The White Indian Boy
[Illustration: Shoshone Falls of the Snake River, Idaho; one of the
wonder scenes in the land of Washakie’s tribe.
_Myers, Boise, Idaho_]
_Pioneer Life Series_
The White Indian Boy
The Story of Uncle Nick
Among the Shoshones
by
_E. N. Wilson_
Revised and Edited by
_Howard R. Driggs_
Professor of English, School of Education
University of Utah
Illustrated with drawings by
_F. N. Wilson_
[Illustration: Printer’s Mark]
Yonkers-on-Hudson, New York
_World Book Company_
1922
WORLD BOOK COMPANY
THE HOUSE OF APPLIED KNOWLEDGE
Established, 1905, by Caspar W. Hodgson
YONKERS-ON-HUDSON, NEW YORK 2126
PRAIRIE AVENUE, CHICAGO
The number of men and women who played a part in the conquest and
settlement of the Great West grows smaller year by year, and the
passing of these plainsmen and mountaineers marks the close of an era
in our national life. To put into permanent form, as has been done in
this book, a pioneer’s recollections of his early days, with their
trials and adventures, is to make a certain contribution to history.
Such a record shows us the courage, perseverance, and hardihood with
which the foundations of the nation were laid, and to read it is to
watch a state in the making. As a story of the days when Indian tribes
still roamed the plains, this book will have for boys and girls all the
interest of a tale of adventure. It is hoped that it will also give
them a realization of the hardships and dangers so manfully faced by
the settlers of the West and will implant in them a desire to prove
themselves worthy successors to those builders of the nation. Other
volumes of the Pioneer Life Series will follow
_The White Indian Boy_
PLS:WDWIB-3
Copyright, 1919, by World Book Company
Copyright in Great Britain
_All rights reserved_
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
AN INTRODUCTION TO UNCLE NICK
If you ever go to the Yellowstone Park by way of Jackson’s Hole, you
will most likely pass through Wilson, Wyoming. It is a picturesque
little village situated at the foot of the Teton Mountains. A clear
stream, rightly named Fish Creek, winds its way through the place. On
the very edge of this sparkling mountain stream stands a log cabin.
The cabin is so near the creek, indeed, that one might stand in the
dooryard and catch fish. And this is what “Uncle Nick” Wilson, who
lived in the cabin, has done many a time. That is a “true fish story,”
I am sure, because I caught two lively trout myself last summer in this
same creek only a few rods from the cabin.
Who was Uncle Nick Wilson? you ask. He was an old pioneer after whom
this frontier town was named. He was the man, too, who wrote this
story book. You would have liked Uncle Nick, I know. He was a rather
short, round-faced man with a merry twinkle in his eyes. He took things
easily; he spoke in a quiet voice; he was never too busy to help his
neighbors; he liked a good joke; he was always ready to chat awhile;
and he never failed to have a good story to tell, especially to the
children.
Uncle Nick had one peculiarity. He did not like to take off his hat,
even when he went into a house. I often wondered why, but I did not
like to ask him. One day, however, some one told me the reason. It was
because he had once been shot in the head with an arrow by an Indian.
The scar was still there.
From outward appearances one would hardly have guessed that Uncle
Nick’s life had been so full of exciting experiences. But when he was
sitting about the campfire at night or at the fireside with a group of
boys and girls, he would often get to telling his tales of the Indians
and the Pony Express; and his hearers would never let him stop. My own
two boys never got sleepy when Uncle Nick was in the house; they would
keep calling for his stories again and again.
This was one reason why he wrote this story book. He wanted boys and
girls to have the pleasure of reading his stories as often as they
pleased. How he was induced to write it is an interesting story in
itself.
Some years ago two professors of a certain Western university were
making a trip with their families to the Yellowstone Park by way of
Jackson’s Hole trail. As they were passing through Wilson, one of the
women in the party met with a serious accident. Her little boy had got
among the horses, and the mother, in trying to save the child from
harm, was knocked down and trampled.
Help must be had at once; but how to get it was a problem. The nearest
doctor was over sixty miles away. While the unfortunate travelers were
worrying about what to do, Uncle Nick’s wife came to the rescue. She
quietly assumed command of affairs, directed the making of a litter,
and insisted that the wounded lady be carried to her cabin home a short
distance away. Then she turned nurse, dressed the wounds, and attended
the sufferer until she was well enough to resume the journey.
The party meantime camped near by, and whiled away about three weeks
in fishing and hunting and enjoying Uncle Nick’s stories of the Wild
West. Every night they would sit about the cabin fire listening to
the old frontiersman tell his “Injun stories” and his other thrilling
adventures of the early days. They felt that these stories should be
written for everybody to enjoy. They were so enthusiastic in their
desire to have it done that Uncle Nick finally consented to try to
write them.
It was a hard task for him. He had never attended school a day in his
life; but his wife had taught him his alphabet, and he had learned to
read and spell in some kind of way. He got an old typewriter and set
to work. Day by day for several months he clicked away, until most
of his stories were told. And here they are--true stories, of real
Indians, as our pioneer parents knew them about seventy years ago.
The book gives the nearest and clearest of views of Indian home-life;
it is filled, too, with stirring incidents of Indian warfare, of
the Pony Express and Overland Stage, and other exciting frontier
experiences.
