SKETCHES OF INDIAN LIFE.
Shortly after the so-called Indian war I took a prospecting trip into
the wilderness lying to the eastward of the sinks or lakes of the Carson
and Humboldt Rivers. I had with me two white men, and we roamed through
the Indian country for nearly a month. During the greater part of this
time we had with us a Piute guide known as Captain or “Capitan” Juan.
When Fremont passed through the country and took Captain Truckee into
his service as a guide, Juan and nine other adventurous Piute youths
accompanied him. When they reached California, these young Piutes liked
the country so well, that the majority of them remained there several
years. Juan lived there ten years. He worked upon a ranche and could
plow and plant, reap and thresh grain as well as any white man. Then he
learned the Spanish language, which he spoke quite as well as the
Mexicans generally speak it. He also speaks pretty fair English, but
mixed in a good deal of Spanish, when a little excited. He proved a
trusty and excellent guide, and we retained him as long as we remained
in his country. Captain Juan had seen his ups and downs in the world as
well as the rest of us.
One evening when we were all seated about our camp-fire, after a hearty
supper, being in a talkative mood, he said: “I was pretty well off once,
over in California—I had _fifty dollars_.” He named the amount with an
emphasis which showed that he considered the announcement one of
considerable importance.
“Indeed!—Had you so much money?” said I.
“O, yes; I was well off—_many ricos_!”
“And what became of all this wealth?”
“Me burst all to smash!”
“Well, that was bad. In kind of speculation?”
“Me not understand spectoolation. What you call um spectoolation?”
“Well, it’s when you put your money into something that you expect to
make plenty more money out off—like you plant wheat. You plant your
money in some speculation to get more money.”
“Yes; well, me make one bad plant.”
“One bad speculation, eh?”
“Yes; _muy malo_—one _mucho_ bad spectoolashe. She was one Spanish
spectoolashe. Me marry one Spanish woman. She purty soon got all me
money. She say, ‘Juan you got-a some money?’ Me say, ‘No; no, got-a
money?’ She say, ‘Juan, you no ketch-a money you vamose—you git!’ Me no
like _los senoritas_. Spanish spectoolashe no good for Piute man—you
think?”
“No; very bad speculation. But I suppose you went to work and earned
more money for your Spanish wife?”
“No; me stop work—heap mad. Me no want no more money—no more senorita.
Too much all time want new dress. One night me vamose. Me come over
mountains to my people, ketch me one Piute wife. She no all time want
money, money.’”
“Then you have a good Piute wife?”
“O, yes; _muy bueno_—muy bonita! Me keep-a her _mucho_ well dress—give
her many shirt. She got heap-a shirt. Not many Piute woman get so much
shirt!”
“Why, John, you surprise me. How many shirts has she got—twenty?” Juan
looked astounded and abashed at this extravagant guessing. He scratched
his head, looked at me, then at the fire, and seemed to have some notion
of not telling me the exact “quantity” of shirt in which his wife
rejoiced. At length he slowly said:
“Well, she got two shirt—two shirt, but all fix up nice—plenty braid,
_mucho_ ribbon, O, very nice! Twenty shirt no good. What you talk?—me
never see one woman got twenty shirt.”
Juan one evening told me the story of a wonderful cave in a region far
to the northward, where his tribe lived in the days of his fathers—long
and long before they came south, and long before the first white men
crossed the Plains. This cave was in the side of a great mountain, and
when the Evil One tried his hand at creation and began to make
scorpions, tarantulas, snakes, horned toads, cactus, deserts and pools
of alkali water, the Good Spirit (Pahah) caught him and put him into the
cave, closing the entrance with a great mountain. There, far down in the
ground, for many hundred of winters the Evil One used to roar and
bellow. At times the hills trembled with terror; great rocks were shaken
from their beds on the mountains and rolled down into the valleys, and
fire came up out of the ground. Some of the mountains burst open, and
one—a great one—sank down out of sight and left in its place a broad
lake.
The hill rolled off the mouth of the cave at this time and the devil
came out and flew away toward sunrise. So large was he that, though he
flew more swiftly than a hawk, his wings had not passed over when three
sleeps were done. They shut out the light of the sun. There was no moon
or stars. The medicine men said there would be no more day till the Evil
One was again shut up, for he was very mad and had swallowed the sun,
moon, and stars. The medicine men, however, held a council and by
burning a great deal of buffalo hair made such a smoke as to make the
devil very sick, when he vomited up the sun, moon and a great many
stars, and it has been light ever since; but now there are not so many
stars as in former times. Since the flight of the Evil One there has
been no more groaning in the mountains, and the hills have ceased to
tremble.
