BURTON GOES TO THE RESERVATION
It was a barren prospect that greeted Burton when he stepped from the
train at the station,--the only passenger to alight. A bare windswept
prairie; at a little distance, a colony of teepees, with fluttering
rags and blankets blowing about, and a bunch of ponies nibbling at the
coarse grass; and nothing to mark the hand of the white man but the
rails which ran in gleaming and significant silence away. A man whose
clothes were of the indistinguishable color of the sunburnt grass was
sitting on the edge of the platform which made the whole of the
station. He was dangling his feet over the edge and whittling, and it
was this occupation quite as much as his looks that made Burton guess
him to be a white man. He went up to him.
"Can you tell me where to find the Agent?" he asked.
The man had been staring at him intently as he approached, and now,
after a pause that made Burton wonder whether he had been understood,
the man cocked his thumb in the direction of a long frame building on
the other side of the track. A man was standing in the doorway,
watching the daily pageant of civilization represented by the passing
train, and Burton approached him. Immediately the man to whom he had
spoken slipped from the platform and ran, with a long lope, toward the
teepees on the right.
Burton presented himself to the Indian Agent, introducing himself as
an amateur on the subject of Indian basketry, who wished to add to his
knowledge by studying the art among the Indians on the Reservation.
The Agent, whose name was Welch, evidently found some difficulty in
adjusting his own point of view to that of his visitor, but Burton
finally succeeded in convincing him that he was at least sane enough
to receive the benefit of the doubt, and that there really were people
who cared to know about what the Indians made for their own use.
"I especially want to see the older squaws who remember how things
were done in the old days, before they were put on Reservations," said
Burton.
"Old Ehimmeshunka would about fill that bill, I guess," said Welch.
"She's old, all right. She's Washitonka's squaw. Their daughter is
Pahrunta, and she takes baskets and fancy things like that on the
railroad train to sell."
"I should like to see them," said Burton eagerly. They certainly were
the very people he wanted to see. Those were the names Ben Bussey had
mentioned.
"All right; come along."
"Can they speak English?"
"Washitonka speaks fairly well. Ehimmeshunka doesn't need to, of
course. Pahrunta knows a few words, enough to enable her to get about
by herself. She probably understands a good deal more than she shows.
They are that way."
"I shall be greatly obliged if you will act as interpreter."
"Certainly. Hello, here's Washitonka now!"
An old Indian had entered the room so noiselessly that neither of the
white men had heard him. He was a striking figure, erect in spite of
the years he carried, and wrapped in a blanket which looked as
dignified as any Roman toga. In spite of the stolidity of his
expression, there was unmistakable curiosity in the look he bent upon
Burton.
"What you want, Washitonka?" asked Welch, in a tone of indulgent
jocularity.
The Indian continued to look at Burton with a frank interest that did
not approach rudeness or lessen his dignity. It was hard to say
whether his curiosity was friendly or not. He seemed a mixture of the
child and the Sphinx.
"How!" said Burton, with friendly intent.
"How!" responded Washitonka. Then he turned to Welch and made some
observations in a very guttural voice.
"He says he has come to see the man who has a charmed life," said
Welch with a laugh.
"Ask how he knows that I have a charmed life."
After some colloquy, which Burton wished vainly that he could
understand, Welch explained.
"He says he knew, when he saw the smoke rise this morning, that a man
who bore a charmed life would come to his teepee today."
"Oh, did he!" exclaimed Burton. "Well, tell him that when I lit my
cigar this morning I knew by the way the smoke rose that I should meet
today a wise old man with a silver tongue, who would tell me many
wonderful tales of the old days when the Indian and the paleface
hunted the buffalo together and were brothers."
Welch laughed, and after a moment's stony impassivity Washitonka
relaxed into a grin which betrayed his understanding of the white
man's tongue.
"Good talk," he said briefly.
"Will you explain to him that I want to find out about
basket-weaving?" said Burton.
Welch evidently found it expedient to use Washitonka's own language
for elaborate disquisitions of this sort. At the end of his
exposition, Washitonka approached a step toward Burton and spoke with
grave dignity.
"Bacco," was what he said.