Uncle Nick may have had no schooling except as he got it in the wilds,
but he certainly learned how to tell a story well. The charm of his
style lies in its Robinson Crusoe simplicity and its touches of Western
humor.
Best of all, the stories Uncle Nick tells are true. For many months he
was a visitor at our home. To listen to this kindly, honest old man
was to believe his words. But the truth of what he tells is proved by
the words of many other persons who knew him well, and others who have
had similar experiences. For several years I have been proving these
stories by talking with other pioneers, mountaineers, pony riders,
students of Indian life, and even Indians themselves. Their words have
unfailingly borne out the statements of the writer of this book. No
pretense is made that this volume is without error. It certainly is
accurate, however, in practically every detail, and true to the customs
and the spirit of the Indian and pioneer life it portrays.
Professor Franklin T. Baker of Columbia University, who read the book
in manuscript, has pronounced the book “a rare find, and a distinctive
contribution to the literature that reflects our Western life.”
The rugged, kindly man who lived through the scenes herein pictured has
passed away. He died at Wilson, the town he founded, in December, 1915,
during the seventy-third year of his age. But he has left for us this
tablet to his memory, a simple story of a simple man who lived bravely
and cheerily in the storm and stress of earlier days, taking his part
even from boyhood with the full measure of a man.
HOWARD R. DRIGGS
AUTHOR’S FOREWORD
You have no doubt read or heard stories of the great wild West. Perhaps
you have even listened to some gray-haired man or woman tell tales of
the Indians and the trappers, who roamed over the hills and plains.
They may have told you, too, of the daring Pony Express riders who used
to go dashing along the wild trails over the prairies and mountains and
desert, carrying the mails, and of the Overland men who drove their
stages loaded with letters and passengers along the same dangerous
roads.
I know something about those stirring early times. More than sixty
years of my life have been spent on the Western frontiers, with the
pioneers, among the Indians, as a pony rider, a stage driver, a
mountaineer, and a ranchman.
I have taken my experiences as they came to me, much as a matter of
course, not thinking of them as especially unusual or exciting. Many
other men have had similar experiences. They were all bound up in the
life we had to live in making the conquest of the West. Others seem,
however, to find the stories of my life interesting. My grandchildren
and other children, and even grown people, ask me again and again to
tell these tales of the earlier days; so I have begun to feel that they
may be worth telling and keeping.
That is why I finally decided to write them. It has taken almost
more courage to do this than it did actually to live through some of
the exciting experiences. I have not had the privilege of attending
schools, so it is very hard for me to tell my story with the pen; but
perhaps I may be able to give my readers, young and old, some pleasure
and help them to get a clearer, truer picture of the real wild West as
it was when the pioneers first blazed their way into the land.
“UNCLE NICK” WILSON
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION v
By Howard R. Driggs, telling who Uncle Nick was;
of his home in Jackson’s Hole, Wyoming, and the story
of how the book came to be written
CHAPTER
1. PIONEER DAYS 1
A sketch of the pioneer days in the West--Indian
troubles--Account of desert tribes and Shoshones
2. MY LITTLE INDIAN BROTHER 8
How Nick learns the Indian language
3. OFF WITH THE INDIANS 12
Nick joins Washakie’s tribe as adopted son of the
chief’s mother--Experience in getting to the tribe
4. THE GREAT ENCAMPMENT 20
The gathering of the Shoshone nation in Deer Lodge
Valley, Montana
5. BREAKING CAMP 28
Story of the Buffalo hunt--Preparing meat for winter
6. VILLAGE LIFE 33
Winter experiences in the Indian village in Idaho
7. MY INDIAN MOTHER 39
An Indian mother’s sorrow--How she came to want
a white papoose--Love of the red mother for the
white child
8. THE CROWS 44
Struggles of the Shoshones with their rival
enemy--Scares and war preparation
9. PAPOOSE TROUBLES 57
Breaking Indian ponies--A fight with bears
10. A LONG JOURNEY 69
Wanderings of Washakie’s tribe through the Idaho
country on their trip to market their skins and robes
11. THE SNOWY MOONS 79
Another winter with the Indians--Teaching the
Indians the ways of the white man--Days of mourning
12. THE FIERCE BATTLE 89
Fight for the buffalo grounds--Description of the
battle in which Washakie settled the question of
boundary lines
13. LIVELY TIMES 98
An accident--Medicine man doctoring and other
Indian practices in healing
14. OLD MOROGONAI 106
The old Shoshone arrow maker and his stories of early
times--Memories of Lewis and Clark
15. THE BIG COUNCIL 112
Indian chiefs confer as to what shall be done with
the white boy
16. HOMEWARD BOUND 119
Nick, equipped with ponies and Indian trappings,
returns to tell his own story of how he left home
17. THE YEAR OF THE MOVE 128
The coming of Johnston’s army to Utah and the
leaving of their homes by the people--Nick shows
his skill at riding wild horses
18. THE PONY EXPRESS 139
Nick chosen as a rider--His experiences carrying the
mail--Shot by an Indian
19. JOHNSTON PUNISHES THE INDIANS 157
Nick as a guide for the United States troops--The
battle in the desert
20. THE OVERLAND STAGE 167
Experiences of Nick as a driver of the Overland
21. A TERRIBLE JOURNEY 176
Establishing the mail route from Idaho to Montana--The
struggle in the snow
22. MY OLD SHOSHONE FRIENDS 192
After experiences with the Indians--Hunting for the
Indian mother’s grave--Washakie
23. TRAPPING WITH AN INDIAN 197
Nick spends a winter as a trapper--Description of
the work
24. WORKING ON THE INDIAN RESERVATION 202
Nick in government employ--Troubles in getting
the tribe to settle down
25. FRONTIER TROUBLES 207
Capturing a band of cattle thieves--A chase after
Indian horse-thieves--The Jackson’s Hole Indian
trouble--Closing words
GLOSSARY 219
[Illustration: The Teton Peaks from Jackson’s Hole, Wyoming. Jackson’s
Hole, the last home of Nick Wilson, is situated in a hunting ground
which is famous even yet. It was named after Jackson, an old trapper.