[Illustration: THE STORY OF THE CAVE.]
After the devil left the cave, a great buffalo came and lived in it.
This buffalo was larger than twenty ponies, and had horns growing out of
his nose. All the other buffalo went into this great cave every winter
to see their big chief and did not come back till spring. At last this
big buffalo got to be so old and weak that when he went to get a drink
at the lake where the mountains had sunk, he stuck fast in the mud. The
Indians there found him, and got all round him, and for three days shot
him full of arrows and beat him with great stones. Still he was not
dead. They then built a big fire on his head, and so killed him.
Afterwards, an old man came out of the cave. His hair was as white as
snow, and reached to his hips. The Indians called him Taweeta. He never
spoke to living man, for he had seen the Great Spirit and had spoken
with him, and therefore dare not again speak the language of man.
Taweeta was very wise; he had seen the place where the sun sleeps, and
had visited the wigwam where a great black man keeps the thunder in a
gourd: he had been allowed to view the happy hunting-grounds, where all
who die like men are permitted to live and hunt in peace forever; and he
knew the place where winter hides from summer and where the summer has
its home.
The white sage on which the herds of Nevada now fatten, was in times
past much used by the Piutes as an article of food. Juan, in speaking of
the many advantages enjoined by the Indians since the coming amongst
them of the whites, said that in former times they were often almost
starved. He said that he could still remember a time, when he was a
little boy, when they were obliged to live almost wholly on white sage.
“How did you cook it?” I asked.
“Well,” said Juan, “the women cooked it. They made soup of it.”
“How did they make the soup?”
“Well, they put the sage into a big basket and filled the basket with
water, then put in hot stones till it was cooked.”
“Did they put in nothing but sage—no meat?”
“Sometimes—s’pose you ketch um—put in some piece rabbit or pish” (fish).
“As you had no spoons, how did you eat the soup—drink it out of the
basket?”
“No. All got round basket and dip up with hands.”
“Was it good?”
“Yes; good all same hay for cow,” said Juan making a wry face.
Juan then explained that in former times when there was a failure of the
pine-nut crop and no game could be found, the whole tribe was obliged to
subsist on white sage.
The white sage differs from the common sage-brush of the country, which
few animals can eat, owing to its extreme bitterness. It sends up a
great number of white shoots which become quite tender and nutritious
after the fall frosts, when cattle greedily feed and rapidly fatten upon
them.
In Nevada this white sage is the principal food of vast herds of cattle
that cover not alone a thousand but ten thousand hills—the white sage
and the bunch-grass. The bunch-grass is considered to be as good for
horses as barley, as it bears a heavy crop of seed. This seed somewhat
resembles millet, and is much used as an article of food by the Indians.
It is ground on a flat stone, with the seeds of the wild sunflower and
other oleaginous seeds, and cakes are made of the meal thus produced. I
have seen patches of bunch-grass many acres in extent, that had been
cut, bound up in sheaves, and set up in shocks, the same as wheat in a
field. This work is done by the squaws, who also sometimes strip the
heads of the grass off between two sticks, tied together in the shape of
a pair of scissors, throwing the seed over their heads into a large
basket carried on their backs.
In regions where deserts abound, on all sides there are always extensive
flats on the tops of the mountain ranges where the bunch-grass and other
grasses flourish.
In Nevada, no less than four kinds of wild-clover are found. The seeds
of one kind are inclosed in a small octagonal burr. In the little
valleys on these mountains, flax is found growing wild. It is precisely
the same as the cultivated species, except that it is perennial. It is
from the fibre of this flax that the twine is made which is used by the
Indians in making their nets for catching fish, rabbits, and water-fowl.
While all is green and fresh on the summits of the mountains, in the
surrounding deserts all is salt, alkali, sterility, and desolation. In
the early days, when thousands on thousands of persons were annually
crossing the Plains to California and Oregon, hundreds perished because
they did not understand the country through which they were passing. In
looking for water they always went to the lowest places they could find,
as they were in the habit of doing at home in the Eastern and Western
States, whereas they should have left the desert valleys and climbed to
the tops of the highest of the surrounding hills.
On all of the mountain ranges springs of excellent water are found, and
in places, small brooks; but the water sinks in the beds of the ravines
and is lost long before it reaches the level of the deserts. The Indians
always travel along the tops of the mountain ranges in summer. On their
trails are put up signs that tell where springs can be found. These are
small monuments of rock, capped with a stone, the longest part of which
points in the direction of the nearest spring.
