PHIL SHERIDAN’S OLD HOME——WHAT A CABIN COST.
GRAND ROUND INDIAN AGENCY.
I Made my first official visit to this agency in the latter part of
September, 1869. Captain Charles La Follette was then acting agent.
The road from Salem was over a beautiful country, settled by white men,
who had transformed this once wild region into a paradise. The first view
of the agency proper was from a high ridge several miles distant. On the
right and left were clustered the houses of the several tribes, each one
having been assigned a location. Their houses were built of logs or
boards, and rudely put together. Every board had cost these poor people an
acre of land; every log counted for so much money given in compensation
for their birthrights to the soil of the matchless valley of the
Willamette.
As we stood on the dividing ridge separating this agency from the great
valley I have mentioned, looking toward the west, we beheld, nearest on
the left, old Fort Yamhill, with its snowy cottages, built for the
accommodation of the officers of the army in the days when the gallant
Sheridan was a lieutenant, and walked its parade-grounds with a simple
sword dangling by his side and bars on his shoulder, holding beneath his
military cap a brain power waiting for the sound of clanking chains and
thundering cannon to call him hence to deeds of valor that should compel
the laurel wreath of fame to seek his brow, little thinking then, while
guarding savages, that, away off in the future, his charger would
impatiently call him from repose, and bear him into the face of a
victorious enemy with so much gallantry that he would turn an apparent
defeat into a glorious victory.
Immediately on our right were the huts of the people for whose especial
intimidation the costly palaces and beautiful cottages had been built. The
huts or houses were built on the hillside sloping toward the valley. They
presented the appearance of a small, dilapidated inland town that had been
“cut off” by a railroad; but they were peopled with Indians who were
trying to imitate their masters.
Farther away on the left was another little group of houses, occupied by
the chief of the Santiams and his people. The sight of this man’s home
recalled a part of his own history, suggestive of romance, wild, it is
true, but real, nevertheless.
Many years ago, this chief was a young warrior, and his people were at
peace with the white race, and were not then “wards of the Government,”
but were living on their native hills, in the vicinity of Mount Jefferson,
standing sentinel over the snowy peaks of the Cascade mountains, on whose
sides were sitting, like great urns, clear, cold lakes, sending forth
little streamlets, murmuring and whispering, and sometimes leaping, like
boys going home from play, joining other merry, laughing streamlets,
rushing madly along through forests of firs and sugar-pines, whose
dropping cones startled the wild game from their repose.
’Twas here this young warrior’s home was nestled, beneath the
outstretched arms of giant cedars, or sheltered by some quiet nook or
cove. Here he had learned the arts of his own people, and passed the
winters by, until alone he could chase the fawns or climb the
mountain-peak, and gather trophies with which to ornament his neck or fill
his quiver.
A pale-face man from distant Missouri had come to this far country to
escape the familiar sounds of civilization, where he might imitate the
Indian in his freedom and his pleasures. He brought with him his family,
and built his cabin near a fountain, to which medicine men would sometimes
come or send their patients for recovery.
This white man had a son, with down just cropping on his chin, who, “chip
of the old block,” as he was, seemed half Indian already, and, fond of
wild sports, soon made the acquaintance of young Santiam. The friendship
grew, and the rivalry of _archer_ and _gunner_ often drew them into
dispute. Still they were friends.
The archer claimed that he could creep, and noiselessly shoot from cover,
without giving alarm, until his quiver should be empty, and thus bring
down the chary buck or spotted fawn. The gunner would aver that he could
do better execution at greater distance. These trials of skill were often
made, and each time the difference ’twixt white and red skin seemed to
diminish. The young pale-face would sling his gun and straightway bend his
steps toward the camp of Santiam. By signs that he had learned, he took
the young chief’s trail, and followed through wooded plains, or up the
mountain side, until they would hail each other, and then, by agreement,
would separate to meet again at some appointed place, laying a wager who
would be most successful in the chase of black-tailed deer or mountain
sheep.
The hill-sides had put on autumn hues, and the loftier hills were dressed
in winter’s garb, and gave warning to the denizens who spent their summers
near their peaks, that cold weather would soon drive them to the hills
beneath for refuge from the blasts that howl above the roar of mountain
lion or jumping torrents.
The keeper of the fleecy clouds had given sign of readiness, and, in fact,
had begun to spread the winter’s carpet down, to preserve the tender
grasses for the antlered herd, which would return in open spring to train
their limbs for daring feats, in defiance of the feathered arrow, or his
neighbor, the loud-talking gun.