_Caspar W. Hodgson_]
[Illustration: The Western trail in the early days.]
CHAPTER ONE
PIONEER DAYS
I was born in Illinois in 1842. I crossed the plains by ox team and
came to Utah in 1850. My parents settled in Grantsville, a pioneer
village just south of the Great Salt Lake. To protect themselves from
the Indians, the settlers grouped their houses close together and built
a high wall all around them. Some of the men would stand guard while
others worked in the fields. The cattle had to be herded very closely
during the day, and corralled at night with a strong guard to keep them
from being stolen. But even with all our watchfulness we lost a good
many of them. The Indians would steal in and drive our horses and cows
away and kill them. Some times they killed the people, too.
We built a log schoolhouse in the center of our fort, and near it
we erected a very high pole, up which we could run a white flag as
a signal if the Indians attempted to run off our cattle, or attack
the town or the men in the fields. In this log schoolhouse two old
men would stay, taking turns at watching and giving signals when
necessary, by raising the flag in the daytime, or by beating a drum
at night. For we had in the schoolhouse a big bass drum to rouse the
people, and if the Indians made a raid, one of the guards would thump
on the old thing.
When the people heard the drum, all the women and children were
supposed to rush for the schoolhouse and the men would hurry for the
cow corral or take their places along the wall. Often in the dead hours
of the night when we were quietly sleeping, we would be startled by
the booming old drum. Then you would hear the youngsters coming and
squalling from every direction. You bet I was there too. Yes, sir, many
is the time I have run for that old schoolhouse clinging to my mother’s
apron and bawling “like sixty”; for we all expected to be filled with
arrows before we could get there. We could not go outside of the wall
without endangering our lives, and when we would lie down at night we
never knew what would happen before morning.
The savages that gave us the most trouble were called Gosiutes. They
lived in the deserts of Utah and Nevada. Many of them had been banished
into the desert from other tribes because of crimes they had committed.
The Gosiutes were a mixed breed of good and bad Indians.
They were always poorly clad. In the summer they went almost naked; but
in winter they dressed themselves in robes made by twisting and tying
rabbit skins together. These robes were generally all they had to wear
during the day and all they had to sleep in at night.
They often went hungry, too. The desert had but little food to give
them. They found some edible roots, the sego, and tintic, which is a
kind of Indian potato, like the artichoke; they gathered sunflower and
balzamoriza[1] seeds, and a few berries. The pitch pine tree gave
them pine nuts; and for meat they killed rabbits, prairie dogs, mice,
lizards, and even snakes. Once in a great while they got a deer or an
antelope. The poor savages had a cold and hungry time of it; we could
hardly blame them for stealing our cattle and horses to eat.
[1] Sometimes called “spring sunflower.” It has a blossom much like the
sunflower, and velvety leaves. It is common in parts of the West.
[Illustration: Gosiute wickiups in the desert.
_Bur. Am. Ethnology, Smithsonian Institution_]
Yes, they ate horses, too. That was the reason they had no ponies, as
did the Bannocks and Shoshones and other tribes. The Gosiutes wandered
afoot over the deserts, but this made them great runners. It is said
that Yarabe, one of these Indians, once won a wager by beating the
Overland Stage in a race of twenty-five miles over the desert. Swift
runners like this would slip in and chase away our animals, driving
them off and killing them. Our men finally captured old Umbaginny and
some other bad Indians that were making the mischief, and made an
example of them.
After this they did not trouble us so much, but the settlements were
in constant fear and excitement. One incident connected with my father
shows this. Our herd boys were returning from Stansbury Island, in the
Great Salt Lake, where many cattle were kept. On their way home they
met a band of friendly Indians. The boys, in fun, proposed that the
Indians chase them into town, firing a few shots to make it seem like
a real attack. The Indians agreed, and the chase began. My father saw
them coming and grabbed his gun. Before the white jokers could stop him
and explain, he had shot down the head Indian’s horse. It took fifty
sacks of flour to pay for their fun. The Indians demanded a hundred
sacks, but they finally agreed to take half that amount and call things
square.
Some of the Indians grew in time to be warm friends with us, and when
they did become so, they would help protect us from the wild Indians.
At one time Harrison Sevier, a pioneer of Grantsville, was out in the
canyon getting wood. “Captain Jack,” a chief of the Gosiutes, was with
him. Some wild Indians attacked Sevier and would have killed him,
but “Captain Jack” sprang to his defense and beat back the murderous
Indians. The chief had most of his clothes torn off and was badly
bruised in the fight, but he saved his white friend. Not all the
Gosiutes were savages. Old Tabby, another of this tribe, was a friend
of my father. How he proved his friendship for us I shall tell later.
