At the April conference of 1854, I was called, with a number of others,
on a mission to the Indians in Southern Utah. Taking a horse, cow,
garden seeds and some farming tools, I joined in with Brother Robert
Ritchie, and was soon on my way.
We commenced operations at a place we called Harmony, twenty miles
south of Cedar City, in Iron County. I made it my principal business to
learn the Indian language, and become familiar with their character.
About the end of May of that year, President Brigham Young, Heber C.
Kimball, Parley P. Pratt and others to the number of twenty persons,
came to visit us. President Young gave much instruction about
conducting the mission and building up the settlement we had commenced.
He said if the Elders wanted influence with the Indians, they must
associate with them in their expeditions.
Brother Kimball prophesied that, if the brethren were united, they
would be prospered and blessed, but if they permitted the spirit of
strife and contention to come into their midst, the place would come to
an end in a scene of bloodshed.
Previous to this meeting, President Young asked some brethren who had
been into the country south of Harmony if they thought a wagon road
could be made down to the Rio Virgen.
Their replies were very discouraging, but, in the face of this report,
Brother Kimball prophesied in this meeting, that a road would be made
from Harmony over the Black Ridge; and a temple would be built on the
Rio Virgen, and the Lamanites would come from the east side of the
Colorado river and get their endowments in it. All these prophecies
have since been fulfilled.
On the 1st of June, 1854, I went with Elder R. C. Allen and others, to
visit the Indians on the Rio Virgen and Santa Clara, two streams now
well known as forming a junction south of the city of St. George.
On the 9th of June, we camped on ground now enclosed in the Washington
field. There we saw many Indian women gathering a red, sweet berry,
called "opie." The Indians were also harvesting their wheat. Their
manner of doing so was very primitive. One would loosen the roots of
the wheat with a stick, another would pull up the plant, beat the dirt
off from the roots and set it up in bunches. I loaned them a long sharp
knife, which greatly assisted them in their labors.
The company returned to Harmony with the exception of Brother William
Hennefer and myself, who were left to visit the Indians on the upper
Santa Clara. We found a few lodges, and with them a very sick woman.
The medicine man of the tribe was going through a round of ceremonies
in order to heal her.
He stuck arrows into the ground at the entrance of the lodge, placed
his medicine bow in a conspicuous place, adorned his head with eagle's
feathers, and then walked back and forth in an austere manner, making
strange gestures with his hands, and hideous noises at the top of
his voice. He would then enter the lodge, and place his mouth to the
woman's, in order to drive away the evil spirits, and charm away the
pain. Some one told the sick woman that the "Mormons" believed in
"poogi," which, in their language, means administering to the sick. She
wished us to wait, and if the Piute charm did not work, to try if we
could do her any good.
The medicine man howled and kept up his performances the most of the
night. The sick woman's friends then carried her some distance away
from the lodge, and left her to die.
Some of her relatives asked us to go and administer to her. We could
not feel to refuse, so we laid on hands and prayed for her.
When we returned to our camp, she arose and followed us, and said she
was hungry. We sent her to her own lodge. Some of the inmates were
frightened at seeing her, as they had considered her a dead woman.
We returned to Harmony about the last of June. On the 3rd of July,
I accompanied a hunting party of Indians into the mountains east of
Harmony. While with them, I spared no labor in learning their language,
and getting an insight into their character.
I had ever felt an aversion to white men shedding the blood of these
ignorant barbarians. When the white man has settled on their lands,
and his cattle have destroyed much of their scanty living, there has
always appeared in them a disposition to make all reasonable allowances
for these wrongs. Ever since I was old enough to understand, and more
especially after being with them around their camp fires, where I
learned their simple and child-like ways, and heard them talk over
their wrongs, I fully made up my mind to do all I could to alleviate
their condition.
From time to time, when the Saints have had any trouble with them,
and I have had anything to do with settling the difficulty, I have
made it a specialty to go among them, regardless of their numbers or
anger. Through the blessing of the Lord, I have never yet failed in
accomplishing my object, where no other persons have interfered in a
matter they did not understand.
Returning from this hunting expedition, I made my way, in September, to
Tooele Valley, to visit my family, and found them well. I remained with
them but a short time, and returned to my missionary labors in Southern
Utah.
Our crops had done well. After assisting to gather them, I labored for
a season on the fort we were building, the better to defend ourselves
in case of trouble with the Indians.
In November, I was sent alone among the Indians on the Santa Clara,
to use my influence to keep them from disturbing the travelers on the
southern route to California.
When there, without a white companion, a dispute arose between some of
the Indians about a squaw. As was their custom, they decided that the
claimant should do battle for her in the following manner:
The warriors of the band were to form in two files, and a claimant
should pass between the files leading the squaw, and prepared to
fight anyone that opposed his claim. The affair had made considerable
progress, when one of the parties who had been roughly handled, claimed
kinship with me by calling me brother, and asked me to help him.
Not wishing to take part in any of their barbarous customs, I objected.
The Indians then taunted me with being a coward, called me a squaw, etc.
