifling the
complaint the medicine man is called and heavily recompensed for his
services.
The indulgence of superstition, however, is better illustrated by the
recent conduct of the unhappy mother of a child which became slightly
sick. The incident happened during one of the cold and stormy nights of
winter. Darkness had long announced the hour of sleep when a wailing
cry was heard coming from the side of the river, where nothing but a
forest-covered bluff exists. The cry was one almost of agony and was
continued throughout the night. At times the wail of woe would be borne
away by the soughing of the woods in the gale or be drowned by the roar
of breakers close at hand. No light was seen. With the faith of a fanatic
and endurance of a mother’s love the mourner spent the night alone in
the cold and rain, wrapped in no cover but a single blanket, in the
belief that the evil spirit would not find her babe in the darkness. The
strange faith of the woman is paralleled by the worship practiced by an
old medicine man, still living, of the tribe. In a dilapidated dwelling
the Indian erected a charred hemlock pole of slight dimensions, securing
thereto a covering of eagle and other feathers. The idol was complete
in its simplicity and exemplified a tradition of the medicine man’s
power. Its significance, however, remains buried within the bosom of
the taciturn worshiper. For days and nights he knelt beside this strange
design without eating, without sleeping, but partly chanting, partly
talking, with earnest gesture and uplifted face, he called up the mystery
of his superstition.
The great highway of the tribe, next to the ocean itself, is the swiftly
flowing Quinaiult river, up which they run their light canoes to the lake
of the same name. In the summer and sometimes, too, when the snow whitens
the upper lying forests, the canoe highway is relinquished and the Indian
takes the trail through the woods or over the mountains. From the lake of
Quinaiult, resting in the foothills of the Olympics, within hearing of
the ocean’s roar, many trails are blazed to camps, made long years ago,
where fat elk have been butchered and dried by the Indians.
The mountains form the summer’s paradise of the tribe. It is there that
bands of elk may be seen gamboling on the unmelted snow in the glare
of the sun; and the black bear may be seen in numbers feeding on the
luxurious wild berries. But the lake itself, perhaps, is regarded by the
Indians as their greatest natural treasure. The year round it is the
haunt of numerous kinds of salmon, tempted there from the ocean to spawn.
Thousands of trout may be seen also in its transparent depths and wild
fowl flock to its inviting feeding grounds in great numbers from all
climes. At times, too, a deer makes its way from bank to bank. It is an
ideal spot, but will not much longer be the domain of the Quinaiult tribe.
The interior of the Quinaiult hut is more interesting than the outside.
In the smoke and dull light the details of the house are almost
invisible. The mountings of a rack of firearms, seven or eight in number,
attract inquiry as they glimmer in the firelight. They are relics of many
years with the exception of one or two. The most ancient is a flint-lock,
of immense bore and short barrel, the stock being inlaid with native work
of bone. Another is an old muzzle-loading Kentucky rifle standing as
high as the hunter himself; and of more recent date is the old reliable
Sharp’s, picked up by the present generation in their migrations to the
hop fields on Puget Sound or in barter.
Here and there many things tell of the chase—the short thick string bow
of Alaska cedar, together with a quiver of feathered arrows, steel traps
and the salmon and otter spears (fir poles an inch in diameter and 18
feet long) mounted with two keen points of elk or deer horn, and secured
by thongs of rawhide, and a dozen other curious relics. The domestic
belongings of the family are within the building. Canoe poles of young
hemlock and the strong, light and gracefully made paddles of native
yew-wood are stowed away under the roof. Hanging on the walls are rush
mats, clam baskets and more fancifully-designed baskets delicately weaved
of dyed spruce roots, forming one of the more profitable pastimes of the
women. Relics of the hunt, hides, furs, tanned skins, horns and skulls
are in every odd corner. Fresh meats and fresh salmon are hung in the
cool shade without the house. Salmon is also hung up to dry in the sun
without, and masses of salmon are hanging from the rafters within, curing
by smoke from the daily fires. Salmon aroma is everywhere.
There is no furniture proper. The family beds are laid upon platforms
raised a few inches from the floor, with a few rush mats for mattresses.
The appearance of the whole interior is primitive to a degree. It is a
study on nature’s own farm.
Probably of all their pastimes the sea otter chase lends the greatest
excitement and shows the Quinaiult Indian at his best. The otter loves
the surf that tosses about around and over the jutting rocks that fringe
a few islands out in the bay in front of the village. Strong tides rush
in eddying currents between the rocks and the shore line, and following
these the Quinaiult pushes his sea boat out on the leeward side of the
rocks and meets the glossy-coated animal in his most pleasant haunt. The
smoothbore is now used largely by the present hunters, but the spear once
formed the only weapon used in the chase as the bow and quiver did on
land.
The Quinaiult builds himself a lookout on shore and a sentinel is at all
convenient times perched up aloft with his gaze seaward, on the lookout
for any object of the chase by sea. When a whale or otter or a herd of
seals is spied the sentinel gives the warning and all able-bodied members
of the tribe rush for the fleet of canoes always drawn up on the beach.
Few ships appear in the offing and fewer steam vessels beat the waters
along the shoreline, for Quinaiult is nearly midway between Gray’s harbor
and the entrance to the straits at Cape Flattery. There are no roads
leading across country to the distant settlements on the Sound, and
Quinaiult is therefore a lonesome place. The white settler is encroaching
upon the Quinaiult, but his life must be largely an extension of the
native’s for many years to come until the friendly railroad reaches
him—if it ever does.
[Illustration: QUINIAULTS HUNTING HAIR SEAL]