Toward this spring are turned the long points of all the cap-stones on
the monuments, until it is reached. Passing by the spring, the
index-stones all point back to it until there is a nearer spring ahead,
when the pointers are all turned in that direction.
On finding the first monument, after striking the Indian trail, one may
thus know which end of it to take to the nearest water. In traveling
along a dry cañon, where all was parched and dusty, I have sometimes
seen upon one of its steep banks a monument, and, climbing up to it,
have found the index pointing directly up the hill, where all seemed as
dry as in the ravine below. But taking the direction indicated, it would
not be long before a bunch of willows would be seen, and among these a
spring was sure to be found. Not knowing the meaning of these little
stone monuments, the early prospectors made a business of kicking them
over wherever they found them, and so destroyed what would have been a
useful thing to them had they understood it.
The Piutes believe in a heaven and a hell, a good being and an evil
being. God, or the Good Spirit, they call “Pah-ah;” the devil or the
Evil One, they call “Avea-dagii.” Heaven is a delightful place where
there is plenty of good water, and abundance of game and droves of stout
squaws, to do all the work—no rest for the poor squaws, even in heaven.
Hell is one vast burning desert; no water there but that which is red
with alkali, and which burns like fire when swallowed. When the bad
Indians try to get out of this, and essay to climb the hills to the
happy hunting-grounds they are thrust with brands of fire, and so wander
back across the burning sands to meet with the same treatment in trying
to escape on the other side. Thus they wander forever; always trying to
escape, and always thrust back into the burning desert. They have
preachers—Piutes—among them who preach very good Methodist doctrine.
They sometimes begin preaching early in the evening and preach all
night—telling the Indians that if they lie, steal, and murder, they are
sure to bring up in the great desert, “tooroop,” when they die.
Among themselves, and at their own games, the Piutes are nearly all
inveterate gamblers. Old and young, male and female, are always ready to
bet their last quarter at one of their games. Very few Piutes will touch
whiskey or liquor of any kind. The women are remarkable for their
chastity, and are in this respect models not only for the women of all
surrounding tribes, but for those of all nations and colors.
Although the Piutes swarm about the towns no one ever thinks of their
stealing anything. On the contrary, the Chief of Police of Virginia City
knows a certain man called “Snake Creek Sam” who often brings him
valuable information in regard to the movements of rogues who may be
hiding or scouting about in the hills. Some of them are a little
trickish when it comes to a trade, but there are white men who think it
no sin to get the best of a bargain when opportunity offers.
A Piute on one occasion went about among the residents of Virginia City,
selling suckers for trout to such unsophisticated housewives as he could
find. One lady thought the fish did not look exactly right for trout,
and said: “What makes their noses so long, Jim?” “Him heap young,” said
the deceitful Jeems. “Poco tiempo plenty old; no more nose—mout’ all
same me,” and Jim opened his mouth from ear to ear. Looking upon the
open countenance of the red-man, the lady believed him free from guile,
and purchased a dozen of his long-nosed trout.
An Indian is always ready to leave any work he may be doing and run
after game if any is seen to approach. One day, at Washoe City, a few
miles west of Virginia, some men who were stopping at the principal
hotel, happened to be out on the veranda, taking a look at the
surrounding country, when they saw a large flock of ducks settle down on
the further side of Washoe Lake. A Washoe Indian, who was sawing wood
near the hotel, also saw the ducks, and told the men that he would go
after them if they would get him a gun. In the hotel they found an old
United States’ musket. This they loaded nearly to the muzzle, and giving
it to the Indian, started him for the lake.
The men then went into the balcony of the hotel, and, with opera
glasses, watched the progress of the red Nimrod.
He, at length, reached the spot where the ducks had been seen to settle
down among the tules—a kind of bulrush from ten to fifteen feet in
height.
Presently the watchers saw the smoke dart from the end of the Indian’s
gun; saw him fall backwards to the ground, then a tremendous roar came
across the lake—a sound as though the gun had burst into a thousand
pieces. Fearing that the gun had indeed burst and killed the poor devil,
the wags began to feel very guilty. They hastened from the house and
hurried round the lake to the rescue. When they had gone about half way
round they met their Indian coming toward them. There was a long gash
across his right cheek-bone, his nose was bunged up, and his face was
covered with blood, but he was completely loaded down with ducks.
“Well, Jim,” said the wags, who now felt better satisfied with their
little joke, “how did you make it?”
“Yes;” said Jim, “one more shoot um—no more ducks, no more Injun!”