I soon took in the situation, and saw that it would not be well to lose
caste among them. I accepted the challenge under the promise that they
would not be angry with me if I should hurt some of them. I had but
little anxiety about the result, for they were not adept in the art of
self-defense.
The Indians, numbering about one hundred and twenty, formed in two
lines, and I took the squaw by the hand, and commenced my passage
between them.
Only one Indian disputed my progress. With one blow I stretched him on
the ground. All would probably have passed off well enough, had I not
kicked him as he fell. This was contrary to their code of honor, and I
paid a fine for this breach of custom.
I was acknowledged the victor, and it was decided that the squaw was
mine. I immediately turned her over to the Indian that she desired for
a husband.
This was my first and last fight for a squaw. It gave me a prestige
among them that greatly added to my subsequent influence.
This short and lonely mission was brought to a close by my return to
Harmony.
In the beginning of winter, I went down to the Santa Clara in company
with Brothers Ira Hatch, Samuel Knight, Thales Haskell and A. P. Hardy.
We worked with the Indians, and gained much influence over them. We
built a log cabin, and a dam to take out the waters of the Santa Clara
Creek to irrigate the bottom land. Hard labor and exposure brought on
me a severe attack of sickness. At the same time there came a heavy
fall of snow, which made it impracticable to get any assistance from
the nearest settlement, forty miles distant.
The brethren began to entertain some doubts about my recovery. However,
after laying sick fourteen days, with nothing to nourish me but bread
made of moldy, bitter corn meal, Brother Samuel Atwood arrived from
Harmony with some good things to strengthen me.
After a few days, I started with Brother Atwood on horseback, for
Harmony. I rode to Cottonwood Creek, where the town of Harrisburg now
stands. I felt exhausted, and could go no farther. I was assisted off
my horse and lay on the ground, where I fainted. Brother Atwood brought
some water in the leather holster of his pistol, and put some of it in
my mouth and on my head, which revived me.
With slow and careful traveling I was able to reach Harmony; but I was
so reduced in flesh that my friends did not recognize me.
As soon as my health would permit, I returned to the Santa Clara.
I have before referred to a custom among the Piutes of taking women
from each other. Sometimes two claimants decided who should be the
possessor of the woman, by single combat; but more generally, each
claimant would gather to his assistance all the friends he could, and
the fighting would be kept up until one side was conquered, when the
claimant who had led the victorious party, would take possession of the
woman.
I have seen such engagements last all day and a part of the night. In
one of these, in which over one hundred men took a part, some of the
combatants became angry, and fought in good earnest.
At the close of the day, it was still undecided who was the victor. At
night large fires were lighted, arranged in a circle, and some forty of
the combatants came in to decide the matter.
They pulled each other's hair and fought desperately, regardless of
the rules usually governing such affairs. The unoffending woman seemed
to fare quite as hard, or worse than the combatants. She was finally
trampled under foot, and the women who looked on became excited. Some
ran with their willow trays filled with coals from the fire, which they
threw over the men and burnt them out, as each one found employment in
running and brushing the coals from his hair and back.
In the meantime, the woman lay on the ground with her mouth filled with
blood and dirt.
At this stage of the affair we used our persuasive powers, and
succeeded in inducing the men to let the woman go with the man she
wanted.
In the summer of 1855, we cultivated a few acres of land on the Santa
Clara. We raised melons, and had the privilege of disposing of them
ourselves. I do not think that the Indians ever took any without leave.
We raised a small amount of cotton, which was probably the first grown
in Utah Territory.
In the autumn of 1855, I returned to Tooele Valley, and removed my
family to the Santa Clara. My brother Oscar, also Brother Dudley
Leavitt, and their families, accompanied me.
In the winter of 1855-6 we were instructed to build a fort for
our protection. There were at that time on the Santa Clara, ten
missionaries, and four stonemasons from Cedar City. We employed Indian
help, and everything we put our hands to prospered, so that in less
than ten days we built a fort one hundred feet square, of hammer-faced
rock, the wall two feet thick and twelve feet high. It was afterwards
said by President Young to be the best fort then in the Territory.
We invited the Indians to assist us to construct a strong, high dam to
take the water out of the Santa Clara to a choice piece of land.
For this purpose they gathered into the settlement to the number of
about thirty lodges, but rather reluctantly, for they believed that the
_Tonaquint_, their name for the Santa Clara, would dry up the coming
season, as there was but little snow in the mountains.
With much hard labor we completed our dam, and watered our crops once
in the spring of 1856. The water then failed, and our growing crops
began to wither.
The Indians then came to me and said, "You promised us water if we
would help build a dam and plant corn. What about the promise, now the
creek is dry? What will we do for something to eat next winter?"
The chief saw that I was troubled in my mind over the matter, and said,
"We have one medicine man; I will send him to the great mountain to
make rain medicine, and you do the best you can, and maybe the rain
will come; but it will take strong medicine, as I never knew it to rain
this moon." I went up the creek, and found it dry for twelve miles.
The following morning at daylight, I saw the smoke of the medicine man
ascending from the side of the Big Mountain, as the Indians called what
is now known as the Pine Valley Mountain.