Burton had come prepared for this emergency, and he produced a package
of tobacco, artfully allowing it to be seen that there were other
packages still in reserve.
"Come," said Washitonka, and stalked off toward the sunburnt teepees
toward which the stray lounger at the station had gone.
By this time the little village was very much alive. Curiosity had
brought the women and the children to the doors, where they stood
shyly staring at the stranger. The men scorned to show open curiosity,
but they all seemed to have business out of doors at that moment.
Washitonka's teepee was somewhat larger than the others, but there was
nothing else about it to suggest the dignity of the chief. A pile of
folded blankets and garments filled one corner, and cooking utensils
were piled in another. But Burton had neither eyes nor thoughts for
the accessories of the place. His attention was wholly given to the
little old woman, broad-faced, brown-skinned, who sat by the doorway
stringing beads. Her face was wrinkled like a piece of leather, and
her coarse black hair was drawn down behind her ears and tied with gay
cord. Her small black eyes followed Burton's motions as an animal's
might. She was so complete and so unusual a picture that Burton would
very gladly have made the trip just to see her.
Back of her in the teepee a woman was moving about her work,--the
daughter, Pahrunta. Burton smiled at her and she smiled back in
recognition.
Welch said something in their own tongue, and the younger woman
waddled across the place and brought out a large basket holding the
wares that she took to the town to sell. They were mostly trumpery
things,--impossible birch-bark baskets and bead-worked match-holders
and collar-boxes supposed to appeal to the taste of the tourist. But
Burton saw, with thankfulness, that the large basket which held the
things was woven with the same strong, peculiar twist that he had
studied so carefully in the example he already owned.
"Ask them who made the large basket," he said, while he handled the
gay trivialities with careless hand.
Welch duly translated the inquiry, and said: "She did,--Ehimmeshunka
here. Made it long ago, she says."
"Ask her if she will teach me to make one like it."
This, translated, provoked only laughter from Pahrunta and a grunt
from Washitonka. The old, old woman looked on without expression.
"Tell her I will pay her," said Burton, showing money.
It took a good deal of explaining to get the idea really understood,
and then Ehimmeshunka shook her head.
"She says the winter has come into her fingers and they are like twigs
when the frost is on them," he explained, with some difficulty. "Now
she can only put beads on a string like a child."
"Ask if she ever taught any one else when her fingers were young."
Before Welch could translate this question, Washitonka spoke a curt
word to the woman. His intonation and look needed no translation.
Burton guessed quickly enough that it was an injunction of silence,
and this was confirmed when Ehimmeshunka's grin faded into stolidity
and she took up her work again.
"Old Wash says she never taught anybody," said Welch.
This response and the look he had intercepted gave Burton pause. Was
he being purposely blocked in his investigation? He did not wish to
prejudice his case by too much urgency, so he deemed it best to drop
the matter for the time. He gave Ehimmeshunka a coin, and turned away
with Welch.
"What do you know yourself about these people?" he asked the Agent.
"Well, not much. You see, I've just come."
"You know their language."
"Oh, yes. I've been in the service for some time, but I was assigned
here only about a month ago, when the other Agent died. I haven't seen
all the Indians that belong to me yet. They're away somewhere, hunting
or loafing, or riding their wild ponies over the prairies just for
fun. No head for business."
"Then you know nothing of the personal history of Washitonka or who
his friends are?"
"Not a scrap."
"I'm sorry," said Burton. "I wanted to learn something about the early
days when they saw more or less of the early settlers."
"Writing a book?"
"You might call it so," said Burton non-committally. (Certainly he
might, if he wanted to.)
"That old chap, Washitonka, ought to have stories to tell," said
Welch, with interest, "but he seems as close as a clam. That's an
Indian trait. They won't talk personalities."
"What did he mean by saying I had a charmed life?" asked Burton,
returning to a point that had puzzled him.
"Don't know. Said that you cheated death. They have a way of giving
names like that. Have you had any narrow escapes?"
"How would Washitonka know it, if I had?"
"Oh, there you get me! Perhaps Pahrunta heard talk of it."
But the suggestion did not satisfy Burton. He had the feeling that
Washitonka knew more than he should--unless posted. Yet how could he
have been posted? It made him feel that he must go warily.
