"I am not one of the old men," he said, "and yet I can easily remember
the time when this valley, these mountains, were ours; not because
someone had given them to us, but because we had taken them for
ourselves, because our arrows flew straightest, our spears reached
furthest, our horsemen rode fastest, our hearts were bravest."
Here several of the old men grunted sympathetically. More and more the
faces of the throng were turned toward the speaker.
"Then everything was changed. The strangers came like a flood, like our
rivers in the spring; they surged over us and they left us--as we are.
Perhaps this was the will of the Stranger-on-High, we cannot tell....
But these strangers on earth were not altogether unkind to us. For what
they took they gave a sort of compensation. It was as though they
carried away from us fat buffaloes and then handed to us in exchange
each a little slice of their meat. They deprived us of our valley and
our mountains but instead they gave us each eighty acres of the land.
Then they sent more strangers with chains and three-legged toys to
measure these off correctly for us. They gave us wire for our fences but
only enough so that we must spend much money for more. They gave us
seed, but also so little that we were driven to buy more. We
worked--some of us with the chains and three-legged toys--some at the
ditches, every way we could, for now we needed a new thing--something of
which we had before known nothing, _money_. We received it--and then we
spent it."
Again faint grunts and groans encouraged him.
"For we cannot keep money long. We are children. This the Great Father
in Washington understands, and also that our ears are dull, that our
eyes cannot read his written words. Therefore, in his kindness, he sends
to us this man to speak to us face to face." He turned his slow gaze
upon the inspector. In his eyes was the look of mockery. "We have
listened to his words. But what has he said to us? 'Give up the eighty
acres, for your children to be born, give up the money you earned and
spent, give up your homes; as you gave up this valley and these
mountains. The white men need them. Your day is past. But I am not
unkind. Without compensation I will not deprive you. See, I will give
you even a little more money--'" He stopped abruptly. His eyes drooped,
his shoulders, his hands, the whole man.
A strained silence had fallen upon the room, smothered it. From it
escaped the faint sighing of the younger men. The chiefs stiffened as
they sat.
By an effort the speaker seemed to rouse himself. He stared strangely
about the room. "There was a little boy once," he said, and his voice
had grown dreamy, slightly high in pitch, "and this little boy held his
hand out toward the flames, nearer,--I saw it--the fire was so pretty,
so warm, it danced, purred, sparkled. His hand crept nearer, nearer. His
father watched him. At the last moment he caught him and pulled him
away. The child cried then, he struggled in his father's arms, he pushed
away from him, he fought. Again he reached out toward the flame. But
finally he looked up into the man's face and suddenly it seemed to dawn
on him that, although he could not understand, this was indeed his
father, old and wise and loving; and that he, by comparison, was only a
little misguided child...." The strange, vibrant voice dwindled, broke.
The speaker made a wide gesture toward the attentive inspector, held it
while the interpreters got forth in English his last sentence. Then he
sank back into his old place against the wall; with one bent hand he
wiped the sweat from his brow.
A faint sound of muttering passed over the room; old fierce eyes were
veiled, young keen ones peered incredulously. But the inspector was on
his feet on the instant, his hand outstretched to grasp the golden
moment.
"There is no more to be said," he cried. "Our ears are ringing with
words. Our hearts are full. I have here, prepared, a paper. Let those
who for their own good and the good of their children are of a mind to
sell, now sign it."
Slowly, amidst moving and murmuring, the long paper, in the hands of one
of the interpreters, made its deliberate rounds. Difficult signatures
were inscribed in slow succession. Ancient, unaccustomed hands, deft
enough with spear or bow, grasped awkwardly the pen and with it made
their wavering "mark."
Some there were of the old men, indeed the majority of them, who
wrapping their blankets about them arose, and shambling, withdrew, aloof
and soundless.
Like a shaken kaleidoscope the council broke up.
The inspector leaned back in his chair, a hand shielding the working of
his mouth. His eyes searched the variegated, dissolving throng. The
stenographer, still seated and playing with his idle pencil, shot him an
understanding glance.
Later the Half-breed, standing on the board walk outside the trading
store, a box of crackers in one hand, a paper containing pickles in the
other, was lunching heartily. Suddenly he shifted everything into his
left hand and strode down into the road. For in company with his wife
and a young son the last of the speakers was passing.
The Half-breed's extended hand grasped the Indian's.
"I thank you for what you said," he cried. "It was a noble thing to have
done. You faced them all; the old timers, the chiefs, public opinion,
prejudice. And you won. It was a brave act."
The rugged, illuminated face was turned to him, the deep eyes rested
squarely upon his. "You have perhaps forgotten," he said. "You are
younger than I am and too you have been for a long time with the
whites--but I remember well the time when we were boys and our great
head-chief Black Star used to sit and talk with us. Yes, you have
perhaps forgotten," he repeated, and his look, just touched with
yearning, rested upon the younger man. "But I remember--I have never
forgotten what he used to say to us. 'Be brave,' he would tell us. 'That
is the chief thing to learn; to do what each one believes is right, to
speak for the right, everywhere, always. To be fearless of tongues, of
persecution, to take counsel with our own minds and being sure to speak
out surely. That,' he always said to us, 'and that only, is the man's
part.'"
--Grace Coolidge.