Santiam, to anticipate their coming, had started in the early morn, while
yet the sun was climbing the eastern slope of Jefferson, and, leaving a
sign imprinted in the snow, for his friend to read, hurried on, hoping
that from ambush he might send his arrow home to the panting heart of the
bounding deer. His friend, anticipating the coming of his rival, had
already gone by another route to the trysting place; while waiting there
for valley-going game, he spied a grizzly bear, and, without knowing the
habits of the monster, he took deliberate aim and fired, but failed to
bring his bearship to the ground.
These fellows, when undisturbed, are sure to run; but when the leaden ball
had pierced this one’s pelt, he exhibited the usual bearish indications of
resentment for insult offered. The pale-face hunter stood his ground, and
sent another ball, merely to persuade his enemy to desist. To those
accustomed to this kind of fight, I need not say that every shot made the
matter worse. These kings of the Cascades yield not to showers of leaden
hail or flocks of flying arrows until the life of their enemy or their own
gives victory. With lumbering gait and open mouth, he closed upon the
hapless hunter, and had borne him to the ground, when Santiam reached the
scene. He hesitated not on which side he would volunteer. Snatching from
his belt a hatchet, and a well-tried knife, he, too, closed on the
grizzly, and drew his attention from his friend, who, in turn, would
attack the wounded monster, and thus alternating between two enemies, he
grew more furious and regardless of consequences.
Rallying again to renew the desperate struggle, though his life was ebbing
fast, he threw his great body on the pale-faced hunter, when Santiam, with
well-aimed steel at his heart, closed the battle. His friend had been
severely wounded, and lay prostrate on the ground; his torn garments
dripping in blood, his own, and that of his dread enemy, mingled. The
young chief soon had a blazing fire, and then tying up the wounds of his
friend, to stop the flow of blood, he hastened to his home for aid.
Returning with a cluchman of his tribe, he found his friend sinking fast.
Making a hasty litter of pine limbs, they bore the wounded hunter to his
home. The mother, at the sight of her son so mangled, like a true heroine,
overcame her fear, and made preparation for his comfort. The sister, in
her quiet way, brought refreshment for her brother, and while the father
and his comrade, the “medicine man,” were joining their skill to provide
remedies for the wounded one, young Santiam, acting from the precepts of
his people, had hurried back to the battle-ground, and, with his
cluchman’s help, soon stripped the pelt from the dead beast, and brought
it to the home of his white rival, and then the “medicine man,” with faith
based on tradition’s usage, bound up the wounds therewith.
The days went slowly by, until the danger was passed. Santiam went not to
the chase, unless for choicest food for his friend, but waited beside the
couch of his comrade for his recovery; sometimes joining with the sick
man’s sister in watching his slumbers, or, may be, touching hands in
ministering to his wants.
She, with missionary spirit, sought to teach Santiam words, and the
history, too, of her people, their ways, and higher life than he had
known. He was apt at learning, as my reader may discover by his speech,
recited in this book, made in council years after. His dark eye kindled as
some new knowledge found way to his understanding, and his heart grew
warmer at the sound of voice from pale-faced cluchman. If history be true,
her eye kindled too, at the coming of the quiet step of the young comrade
of her brother, and her heart felt a new, strange fire, that sent its
flame to her cheeks in tell-tale roses.
Novice though he was in civilized ways, he was a man, and with quick
perception made the discovery that he now cared more for his comrade’s
sister than for him; and that even the sister thought of her brother in
the third person.
This Missouri man had not yet recognized the growing love between his
daughter and young Santiam; and the mother, too, without recalling the
youthful days of her own wooing,——perhaps she had none, but years before,
in obedience to a custom of her own people, had listened to a proposal,
and accepted, because she might “do no better,”——did not recognize the
signs of coming trouble to her household, in the rustic courtship going
on. Why do parents so soon forget their wooing days, and hide the history
from their children, when so nearly all that human nature endures of woes,
or enjoys of bliss, comes through the agency of the emotions and
affections of the heart?
This guileless girl, cut off from association with her own people by
action of her father, and in gratitude for the young chief’s kindness to
her brother, had, under the prompting of the richest emotions that God had
given, opened her heart in friendship first and invited the visitor to
share so much; little dreaming that, when once the guest was there, he
would become a constant tenant, against whose expulsion she would herself
rebel.