A rather amusing thing happened one day to Tabby. He had just got a
horse through some kind of trade. Like the other Gosiutes, he was not
a very skillful rider. But he would ride his pony. One day this big
Indian came galloping along the street towards the blacksmith shop.
Riley Judd, the blacksmith, who was always up to pranks, saw Tabby
coming, and just as he galloped up, Riley dropped the horse’s hoof he
was shoeing, threw up his arms and said,
“Why, how dye do, Tabby!”
Tabby’s pony jumped sidewise, and his rider tumbled off. He picked
himself up and turned to the laughing men, saying--
“Ka wino (no good), Riley Judd, too much how dye do.”
Besides our troubles with the Indians, we had to fight the crickets and
the grasshoppers. These insects swarmed down from the mountains and
devoured every green thing they could find. We had hard work to save
our crop. It looked as if starvation was coming. The men got great log
rollers and rolled back and forth. Herds of cattle were also driven
over the marching crickets to crush them; rushes were piled in their
path, and when they crawled into this at night, it would be set on
fire. But all seemed in vain. Nothing we could do stopped the scourge.
Then the gulls came by the thousands out of the Great Salt Lake. They
dropped among the crickets and gorged and regorged themselves until the
foe was checked. No man could pay me money enough to kill one of these
birds.
After the cricket war the grasshoppers came to plague us. Great clouds
of them would settle down on our fields. Father saved five acres of his
grain by giving up the rest to them. We kept the hoppers from settling
on this patch by running over and over the field with ropes. We used
our bed cords to make a rope long enough.
[Illustration: Great Salt Lake, Utah, looking south from Bird Island,
which is a rookery of hundreds of thousands of gulls, pelicans, and
herons. In the distance are Carrington Island (right) and Stansbury
Island (left).
_Dr. Charles G. Plummer_]
But it was a starving winter anyway, in spite of all we could do. We
were a thousand miles from civilization, surrounded by hostile Indians.
We had very little to eat and next to nothing to wear. It was a time of
hunger and hardships; but most of the people managed to live through
it, and things grew brighter with the spring.
[Illustration: “He went bucking through the sagebrush.”]
CHAPTER TWO
MY LITTLE INDIAN BROTHER
A few tame Indians hung around the settlements begging their living.
The people had a saying, “It is cheaper to feed them than to fight
them,” so they gave them what they could; but the leaders thought it
would be better to put them to work to earn their living; so some
of the whites hired the Indians. My father made a bargain with old
Tosenamp (White-foot) to help him. The Indian had a squaw and one
papoose, a boy about my age. They called him Pantsuk.
At that time my father owned a small herd of sheep, and he wanted to
move out on his farm, two miles from the settlement, so he could take
better care of them. Old Tosenamp thought it would be safe to do so, as
most of the Indians there were becoming friendly, and the wild Indians
were so far away that it was thought they would not bother us; so we
moved out on the farm.
Father put the Indian boy and me to herding the sheep. I had no other
boy to play with. Pantsuk and I became greatly attached to each other.
I soon learned to talk his language, and Pantsuk and I had great times
together for about two years. We trapped chipmunks and birds, shot
rabbits with our bows and arrows, and had other kinds of papoose sport.
Once we thought we would have some fun riding the sheep. I caught “Old
Carney,” our big ram, and Pantsuk got on him; but as his chubby legs
were hardly long enough to hold him on the big woolly back, I tied his
feet together with a rope under the ram. Old Carney didn’t like this.
He broke away and went bucking through the sagebrush. Pantsuk tumbled
off under him, and the old sheep dragged him for several rods before he
got free. Pantsuk was a white papoose for sure, when he scrambled to
his feet; but I guess I was more scared than he was. We didn’t want any
more sheep-back rides.
Some months after this the poor little fellow took sick. We did all we
could for him, but he kept getting worse until he died. It was hard for
me to part with my dear little Indian friend. I loved him as much as if
he had been my own brother.
After Pantsuk died, I had to herd the sheep by myself. The summer wore
along very lonely for me, until about the first of August, when a band
of Shoshone Indians came and camped near where I was watching my sheep.
Some of them could talk the Gosiute language, which I had learned from
my little Indian brother. The Indians seemed to take quite a fancy to
me, and they would be with me every chance they could get. They said
they liked to hear me talk their language, for they had never heard a
white boy talk it as well as I could.
One day an Indian rode up to the place where I was herding. He had with
him a little pinto pony. I thought it was the prettiest animal I ever
saw. The Indian could talk Gosiute very well. He asked me if I did not
want to ride the pony. I told him that I had never ridden a horse. He
said that the pony was very gentle, and helped me to mount it. Then he
led it around for a while. The next day he came again with the pony and
let me ride it. Several other Indians were with him this time. They
took turns leading the pony about while I rode it. It was great sport
for me. I soon got so I could ride it without their leading it. They
kept coming and giving me this fun for several days.
One day, after I had ridden till I was tired, I brought the pony back
to the Indian who had first come, and he asked me if I did not want to
keep it.
“I would rather have that pony,” I replied, “than anything else I ever
saw.”
“You may have it,” he said, “if you will go away with us.”
I told him I was afraid to go. He said he would take good care of
me and would give me bows and arrows and all the buckskin clothes I
needed. I asked him what they had to eat. He said they had all kinds of
meat, and berries, and fish, sage chickens, ducks, geese, and rabbits.