In the afternoon he visited other teepees under Welch's chaperonage,
and tried to establish a wide-spread reputation as a collector of
curios and of stories. He did not go near Washitonka's teepee. He
followed the same plan of procedure the next day,--and it took more
self-control than he often had occasion to call upon. He gained one
point by this method, however: he definitely satisfied himself that if
he did not get the information he wanted in Washitonka's teepee, he
might as well abandon the idea of getting it anywhere on the
Reservation. There was no one else, in this little colony at any rate,
who dated back to the time he wanted to probe. When he asked why there
were no old people, the Agent answered tersely: "Smallpox."
That curse of the winter had swept the nomadic tribes again and again
in their days of wandering, and only the younger and stronger had
survived to find the comparative protection of the Reservation life.
And to this younger generation the past had either no value or too
emotional a value. They had forgotten its traditions, or else they
refused to tell them to the stranger of today. Burton's inquiry was
specific and definite: Had any white men been among them and learned
how to weave baskets? To them it was a foolish question,--so foolish
that they could with difficulty be persuaded to make a definite
answer. Why should any white man wish to weave baskets? Could he not
buy better baskets in the stores, not to mention buckets of beautiful
tin? Nobody made baskets but old Ehimmeshunka.
On the third day he returned, with as casual an air as was possible,
to Washitonka's teepee. Ehimmeshunka was sitting in the sunshine by
the door. Washitonka was smoking some of Burton's tobacco, with an air
of obliviousness, but when Burton placed himself beside Ehimmeshunka
and began talking in a low voice to his interpreter, Welch, the old
Indian promptly laid aside his dignity and came over to the little
group by the door. Clearly he was not going to allow any conversation
in his teepee without his knowledge.
There was little opportunity, however, for any asides, since Burton
was under the necessity of talking through an interpreter. It was so
cumbersome a method that he resolved to abandon his small attempt at
diplomacy and strike boldly for what he wanted.
"Ask Washitonka if he knows Dr. Underwood. I am a friend of his,"
Burton said to Welch. He watched the faces of the Indians as this was
translated, but he could see no glimmer of responsiveness in any face.
Possibly it was merely because he did not understand the language of
their unfamiliar faces any more than he did their unfamiliar tongue.
"Tell them I know Selby," he continued, while he watched Pahrunta. At
the sound of the name she looked toward him with blank directness and
Burton rejoiced. He had established communication! But when Welch
repeated the question in Indian, it brought no response from any one.
Washitonka merely grunted. Pahrunta turned away and spat upon the
ground, but that might have had no significance.
"They don't seem to know him, either," said Welch.
"Ask the woman what she calls the man who struck her arm in the
station when she spoke to him, and spilled her baskets."
But Pahrunta would not answer. She listened as though she heard
nothing and turned away as though they had not spoken.
"Is it possible that she is still friendly to Selby?" he wondered. "Is
she so much the savage that she admires him the more for striking
her?"
Welch yawned, as though the game were losing its interest. "The train
is about due," he said, rising. "I guess I'd better go and meet it, in
case there is any mail."
He wandered off, leaving Burton to his own resources. Washitonka,
apparently satisfied that he was not dangerous without an interpreter,
lapsed back into dignified unconcern and tobacco smoke. He looked the
Sphinx more than ever.
Burton was, indeed, helpless. Should he confess himself beaten and
take the afternoon train back to High Ridge? He was still debating the
question when Welch returned,--the train from the south having come in
while he was tossing his mental penny.
"A letter for you!" Welch called, while still at a distance, as though
the arrival of a letter were a great event.
It was from Ralston, and Burton read it with interest.
"Everything is so quiet along this Potomac," Ralston wrote, "that
Watson is getting more pessimistic about Henry Underwood than ever. He
has long felt that to lock Henry up would be the quickest means of
giving High Ridge a long-needed rest, and now he feels confirmed in
his faith--or in his unfaith, if you take that point of view. I have
been tempted to stir up a little local ruction myself, just to give
your side some moral support,--but I am not sure it would be moral
support under those circumstances. How is that?"