The young chief himself did not realize that the finest, warmest feelings
of the human heart are supposed by greater men to be confined to the same
race or color. Perhaps he thought the Great Spirit had made all alike, not
fixed the difference in the hue of the skin. He was a free man; did not
know that civilization had raised a barrier between the races. He had,
without knowing what he did, found the barrier down, and passed beyond in
natural freedom, and, without thought of wrong, had given full freedom to
his heart.
The winter passed, and spring had sprinkled the hill-side with flowers.
The wilder herds had fled from the huntsman’s horn, and climbed again to
pleasure-grounds, where the tender grasses cropped out from retreating
snow-fields. The rival hunters had again resumed the chase, and spent
whole days in telling stories of the past, or living over the battle of
the preceding autumn. Each rehearsal made them better friends, and
confidence grew mutual. Santiam, with freedom, spoke to his white brother
of the “fire in his heart,”——so these people speak of love,——of the sister
whom he loved. Who ever told a fellow that he loved his sister without
making friendship tremble for the result?
The pale-face boy of whom I am writing still lives, though grown into gray
manhood, to verify this story. When Santiam had told his story, her
brother was quiet and thought in silence, while the warrior talked on, of
how he would be a “white man” and put away his wild habits, and be his
brother. The other promised that he would consult his family, and thus
they parted for the night.
The morning found Santiam at the cabin of the “settler,” little dreaming
that the friendship they had shown him was so soon to be withdrawn. He saw
the ominous word refusal in the cold reception that he met. One pair of
eyes alone talked in sympathetic glances. He waited to hear no more.
I would like to accommodate my youthful readers with what would make this
romantic story run on until some happy denouement had been found, and then
resume my work; but I dare not be false to history. The white man moved
away. The Indian remained until, through misunderstanding between his
people and the white race, war ensued; the frontier rang out the fearful
challenge of battle, and victims of both races were offered up to appease
insult and thirst for vengeance. The white hunter and his father united
with others in a war of extermination against the Indians, while they left
a home defenceless.
Young Santiam refused to war against the white man. He gave protection to
the cabin that sheltered his love of other days. The maiden is maiden yet;
and, though gray hair crowns her head, she is still faithful to the vows
made to her Indian lover in her girlhood. Whether she condemns the usage
of society that forbade her marriage, or blesses it because it saved her
from a savage life, we know not. She may blame her parents for their
short-sighted action in isolating her from those congenial to her heart,
by locating on the frontier where she met Santiam; surely, not for
prohibiting her marriage to him.
Santiam, at the close of the war, removed with his people to Grand Round
Agency, where he has lived since. Hear him talk in the Salem council of
1871, and judge him by his speeches. Faithful to his compacts, he remains
on his home. Few of those who meet him when he visits Salem know of this
romance of his life, but hundreds give him the hand of friendship.
[Illustration: GRAND ROUND AGENCY.]
To resume, Grand Round valley, the name of which suggests its size and
shape, lay stretched out before us, a beautiful picture from Nature’s
gallery, embellished by the touches that Uncle Sam’s greenbacks had given
to this agency in building churches, halls, and Indian houses, together
with a large farm for general use, and small ones for individuals.
At every change of Government officers, Reservation Indians show the
liveliest interest, and have great curiosity to see the new man. My
arrival was known to all the people very soon. The Indians of this agency
were more advanced in civilization than those of any other in Oregon. They
had been located by the Government, fifteen years previously. Many of them
were prisoners of war, in chains and under guard, and had been subjugated,
through sheer exhaustion; others were under treaty. Their very poverty and
the scanty subsistence the Government gave, was to them a blessing.
Permitted to labor for persons who lived “outside,” passes were given each
for a specified time. Thus their employers became each a civilizer.
At the time of my first official visit, they had abandoned Indian costume,
and were dressed in the usual garb of white men; many of them had learned
to talk our language. At my request, messengers were sent out, and the
people were invited to come in at an early hour the following day. Before
the time appointed they began to arrive. A few were on foot, the remainder
in wagons, or on horseback; the younger men and women coming in pairs,
after the fashion of white people around them, all arrayed in best attire,
for it was a gala day to them. I noticed that in some instances the women
were riding side-saddles, instead of the old Indian way, astride.