This sounded good to me. It surely beat living on “lumpy dick”[2] and
greens, our usual pioneer fare.
[2] Made by cooking moistened flour in milk.
“Our papooses do not have to work,” he went on, “they have heap fun all
the time, catching fish and hunting and riding ponies.”
That looked better to me than herding a bunch of sheep alone in the
sagebrush. I told him I would think it over. That night I talked with
old Tosenamp. The Indians had tried to get him to help them induce me
to go with them. He refused; but he did tell me that they would not
hurt me and would treat me all right. The next day I told them I would
go.
My parents knew nothing about it. They would never have consented to
my going. And it did look like a foolish, risky thing to do; but I
was lonely and tired and hungry for excitement, and I yielded to the
temptation. In five days the Indians were to start north to join the
rest of their tribe. This Indian was to hide for two days after the
rest had gone and then meet me at a bunch of willows about a mile above
my father’s house after dark with the little pinto pony. The plan was
carried out, as you will see. I went with them, and for two years I did
not see a white man. This was in August, 1854. I was just about twelve
years old at the time.
[Illustration: Shoshone squaws on “pinto” and “buckskin” ponies.]
[Illustration: “I jumped on my horse and away we went.”]
CHAPTER THREE
OFF WITH THE INDIANS
The night came at last when we were to leave. Just after dark I slipped
away from the house and started for the bunch of willows where I was
to meet the Indian. When I got there, I found two Indians waiting for
me instead of one. The sight of two of them almost made me weaken and
turn back; but I saw with them my little pinto pony and it gave me new
courage. They had an old Indian saddle on the pony with very rough
rawhide thongs for stirrup straps. At a signal from them, I jumped on
my horse and away we went. Our trail led towards the north along the
western shore of the Great Salt Lake.
The Indians wanted to ride fast. It was all right at first; but after
a while I got very tired. My legs began to hurt me, and I wanted to
stop, but they urged me along till the peep of day, when we stopped by
some very salt springs. I was so stiff and sore that I could not get
off my horse, so one of them lifted me off and stood me on the ground,
but I could hardly stand up. The rawhide straps had rubbed the skin
off my legs till they were raw. The Indians told me that if I would
take off my trousers and jump into the salt springs it would make my
legs better; but I found that I could not get them off alone; they were
stuck to my legs. The Indians helped me, and after some very severe
pain we succeeded in getting them off. A good deal of skin came with
them.
[Illustration: Map of the Western country which was the scene of Uncle
Nick’s adventures.]
“Come now,” they urged me, “jump into this water and you will be well
in a little while.”
Well, I jumped into the spring up to my waist. Oh blazes! I jumped out
again. Oh, my! how it did sting and smart! I jumped and kicked. I was
so wild with pain that I lay on the ground and rolled round and round
on the grass. After half an hour of this, I wore myself out, and oh,
how I cried! The Indians put down a buffalo robe, and rolled me on to
it and spread a blanket over me. I lay there and cried myself to sleep.
When I awoke, they were sitting by a small fire. They had killed a duck
and were broiling it for breakfast.
“Come,” they said, “and eat some duck.”
I started to get up, but oh! how sore I was! I began to cry again. They
kept coaxing me to come and have something to eat until finally I got
up and went to them, but I had to walk on a wide track. I ate some duck
and dried meat and felt better. While I was eating they got the horses
ready.
“Come,” they said, “get on your pony.”
“No,” I objected, “I can’t ride; I’d rather walk.”
They said that they were going a long way, and that I could not walk so
far. Then they arranged the saddle so it would not hurt me so much, by
putting a buffalo robe over it. They lifted me into it. It was not so
bad as I thought it would be. The soft hair of the robe made the saddle
more comfortable. One of them tied my trousers to my saddle. That day
I lost them and for more than two years I did not have another pair.
During that time I wore Indian leggings and a blanket.
We traveled all day over a country that was more like the bottom of an
old lake than anything else. We camped that night by another spring.
The Indians lifted me from my horse, put me down on a robe and started
a fire. Then they caught some fish and broiled them again on the coals.
It was a fine supper we had that night.
The next morning I felt pretty well used up; but when I had eaten some
fish and a big piece of dried elk meat for breakfast, I felt more like
traveling. Then we started again.
Near mid-afternoon, we saw, about six miles ahead of us, the Indians we
had been trying to overtake. They had joined with another large band,
so there were a great many in the camp. By the time we caught up with
them, they had stopped and were unpacking, and some of them had their
wigwams set up. We rode through the camp until we came to a big tepee
where a large, good-looking Indian was standing. This man, they said,
was Washakie, their chief; I was to live with him, and he would be my
brother.
An old squaw came up to my horse and stood looking at me. The Indians
said that she was the chief’s mother and that she would be my mother,
too. They told her that my legs were badly skinned and were very sore.
Then Washakie helped me off my horse.
[Illustration: Washakie (with hat in hand) and part of his Shoshone
tribe at South Pass, Wyoming, in 1861.
_Bureau of American Ethnology, Smithsonian Institution_]
The old squaw put her hand on my head and began to say something
pitiful to me, and I began to cry. She cried, too, and taking me by the
arm, led me into the tepee, and pointed to a nice bed the chief’s wife
had made for me. I lay down on the bed and sobbed myself to sleep. When
I awoke, this new mother of mine brought me some soup and some fresh
deer meat to eat. I tell you it tasted good.