"I'd better go back," mused Burton, as he folded the letter. "I'm
accomplishing nothing here, and I'm wasting time." To Welch he said
aloud: "Tell them I am going back to High Ridge this afternoon."
Welch made the announcement. After an undemonstrative silence of some
moments, Washitonka put a question which Welch translated.
"He asks if you will see the man who lies on his back all the time."
"Ben Bussey?"
Washitonka caught the name and nodded.
"Yes, I shall see Ben Bussey," said Burton. "What then?"
Washitonka went to a side of the teepee and from a pile of folded
blankets he drew out a red-stone pipe, beautifully carved. With an air
of dignity that would have done credit to a Spanish grandee, he
carried it to Burton and placed it in his hands with a guttural
injunction which Welch translated.
"He wants you to give it to the cripple. He says he taught the boy to
carve pipes many moons ago, and Ben's father ate of his corn and slept
under his buffalo robe like a brother."
"Thank him for the pipe," dictated Burton. "Tell him I will carry it
safely to Ben Bussey, the man who cannot walk, and it will speak to
him of old friends. Ask him if he knows when Ben's father died."
But instantly the mask of reserve dropped over the bronze features
that for a moment had looked human.
"He doesn't remember," said Welch.
There was no use in waiting for a lapse into memory when ignorance was
so persistently fostered. Burton rose.
"Ask Washitonka to accept from me this tobacco," he said. "It is in
farewell. And for the women in his teepee I have brought presents." He
took from his pocket two small hand-mirrors, and presented one to
Ehimmeshunka and one to Pahrunta. Old Ehimmeshunka received hers with
the delight of a child. She looked in it and laughed, and laughed and
laughed, wrinkling up her queer old face in a manner wonderful to see.
Pahrunta received hers in silence. She indeed hid it at once in her
dress with an eagerness that showed its ownership was prized, but she
did not show the excitability of Ehimmeshunka. Instead, she looked
steadily at Burton. While he was making his final and formal adieux to
Washitonka, he several times caught Pahrunta's serious eyes fixed upon
him. But when he left the teepee she was busy over her work and gave
no heed to him.
The train went out at four. Half an hour before it was due, Burton
carried his bag over to the station platform. Then, merely from the
habit of motion, he began pacing up and down the length of the board
walk, waiting for the train. He was not in a cheerful mood, for his
expedition had been a failure, and he was going back to a situation no
more promising than he had left. As he turned on his heel at the
extreme end of the walk, a blinding flash of light struck his eyes and
made him wince. Where in the world did it come from? As he looked
about, it again flashed dazzlingly into his eyes. A recollection of
the way in which, as a youngster, he had indulged in the pleasing
diversion of bewildering the passers in the street with a properly
manipulated bit of looking-glass, helped him now to form a theory as
to the present phenomena. Some urchin was having fun with the
paleface! He looked carefully about, but there was no one in sight,
nor was there seemingly any place on the bare prairie for a
mischievous child to hide,--unless it was behind that leaning fence
which served the railroad for a snow break in winter but which was now
overgrown with the rank weeds of the summer. As he turned a suspicious
eye upon it, he caught a momentary flash, instantly hidden. With a
smile on his lips he sauntered down to the place, expecting to pull
out from among the weeds some lithe, wriggling, brown-skinned boy, but
to his utter amaze he found, crouching among the tall weeds, the
heavy-featured Pahrunta, in her hand the mirror he had given her an
hour before, and which she had used to attract his attention. Her
attitude and actions showed plainly that she was anxious not to be
seen from the teepees, and with a quick understanding of her desire
for concealment Burton walked on a few steps, lit a cigar, and then
slowly sauntered back as far as the fence and stopped near the place
where she crouched.
"Did you want to tell me something?" he asked, speaking distinctly and
hoping she might be more of a linguist than had yet appeared.
Such seemed, indeed, to be the case.
"You--friend," she said in a throaty guttural, helping her halting
speech by pointing her finger at him.
"I am your friend,--yes," said Burton.
But she shook her head.