The children were not left at home, neither were they bound in thongs to
boards, or swinging in pappoose baskets; but some, at least, were carried
on the pummel of the father’s saddle. They were clothed like other
children. Strange and encouraging spectacle, to witness Indian men, who
were born savages, conforming to usages of civil life. When once an Indian
abandons the habits and customs of his fathers, and has tasted the air
which his more enlightened brother breathes, be never goes back so long as
he associates with good men.
These people, in less than twenty years, under the management of the
several agents, had been transformed, from “Darwin’s” wild beasts, almost
to civilized manhood, notwithstanding the croaking of soulless men who
constantly accuse United States agents of all kinds of misdemeanors and
crimes.
When they were first located, they numbered about twenty-one hundred
souls. At the time of which I write, they had dwindled away to about half
that number.
When the hour for the talk arrived the people filled the council house,
and crowded the doors and windows, so that we found it necessary to
adjourn to the open air for room and comfort. The agent, La Follette, went
through the form of introducing me to his people, calling each one by
name.
This ceremony is always conducted with solemnity; each Indian, as he
extends the hand, gazing steadfastly into the eye of the person
introduced. They seem to read character rapidly, and with correctness
equal to, and sometimes excelling, more enlightened people.
First, a short speech by Agent La Follette, followed by the “Salem
tyee,”——superintendent. I said that “I was pleased to find them so far
advanced in civilization; that I was now the ‘Salem tyee.’ You are my
children. I came to show you my heart, to see your hearts, to talk with
you about your affairs.”
Jo Hutchins——chief of Santiams——was first to speak. He said: “You see our
people are not rich; they are poor. We are glad to shake hands with you
and show our hearts. You look like a good man, but I will not give you my
heart until I know you better.” Louis Neposa said: “I have been here
fifteen years. I have seen all the country from here to the Rocky
Mountains. I had a home on Rogue river; I had a house and barn; I gave
them up to come here. That house on that hill is mine;” pointing towards
the house in question.
Indian speeches are remarkable for pertinency and for forcible expression,
many of them abounding in flights of imagination and bursts of oratory.
Much of the original beauty is lost in the translation, as few of them
speak in the English language when delivering a speech. Interpreters are
often illiterate men, and cannot render the subject-matter with the full
force and beauty of the original, much less imitate the gesture and voice.
During my residence in the far West, and especially while in Government
employ, I have taken notes, and in many instances, kept verbatim reports,
the work being done by clerks of the several agencies. I have selected,
from several hundred pages, a few speeches, made by these people, for use
in making up my book. It will be observed that the sentences are short,
and repetitions sometimes occur. In fact, these orators of nature follow
nature, and repeat themselves, as our greatest orators do, and their skill
in the art of repetition is something marvellous. This is peculiar to all
Indian councils, though not always recorded. The following are word for
word, especially Wapto Dave and Jo Hutchins’ speeches:——
Black Tom said: “I am a wild Injun. I don’t know much. I have not much
sense. I cannot talk well. I feel like a man going through the bushes,
when he is going to fight; like he was thinking some man was behind a
bush, going to shoot him. I have been fooled many times. I don’t know
much. Some tyees talk well when they first come. I have seen their
children wearing shirts like those they gave me; may be it was all right.
I don’t know much.”
Solomon Riggs——chief of the Umpyuas——said: “I am not a wild man. I have
sense. I know some things. I have learned to work. I was born wild, but I
am not wild now. I live in a house. I have a wagon and horses that I
worked for. They are mine. The Government did not give them to me. That
woman is my wife, and that is my baby. He will have some sense. I show you
my heart. I want you to give me your heart. I don’t want to be a wild
Injun.” See speech of Solomon Riggs in Salem Council.
All the “head men” made short speeches, after which we came to business
talk. Superintendent Meacham said: “I see before me the remnants of a
great people. Your fathers are buried in a far country. I will show you my
heart now. You are not wild men. You are not savages. You are men and
women. You have sense and hearts to feel. I did not come here to dig up
anything that is buried. I have nothing to say about the men who have
gone before me. That is past. We drop that. We cannot dig it up now. We
have enough to think about. I do not promise what I will do, except I will
do right as I see what is right. I may make some mistakes. I want to talk
with you about your agent. I think he will do right. He is a good man. I
will help him. He will help me. You will help us. You are not fools. You
are men. You have a right to be heard. You shall be heard. We are paid to
take care of you. Our time belongs to the Indians in Oregon. The
Government has bought our sense; that belongs to you. The money in our
hands is not ours, it is yours. We cannot pay you the money. The law says
we must not; still it is yours. You have been here long enough to have
sense. You know what you want. You can tell us. We will hear you.