The next morning my new mother thought she would give me a good
breakfast. They had brought some flour from the settlements, and she
tried to make me some bread, such as I had at home. They had no soda,
nothing but flour and water, so the bread turned out to be pretty
soggy. I think she didn’t like it very well when she found I didn’t
eat it, but I simply couldn’t choke it down. I did make a good meal,
however, of the fried sage chicken and the fresh service berries that
she brought with the bread.
That day my mother and Hanabi, the chief’s wife, started to make me
something to wear; for after I lost my trousers, I had nothing but an
old thin shirt, out at the elbows, and a straw hat that had lost part
of its brim. The two women worked for several hours and finally got the
thing finished and gave it to me to put on. I do not know what to call
it, for I had never seen anything like it before, but it may have been
what the girls now call a “mother-hubbard.” It was all right anyhow,
when I got it on and my belt around to keep the thing close to me; but
I had to pull the back up a little to keep it from choking me to death
when I stooped over.
We stayed at this camp for five days to give me time to get well. My
good old mother rubbed my legs with skunk oil and they healed rapidly.
It had got noised around that my legs were very bad, and one day when
I was out in front of the tepee, a lot of papooses wanted to see them.
One stooped to raise my mother-hubbard to take a look, and the rest
began to laugh, but they didn’t laugh long, for I gave him a kick that
sent him keeling. Then his mother came out after me, and I thought she
was going to eat me up. She scolded and jawed, but I couldn’t tell
what she was saying, so it did not make much difference to me. My old
mother, hearing the noise, came up and led me into the tepee and gave
me some dried service berries. I thought that if that was the way they
were going to treat me, I would kick another one the first chance I got.
It was not long before I got the chance, for the next day a papoose
about my size tried the same trick and I fetched him a kick that made
him let out a yell that could have been heard a mile. It brought about
half the tribe out to see how many I had killed. That papoose’s mother
turned loose on me, too, with her tongue and everlastingly berated me.
The chief happened to see the trouble, and I think that is what saved
me from being cremated. Anyhow, the papooses left my mother-hubbard
alone after that.
My mother began then to teach me the Shoshone language. My knowing how
to talk the Gosiute tongue made it easier for me, for these two Indian
dialects are very much alike.
One night the hunters came in loaded with game, and the next day we
began to move. The horses were brought in, and among them was my pinto
pony. When I saw him, it seemed like meeting some one from home. I
ran up and hugged him. My good old mother had fixed up a pretty good
saddle, all cushioned in fine style to keep it from hurting me.
We traveled about fifteen miles that day and camped on a small stream
they called Koheets (Curlew). Mother told me to wade out into the water
and bathe my legs.
“Not much,” I said, “I have had all the baths I want.”
She said that the water would make my legs tough, and when she saw I
wouldn’t go into the stream she brought some cold water and told me
to wash them. I wanted to know whether it was salt water. She said
it wasn’t, so I bathed my legs, and when I found that the water did
not hurt them I waded into the creek. Washakie said it was “tibi tsi
djant”--heap good.
[Illustration: Shoshone wickiup. Lodges of this kind were used in the
summer season.
_Dr. T. M. Bridges_]
[Illustration: “I begged him to let me go.”]
CHAPTER FOUR
THE GREAT ENCAMPMENT
It was the custom of the Shoshone chieftains in those early days to
gather all of their tribe every three years. As this was the year for
the great tribal meeting, we started for the big camp ground. After
traveling for three days, we reached a large river, which the Indians
called Piupa (Snake River). Here we were joined by another large band
of the same tribe.
In order to cross the river, the squaws built boats of bulrushes tied
in bundles; these bundles were lashed together until they made a boat
big enough to hold up from six to eight hundred pounds. The Indians
made the horses swim over, and some of the papoose boys rode their
ponies across. I wanted to swim my horse, but my mother would not let
me. It took about a week to get across the river; but during that time
I had some of the best fun of my life.
My mother gave me a fishhook and a line made out of hair from a horse’s
tail. With this tackle I caught my first fish, and some of them were
very large ones, too. The other boys became more friendly, and we had
jolly times together; but mother kept pretty close watch over me, for
fear I would kick them, and get into more trouble. After I began to
play with the papooses, I picked up the Shoshone language much faster.
Nothing else of importance happened until we reached Big Hole Basin.
There I saw the first buffalo I had seen since crossing the plains.
Seven head of them appeared one morning on a hill about a mile away.
Ten Indians started after them. One, having a wide, blade-like
spear-head attached to a long shaft, would ride up to a buffalo and cut
the hamstrings of both legs, then the others would rush up and kill the
wounded animal.
[Illustration: Meat drying before the tepee of a Crow Indian.]
About fifteen squaws followed the hunters to skin the buffaloes and get
the meat. Mother and I went with them. The squaws would rip the animals
down the back from head to tail, then rip them down the belly and take
off the top half of the hide and cut away all the meat on that side
from the bones. They would tie ropes to the feet of the carcass and
turn it over with their ponies, to strip off the skin and flesh from
the other side in the same way.
The meat was then carried to camp to be sliced in thin strips and
hung up to dry. When it was about half dry, the squaws would take
a piece at a time and pound it between two stones till it was very
tender. It was then hung up again to dry thoroughly. The dried meat was
put into a sack and kept for use in the winter and during the general
gatherings of the tribe. The older it got the better it was. This is
the way the Indians cured all of their buffalo meat. Washakie had about
five hundred pounds of such meat for his own family when we reached
Deer Lodge Valley, now in Montana, the place of our great encampment.
