The big, square, barren, rude room which in its existence had progressed
from store to schoolroom and on to council hall, was filled to
overflowing with a throng of anachronous humanity, rank on rank, tier
behind tier. There was the sound of moccasins slipping grittily over the
knotty floor, of the dull, rhythmic thudding of a mother's foot as she
trotted her fretful baby, the rustling of soft garments, the stirring of
unhurried bodies, the hissing of stealthy whispers. Here and there two
Indians might be seen conversing in the sign language; their hands,
shielded from sight by encircling backs, were lifted scarcely above the
level of their laps.
The people were massed one might say ethnologically. The main part of
the crowd was Indian, squatting, seated on benches, or standing leaning
against the walls. The two tribes sat separately, as did also the sexes
of each. To right and left at the tapering ends of the rows were the
mixed-bloods, dressed mainly like the whites except that their garments
looked more home-made, more patternless, more illy put. Then quite at
one end of the room and grouped about the chairman's table sat the
whites; school and Agency employees, traders, soldiers, ranch neighbors;
an indifferent, self-seeking, heterogeneous group. In the midst of these
last, dapper, conspicuously well-dressed, and well-groomed, presided the
inspector from Washington. His old, dignified face, slightly pompous,
was crowned with gray hair brushed back from his brow. His hands rested
squarely upon his knees. By his side, taking notes, sat his
stenographer, his glance half curious and half supercilious playing
constantly over the faces of the throng. At either end of the little
table behind which sat the inspector, were stationed the interpreters,
one for each tribe. The eyes of these men were searching, though their
lips seemed to mock slightly, and when they spoke, rising to interpret,
even though they passed on the phrases with a certain guarded vehemence,
they seemed consciously to preserve a detached attitude, as do those who
speak but will not be held accountable for what they say.
Perhaps the arrangement that caused the mixed-bloods and the other
younger Indians to be the first to deliver their speeches was
intentional on the part of someone. At any rate one by one they arose,
in overalls, in spurs, in bright neckerchiefs, differing from each other
in type and temperament, as differed also those two tribes, and indeed,
the two races, represented there within the council room.
Occasionally after some speech the inspector would get up and pronounce
in continuance a few elucidating words. He gesticulated slightly and
conventionally. He bent a little toward the interpreters, each in turn.
His words came slowly and with unction.
The subject of the council was the desire of the Indian Bureau to throw
open to white settlement a half of the reservation. The mixed-bloods and
the younger Indians were, though they spoke but briefly, in accord in
favoring the execution of the plan. Their words, however, from some lack
in themselves of knowledge or of conviction, were not uttered in a
manner calculated to tip the scale greatly their way.
"It's a question of water rights," they said. "We must have money to buy
those rights and how else can we obtain it? It's an obligation to our
children."
Again and again the same note was struck. One by one the young men
arose, and one by one sat down again. The interpreters mopped their
tired brows. The inspector sipped frequently from a glass of water upon
his table.
The air was full of the odor of people, pungent with the herb perfume
worn by the Indians in little sacks sewed to the clothing, acrid with
the smell of sage clinging to shawls and dresses, with the flavor of
smoke-tanned buckskin. A half-open window let in a little fitful breeze
that played wantonly with the dust showing in the sunlight of the upper
reaches of the room, flirting and whisking about the heads of the
throng.
At last it came time for the weightier speeches, for those of the
councilmen, of the chiefs, of indeed the older men of the two tribes,
the patriarchs of this patriarchal people.
"Sell our land?" they cried. "Retreat? Give up? Be forced into contact
with intermingling whites? Take money in place of our land? What, money
for the good of these traders who will get it all from us in the end?"
Their old faces hardened; their eyes flamed. "Give up? Retreat? Move on?
Abrogate the old promises, the old treaties? What, _again?_" Their lips
twisted bitterly. "Do you not know, does not the Great Father at
Washington know, that all we ask now of life is a little land, a little
peace, a little place wherein to live quietly our quiet life, and in the
end a little ground for our narrow bed? Move on! That we think was the
first word the whites--" the "outsiders," the "aliens," was the name
they in the Indian tongue gave this other race--"said to us. It seems
they are saying it yet." The soft bitter voices ceased; the old men sank
into their seats, the interpreters, too, relaxed, wiping their faces.
The inspector stood up cautiously, apologetically even. "But these old
men, the chiefs, do not seem to have caught the point. The whole
question of selling or not selling turns on the matter of their water
rights; on theirs and their children's as has been said. Land even in
this beautiful Wyoming valley is a mockery without water. They can I am
sure understand that; water they must have."
An old chief rose solemnly, turned deep, scornful eyes upon the
inspector. "Let the white man from Washington go but a mile yonder,"
extended arm pointed that way, "and he will see the river that flows
down our valley and waters our land. It is there. It is ours. It is born
in these mountains above us. God made them, I suppose as he made it. It
is ours."
Along the packed rows there was a slight stirring.
Patiently again the inspector arose. "I know that it is hard for the old
people to understand that having _water_ does not necessarily mean
having _rights_ to that water. There exist hundreds of white men below
you, beyond the border of your reservation, who have taken up claims
along this same stream and who have filed on its water prior to any
Indian having done so. The State must recognize this priority. The
whites have filed on the water and have paid the dues. Beside that as
the law stands now the Indians cannot individually take out water
rights. I know that you will say that when this reservation was given to
these two tribes, a matter of a generation and a half ago, the water was
included with the land, 'to the center of the streams bordering the
reservation,' as your old treaty reads. But times and conditions have
changed since then. At that period the Federal Government controlled the
water of Wyoming, now its disposition has been turned over to the State.
Where the Indians stand in this matter has never been decided by law."
The mixed-bloods who understood at least partially, shifted uneasily.
"But now--although the question of priority has still not been
decided--the Indian Bureau--which I represent--says that you as a tribe
may buy your water rights. For this you must have money." He named a sum
reaching far into the thousands. "The sale of your land will bring you
this amount of money, at least. This thing is intricate and impossible I
believe to elucidate to the older people, your leaders. They must, I
fear, just hear my statements and, if they can, believe." With his hands
he made a deprecating little gesture. Then he sat down.
There was silence in the room, complete save for a slight stirring, the
sound of deep breathing, and the fretting, here and there, of a hungry
child.
Finally at the back of the room, by some shifting of his pose, by
thrusting himself forward beyond the relief of his line, an Indian made
his presence known. He was a man of powerful build, of nobly moulded
head; his hair instead of having been braided, had been gathered forward
into two loosely twisted strands; his eyes showed, speculative yet keen,
his mouth was sharply chiseled though withal soft in its lines, and
there was a kindly look on his face which gave somehow the impression of
the morning light seen upon the rugged side of a great mountain. In age
he seemed to be between the young and the old.
As he made his presence known there was a slow turning of the heads in
his direction, a slight tensing of the crowd. The old chiefs appeared
suddenly eager and filled with hope; as for the younger men and the
mixed-bloods they glanced at him and looked away again, as if, sighing
they said: "Another on the wrong side. Ah, the blind old men!"
Then he spoke. His voice was deep, very virile, carefully subdued as
something held in leash, and yet through it there seemed to run a
tremor, a quaver almost, that gave an impression of strange intensity.