“If you want what is right we will get it for you. You need not be afraid
to speak out. The time has come when a man is judged by his sense, not his
skin. In a few years more the treaty will be dead. Then you must be ready
to take care of yourselves. You need not fear to speak. Nobody will stop
your mouth. We are ready now to hear you talk. We have shown our heart.
Now talk like men. I have spoken.”
A silence of some moments followed. The chiefs and head men seemed taken
by surprise. They could not comprehend or believe that the declarations
made were real; that they were to be allowed to give an opinion in matters
pertaining to their own interests. I would not convey the idea that my
predecessors had been bad men. They were not; but they had, some of them,
and perhaps all of them, looked on these Indians as wards, or orphan
children. They had not recognized the fact that these people had come up,
from a low, degraded condition of captive savages, to a status of
intelligence that entitled them to consideration. The people themselves
had not dared to demand a hearing. They were subjugated, and felt it too;
but I know in their hearts they often longed for the boon that was offered
to them.
It is due to the citizens who occupy the country adjoining this agency, in
whose employ the Indians had spent much time in labor on farm, wood-yards,
and various other kinds of business, that they had, by easy lessons, and,
with commendable patience, taught these down-trodden people that they had
a right to look up. “Honor to whom honor is due.”
Wapto Dave, a chief of a small band of Waptos, was the first to speak. He
delivered his speech in my own language: “The boys all wait for me to
speak first; because me understand some things. We hear you talk. We don’t
know whether you mean it. Maybe you are smart. We have been fooled a heap.
We don’t want no lies. We don’t talk lies. S’pose you talk straight. All
right. Me tell you some things. All our people very poor; they got no good
houses; no good mills. No wagons; got no harness; no ploughs. They get
some, they work heap. They buy them. Government no give em. We want these
things. Maybe you don’t like my talk. I am done.”
Jo Hutchins——Chief of Santiams——said, “I am watching your eye. I am
watching your tongue. I am thinking all the time. Perhaps you are making
fools of us. We don’t want to be made fools. I have heard tyees talk like
you do now. They go back home and send us something a white man don’t
want. We are not dogs. We have hearts. We may be blind. We do not see the
things the treaty promised. Maybe they got lost on the way. The President
is a long way off. He can’t hear us. Our words get lost in the wind before
they get there. Maybe his ear is small. Maybe your ears are small. They
look big. Our ears are large. We hear everything. Some things we don’t
like. We have been a long time in the mud. Sometimes we sink down. Some
white men help us up. Some white men stand on our heads. We want a
school-house built on the ground of the Santiam people. Then our children
can have some sense. We want an Indian to work in the blacksmith shop. We
don’t like half-breeds. They are not Injuns. They are not white men. Their
hearts are divided. We want some harness. We want some ploughs. We want a
saw-mill. What is a mill good for that has no dam? That old mill is not
good; it won’t saw boards. We want a church. Some of these people are
Catholics. Some of them are like Mr. Parish, a Methodist. Some got no
religion. Maybe they don’t need religion. Some people think Indians got no
sense. We don’t want any blankets. We have had a heap of blankets. Some of
them have been like sail-cloth muslin. The old people have got no sense;
they want blankets. The treaty said we, every man, have his land. He have
a paper for his land. We don’t see the paper. We see the land. We want it
divided. When we have land all in one place, some Injun put his horses in
the field; another Injun turn them out. Then they go to law. One man says
another man got the best ground. They go to law about that. We want the
land marked out. Every man builds his own house. We want some apples. Mark
out the land, then we plant some trees, by-and-by we have some apples.
“Maybe you don’t like my talk. I talk straight. I am not a coward. I am
chief of the Santiams. You hear me now. We see your eyes; look straight.
Maybe you are a good man. We will find out. So-chala-tyee,——God sees you.
He sees us. All these people hear me talk. Some of them are scared. I am
not afraid. Alta-kup-et,——I am done.”
Here was a man talking to the point. He dodged nothing. He spoke the
hearts of the people. They supported him with frequent applause. Other
speeches were made, all touching practical points. The abstract of issues
following that council exhibit the distribution of hardware, axes, saws,
hatchets, mauls, iron wedges; also, harness, ploughs, hoes, scythes, and
various farming implements. The reasonable and numerous points involved
many questions of importance, which were submitted to the Hon.
Commissioner of Indian Affairs, Washington city.[2]
[2] See Appendix.