[Illustration: Snake River (Piupa), in the land of the Shoshones.
_J. E. Stimson_]
It was about the last of August before all of the tribe had assembled.
What a sight it was to see so many Indians together! The tepees were
strung up and down the stream as far as I could see, and the whole
country round about was covered with horses and dogs. As nearly as I
could find out, about six thousand Indians had gathered. When I asked
the chief how many there were, he said that he could not count them.
And to think that I was the only white person within hundreds of miles,
perhaps! It gave me rather a queer feeling.
Mother kept very close watch over me for fear that I should get hurt
or lost among so many Indians. Whenever I went around to see what was
going on, she was nearly always by my side. She warned me especially
against Pocatello’s Indians, telling me that they were very bad, that
they would steal me and take me away off and sell me to Indians that
would eat me up. She scared me so badly that I stuck pretty close to
her most of the time.
The Indians spent much of their time horse-racing and gambling. They
would bet very heavily; I saw an Indian win fifty head of ponies on one
race. Two Indians were killed while racing their horses, and a squaw
and her papoose were run over; the papoose was also killed.
[Illustration: Shoshone Indians dancing.
_Dr. T. M. Bridges_]
Some of Pocatello’s Indians had several scalps they had taken from some
poor emigrants they had killed. I saw six of these scalps. One was of a
woman with red hair, one a girl’s scalp with dark hair, and four were
men’s scalps, one with gray hair, the rest with dark hair. I cannot
describe the feelings I had when I saw the red devils dancing around
those scalps. It made me wish that I were home again herding sheep and
living on “lumpy dick” and greens.
Washakie’s Indians had a few Crow scalps, for at this time the
Shoshones and Crows were at war with each other. I am pretty sure that
they had no white scalps; or if they had, they did not let me see them.
The Indians had great times dancing around the scalps. They would stick
a small pole in the ground and string scalps on it. Then they would
dance around it, singing and yelling at the top of their voices, making
the most horrible noises I ever heard. The leaders of the different
bands would take the inside, the warriors would circle about them and
the squaws and papooses would dance around the outside. The noise they
made would shame a band of coyotes. As many as five hundred Indians
would be dancing in this way at one time, and they would keep at it for
hours. I got sick and tired of their hideous noises; but they thought
they were having a high time. This singing and dancing was kept going
at intervals for a week or more.
The time was drawing near when we were to separate, and I was glad of
it. Some of Pocatello’s Indians left a few days ahead of the rest of
his band. A day or two before our band was to start my pinto pony ran
off with some other horses. I slipped away from my mother and went
after him. Before I had gone far I met some Indians hunting horses, but
they said they had not seen mine. I kept on going until another Indian
came up to me. He said he had seen some horses go over a ridge about a
mile away.
“If you will get on my horse behind me,” he said, “I will take you over
and see if your horse is there.” Thinking no harm, I got on his horse
and off we started; but when we got to the top of the hill no horses
were to be seen. After we got over the hill he began to ride fast. I
got scared, for I thought of the man-eating savages my mother had told
me about. I asked him to stop and let me get off, but he only whipped
his horse harder and went faster.
Watching my chance, I jumped off and almost broke my neck; but I got up
and put back towards camp as hard as I could run. The Indian turned,
dashed up, and threw his lasso over me. After dragging me several rods
he stopped, and hit me with his quirt, telling me to get back on his
horse or he would put an arrow through me. I cried and begged him to
let me go; but he made me get on again, and then he struck off as fast
as he could go. I noticed, however, that he kept looking back every
little while.
Pretty soon he stopped and told me to get off. As I jumped he gave me
a lick over the head with his quirt that made me see stars for a few
minutes. Then he started off on the run again; but after going about
fifty yards he stopped, pulled his bow and arrow out of his quiver and
started towards me as if he intended to put an arrow through me. He
came but a few steps, then suddenly whirled his horse and off he went
over the prairie.
I soon saw what caused his hurry. A short distance away were some
Indians coming towards me as fast as they could travel. When they
reached me, they stopped, and one of them told me to get on behind him
and he would take me to my mother. I climbed up double quick. Before
we got to the tepees I met mother coming out to find me. She was
crying. She took me off the horse and threw her arms around me. One of
Pocatello’s Indians, she said, was trying to steal me and she never
expected to find her white papoose again.
Some Indians happened to see me get on my horse behind the Indian and
told my mother, and Washakie had sent those Indians after me, before
we got very far away. Mother stayed close to me after that; but I had
had such a scare that I didn’t go very far from the tepee without her.
The chief told me never to go alone after my horse if he got away
again, but to let him know and he would have the pony brought back.
“If Pocatello’s Indians,” he said, “could get you, they would swap you
for a whole herd of ponies, and then it would be ‘good-by Yagaki.’”
“Yagaki,” by the way, was my Indian name. It meant “the crier.” They
gave it to me because I mimicked the squaws and papooses one day when
they were bawling about something.
[Illustration: “I jumped from my horse and raised her up.”]
CHAPTER FIVE
BREAKING CAMP
The camp finally began to break up in earnest. Small bands went off in
different directions to their various hunting grounds that had been
decided on by the council. We were among the last to leave. There were
about sixty tepees and two hundred and fifty Indians in our band. We
had about four hundred horses, and more than five hundred dogs, it
seemed to me.