Being among some Indians, I went aside by myself, and prayed to the God
of Abraham to forgive me if I had been unwise in promising the Indians
water for their crops if they would plant; and that the heavens might
give rain, that we might not lose the influence we had over them.
It was a clear, cloudless morning, but, while still on my knees, heavy
drops of rain fell on my back for about three seconds. I knew it to be
a sign that my prayers were answered. I told the Indians that the rain
would come. When I returned to the settlement, I told the brethren that
we would have all the water we wanted.
The next morning, a gentle rain commenced falling. The water arose to
its ordinary stage in the creek, and, what was unusual, it was clear.
We watered our crops all that we wished, and both whites and Indians
acknowledged the event to be a special providence.
I think more corn and squash were grown that year, by us, than I ever
saw before or since, on the same number of acres. The Indians gathered
and stored up a large amount of corn, beans and dried squash.
From that time they began to look upon us as having great influence
with the clouds. They also believed that we could cause sickness to
come upon any of them if we wished. We labored to have them understand
these things in their true light, but this was difficult on account of
their ignorance and superstitions.
About this time an Indian came in from another small band east of the
Santa Clara. The Indians who worked with us told him how matters were
going with them.
He ridiculed them for their faith in us and what we taught them, and
told them that they were fools for living without meat, when there were
plenty of cattle in sight. To more fully exemplify his views and set an
example of self-assurance, he killed one of our oxen.
Four or five of the brethren went to him, armed. I felt impressed that
a peaceful policy would be the best, and, for that reason, I requested
them to let me manage the matter. I went into his lodge and sat down by
him. I told him that he had done a great wrong, for we were working to
do the Indians good.
He talked insultingly, and wanted to know if I wished to kill him, or
if I could make medicine strong enough to kill him. I told him that he
had made his own medicine, and that some evil would befall him before
he got home.
About this time, the President of the mission received a letter from
President Brigham Young, requiring us to say to the Indians that if
they would live cleanly and observe certain things pertaining to the
gospel, they should grow and increase in the land. Also, that we should
require them to wash the sick before we administered to them.
An Indian wished us to administer to his sick boy. We required him to
wash his child; he refused to do so, and the boy died. The man burnt
his lodge, went to the mountains, and called on others to follow him.
Some did so, and before leaving, burned a log store house which they
had filled with supplies.
The angry man's name was Ag-ara-poots.
The chief of the band came to me and said, "Old Ag-ara-poots will never
be satisfied until he has killed you or some one who is with you. You
know that he has killed two Piutes since you came here. The Piutes are
all afraid of him. I am going away."
I asked him if he would not go to Ag-ara-poots with me.
"No;" he replied, "he thinks that you let his boy die, and he will
never be satisfied until he has blood. There are many with him, and you
must not go where he is."
As I felt like seeing him, I invited all the missionary brethren, one
by one, to go with me, but they all refused except Brother Thales
Haskell. One of the brethren remarked that he would as soon go into a
den of grizzly bears.
When I went to the house of Brother Haskell and opened the door,
he said, "I know what you want. You wish me to go with you to see
Ag-ara-poots. I am just the man you want."
The difference between me and my brethren in this instance did not
arise from superior personal courage in myself, but in the fact that I
have mentioned before: that I had received from the Lord an assurance
that I should never fall by the hands of the Indians, if I did not
thirst for their blood. That assurance has been, and is still with me,
in all my intercourse with them.
Brother Haskell seemed inspired to go with me on this occasion. We
started in the morning, and followed the trail of Ag-ara-poots until
afternoon, when we found him and his band.
His face was blackened, and he sat with his head down, apparently in
rather a surly mood. I told him that I had heard that he intended to
kill me the first opportunity.
Said he: "Who told you that I wanted to kill you?"
I answered that the Piutes had told me so.
He declared that it was a lie; but he had been mad and was mad then,
because I had let his boy die.
I told him that _he_ had let his boy die, because he did not think
enough of him to wash him so that the Lord would heal him, and now he
was mad at someone else.
I told him we were hungry, and were going to eat with a man who was not
mad, and that he had better go with us. As we left his lodge, he arose
to go with us, but trembled, staggered and sat down in the sand.
All the Indians but Ag-ara-poots gathered around us. We told them they
had been foolish in burning up their food, going into the mountains,
and leaving their friends; that the women and children had better
go back to the settlement where there was something to eat, and let
the men who wished to hunt, remain. The most of them started for the
settlement the same night.
The following day Titse-gavats, the chief, came to me and said, "The
band have all come on to the Clara except Ag-ara-poots, and he came on
to the bluff in sight of it, and his heart hardened. You cannot soften
his heart again. He has gone off alone. You had better pray for him to
die, then there will be no bloodshed. Do not tell him what I have said
to you."
I did ask the Lord that, if it would be for the glory of His name,
Ag-ara-poots might not have strength to shed the blood of any of us.
In a few days the Piutes told me that he was not able to walk nor help
himself to a drink of water. He lingered until spring and died.