"You--friend--man--" In a rapid pantomime she struck her own arm,
shrank from the blow, and threw a handful of leaves before her which
she followed with her eye as they blew away. It was so vivid a sketch
of the scene at the station at High Ridge when Selby struck down her
outstretched hand and sent her baskets flying down the steps before
her that Burton was thrilled by the skill of it. She wished to know if
he were a friend of Selby's! For a moment he hesitated as to the
policy of his answer; then, hoping the truth might prevail, he shook
his head.
"No. Enemy. I follow on his trail. Some day scalp him." He felt that
it was the proper place for pantomime on his part, but feared his
ability. But she seemed to catch his meaning, and to his great relief
she smiled in satisfaction.
"Washitonka friend," she said, pointing to the teepee. "Me no friend."
She spat upon the ground. "Washitonka hide. Me show." And from the
folds of her garment she suddenly brought out a small black object. It
was an old-fashioned daguerreotype case. She opened it and held it
toward Burton, but when he would have taken it into his own hand she
drew back.
"See, no take," she said. Evidently she would not trust it out of her
own possession.
He bent down to look. The case held, on one side, one of those curious
early portraits which can only be seen when the light is right, and
then come out with the startling distinctness of ghost-pictures. He
turned her hand, which clutched the case tightly, until he caught the
picture. Two young men--rather, a boy and a young man--looked out from
behind the glass with the odd effect of an older fashion in hair and
dress. The older of the two had the close-set eyes and narrow face
that characterized Selby. It was Selby as he might have been twenty
odd years ago,--a young man under twenty. The other might, he thought,
be Ben Bussey. Of that he could not be sure, but he felt eagerly sure
of Selby. He put his finger on the face and looked at Pahrunta.
"Selby?" he said. "The man that struck you?"
She shut the case, hastily hid it in her dress, and drew back among
her concealing weeds. With the skill and noiselessness of an animal,
she slunk in among them so that Burton himself was hardly able to
locate her with his eye. There was no use in following her. If he had
learned nothing else, he had learned that it is not possible to get
from an Indian any information except what he wishes to give.
At that moment the whistle announced the approach of the train.
Pahrunta had timed her confession so that he could not press her
farther if he wanted to. He walked back to the platform, picked up
his bag, and swung himself on. As they puffed past the weed-grown
snow-break a moment later, he looked out, but no sign could he catch
of the skulking figure he knew to be hidden there. But on the chance
he tossed a gleaming coin backward toward it.
He found a quiet seat and gave himself up to analyzing the situation.
Just what had he gained? A few disconnected facts. He pieced them
together.
1. Old Ehimmeshunka did use in her basket work the peculiar knot he
had identified in the woven lilac withes and in the knotted cord that
bound Hadley.
2. Washitonka was either naturally very secretive or he had been
warned not to talk. The latter theory was strengthened by the fact
that he had seemed to know something about the two attacks on Burton,
and by Pahrunta's fear of discovery.
3. Pahrunta had broken the imposed silence, under the spur of
resentment toward Selby, and revealed the fact that there was the link
of an ancient friendship between Selby and the red man. The
presentation of the portrait as a souvenir could mean nothing else.
4. Washitonka had most carefully refrained from mentioning Selby,
although he had avowed his friendship for Bussey, Ben's father.
5. Yet Dr. Underwood had spoken of Bussey and young Selby as
companions in the wild early days. They had hunted together and
together had roamed among the Indians. As civilization caught up with
them, Selby had dropped the ways of the Indian, while Bussey, more of
a Bohemian by nature, had gone with them when they went. But in the
beginning they had all been intimate, and the fact that Ben (if it
were Ben, as seemed likely) had been taken in the same picture with
Selby, showed that the intimacy had extended over a number of years.
Dr. Underwood, too, had formed acquaintances among the Indians, but
his day, apparently, was later.
Had old Ehimmeshunka, who wove baskets like no one else in the tribe,
taught her skill to young Selby when he went about among them in the
garb of that old portrait, trading calicoes "warranted to fade in the
first wash," as the doctor said, for their mink and muskrat skins?
That was the prime question, and he could hardly claim that it was
certainly answered. The opportunity had existed,--that much he _had_
learned. Had it been used?
"By Jove!" said Burton, suddenly struck by an idea. He leaned forward,
seeing nothing, for a long time. Then he repeated, in an awestruck
way, "By Jove!"
The idea had struck him hard.