Chief Washakie at that time was about twenty-seven years old. He was a
very large Indian and good looking. His wife, Hanabi, did not appear
to be more than twenty years old. She had only one child, a little boy
papoose about six months old.
Pocatello was not so large as Washakie. He was a Shoshone, but his wife
was a Bannock. She had three papooses when I first saw her. Pocatello
was a wicked looking Indian. His tribe did more damage to the emigrants
than any other tribe in the West. He wanted to be the big chief of the
Shoshones; he thought he ought to be the leader because he was older
than Washakie, but the tribe would not have it that way. He did draw
away about five hundred of the tribe, however, and tried to change the
tribe name to “Osasibi”; but Washakie’s Indians called them “Saididig,”
which means dog-stealers.
When this band of Indian outlaws joined us in the Big Hole Basin, they
had new quilts, white women’s clothes, new guns, watches, saddles,
and hats. Mother told me that they had just attacked a large train of
emigrants, and had killed the people, burned their wagons and robbed
them of everything. They had some very large horses and mules with
them. Mother wanted to buy a saddle and a hat for me, but I told her
that I would not wear a hat whose owner had been killed and scalped by
old Pocatello.
Washakie and Pocatello were never very friendly. Pocatello wanted to
keep up a constant warfare against the whites; but Washakie knew that
meant only trouble and that the Indians would finally get the worst of
it; so he would have nothing to do with Pocatello’s murderous business.
Because Washakie thought it would be much better to live in peace with
the whites, Pocatello called him a squaw and said he was afraid to
fight.
I was very glad to go; for I was tired of being stared at by so many
Indians. There were hundreds of young Indians in the camp and many old
ones, too, that had never seen a white person before. They would gather
around me as if I were some wild animal. If I moved more suddenly
towards them, they would jump back and scream like wildcats. My mother
told them that I would not bite, but if they bothered me too much I
might kick some of their ribs loose, for I could kick worse than a wild
horse.
Two or three days after we had left the big camp, the pack on one of
our horses turned under his belly and he began to run and kick like
mad. This started the rest of the pack horses and they came running
past us. Mother tried to stop them, but one of the runaways bumped
against her horse and knocked it down. It rolled over with her. I
thought she was killed. I jumped from my horse and raised her up. She
was not dead, but she was badly bruised and one of her arms was broken.
I think I never cried harder in my life than I did then, for I thought
my poor mother was going to die. She told me not to cry, that she would
be all right soon.
[Illustration: Buffaloes on the plains.
_L. A. Huffman, Miles City, Mont._]
Washakie’s wife was there and she told me to dash ahead and tell the
chief to hurry back. When he came, he ordered the band to stop and
pitch camp. We had to stay there a week to let mother get well enough
to travel again. There were a great many antelope in the valley and
plenty of fish in the stream by the camp. When mother would go to
sleep, I would go fishing. When she awoke Hanabi would call, “Yagaki
come,” and I would get back in double-quick time.
One day while we were camped here waiting for mother to get better, I
went out with Washakie and the other Indians to chase antelope. About
fifty of us circled around a bunch and took turns chasing them. The
poor little animals were gradually worn out by this running and finally
they would drop down one after another, hiding their heads under the
bushes, while the Indians shot them to death with their bows and
arrows. I killed two myself. When I got home and told mother about it,
she bragged about me so much that I thought I was a “heap big Injun.”
Mother’s arm soon got well enough for her to travel, for the medicine
man had fixed it up very well, so we took up our journey again. There
were a great many buffaloes and antelope too, where we next pitched
camp. We stayed there for about three weeks. During the times that she
could not watch me, mother had Washakie take me out on his hunting
trips. That just suited me. It was lots of fun to watch the Indian with
the big spear dash up and cut the hamstrings of the great animals. When
they had been crippled in this way, we would rush up and shoot arrows
into their necks until they dropped dead. The first day we killed six,
two large bulls and four cows.
[Illustration: Why the buffalo disappeared; part of the white man’s
trail.
_L. A. Huffman, Miles City, Mont._]
I told Washakie that my bow was too small to kill buffaloes with. He
laughed and said I should have a bigger one. When we got back to camp,
he told some Indians what I had said and one very old Indian, whose
name was Morogonai, gave me a very fine bow and another Indian gave me
eight good arrows. I felt very proud then; I told mother that the next
time I went out I would kill a whole herd of buffaloes. She said she
knew I would, but she did not know what they could do with all the meat.
Washakie said that I was just like the rest of the white men. They
would kill buffaloes as long as there were any in sight and leave their
carcasses over the prairies for the wolves. He said that was not the
way of the Indians. They killed only what they needed and saved all the
meat and hides.
“The Great Spirit,” he said, “would not like it if we slaughtered the
game as the whites do. It would bring bad luck, and the Indians would
go hungry if they killed the deer and buffaloes when they were not
needed for food and clothing.”
Two or three days after this we went out again and killed two more
buffaloes. When we got back mother asked how many I had killed. I told
her that I shot twice at them and I believed I had hit one. She said
that I would be the best hunter in the tribe afterwhile, and some day,
she said, I would be a big chief.
[Illustration: “The boy papooses made fun of me.”]
CHAPTER SIX
VILLAGE LIFE