The night passed, and a part of the forenoon of the following day, when
the Navajos who had been sent for began to gather in.
About noon, they informed me they were ready for talk. A lodge had been
emptied of its contents for a council room. It was about twenty feet
long by twelve feet wide. It was constructed of logs, with one end set
in the ground, and the top ends leaning to the centre of the lodge, and
fitted together. The logs were covered with about six inches of dirt.
A fire occupied the centre of the lodge, the smoke escaping through a
hole in the roof. There was but one entrance, and that was in the end.
Into this lodge were crowded some twenty-four Navajos, four of whom
were councilors of the nation. A few Indians were gathered about the
entrance.
The two Smiths and I were at the farther end from the entrance, with
apparently not one chance in a hundred of reaching the outside, should
it be necessary to make an effort to save our lives.
The council opened by the Navajo spokesman asserting that what I had
said about the murder of their relatives was false. He stated that I
had advised their people to cross the great river and trade with my
people, and in doing so they had lost three good young men, who lay on
our land for the wolves to eat. The fourth, he said, came home with
a bullet hole through him, and without a blanket, and he had been
thirteen days in that situation, cold and hungry.
He also stated that I need not think of going home, but my American
friends might if they would start immediately.
I informed the two Smiths of the intention of the Navajos concerning
the disposal of myself. I told them they had been obliging to me, and I
would not deceive them; the way was open for them to go if they desired
to do so.
They replied that they would not go until I went.
Our three revolvers were hanging over my head. It was desirable to have
them as well in hand as possible. I took hold of them, at the same time
saying to our Piute interpreter, "These are in my way; what shall I do
with them?"
As I spoke, I passed them behind me to the Smiths, not wishing to give
any cause for suspicion that I had any fears, or expected to use the
weapons. I told the Smiths not to make any move until we were obliged
to.
The Navajos continued to talk for some time, when I was given to
understand that my turn had come.
I told them of my long acquaintance with their people, and of my labors
to maintain peace. I hoped they would not think of killing me for a
wrong with which neither myself nor my people had anything to do; and
that strangers had done the deed.
I discovered that what I had said the day before had some influence
with the gray haired men. None but gray haired men belonged to the
council, but others were allowed to speak.
The young men evidently feared that the council would oppose their
desire for revenge. They evinced great intensity of feeling. The
wounded man was brought in, his wounds exposed to the council, and a
stirring appeal was made for retaliation by a young warrior. It stirred
up the Indian blood from its very depths. He closed by asserting that
they could do no less than put me to death.
For a few minutes I felt that if I was ever permitted to see friends
and home again, I should appreciate the privilege. I thought I felt
one of the Smiths at my back grip his revolver. I said to him quietly,
"Hold still! Do not make the first move, and there will be no move
made. They never will get ready to do anything."
This assurance came by the whisperings of the Spirit within me.
When the excitement had died away a little, I spoke to the Piute
interpreter. He either could not or would not answer me, neither would
he answer the Navajos, but sat trembling, apparently with fear.
The Navajos brought in another Piute, and recommended him as a man of
much courage, and said he would not falter; but he was soon in the same
dilemma as the other.
After some further conversation they appeared a little modified, and,
in lieu of blood revenge, they proposed to take cattle and horses
for the injury done them. They required me to give them a writing,
obligating me to pay one hundred head of cattle for each of the three
Navajos killed, and fifty for the wounded one.
This was a close place for me. I could go home by simply putting my
name to the obligation. I reflected: Shall I acknowledge by my act,
that my people are guilty of a crime of which I know they are innocent;
and neutralize all the good results of our labors among this people for
fifteen years? Shall I obligate the Church to pay three hundred and
fifty head of cattle for a crime committed by others? It is perhaps
more than I should be able to earn the rest of my life.
The sacrifice looked to me more than my life was worth. I replied that
I would not sign the obligation.
One of them remarked that he thought I would by the time I had been
stretched over that bed of coals awhile, pointing to the fire in the
middle of the lodge.
I answered that I had never lied to them, and that I would not pay for
the wrong that other people had done. "Let the Americans pay for their
own mischief, I will not sign a writing to pay you one hoof."
Here the new Piute interpreter would not say anything more.
A Piute chief standing in the door of the lodge spoke to him in an
angry tone, and accused him of having a very small heart and little
courage.
The chief then asked if I was not scared.
I asked, "What is there to scare me?"
He replied, "The Navajos."
I told him I was not afraid of my friends.
"Friends!" said he, "You have not a friend in the Navajo nation. Navajo
blood has been spilled on your land. You have caused a whole nation
to mourn. Your friend Ketch-e-ne, that used to give you meat when you
were hungry, and blankets when you were cold, has gone to mourn for his
murdered sons. You have caused the bread he eats to be like coals of
fire in his mouth, and the water he drinks like hot ashes. Are you not
afraid?"
"No," I replied, "my heart never knew fear."
The Navajos wished to know what the Piute chief and myself were talking
about. The Piute repeated the conversation in their language. They
then conversed among themselves; at times they manifested considerable
warmth. I was asked if I knew Hastele.
Replying in the affirmative, they asked, "What do you know about him?"
I answered, "I know that Barben-ce-ta and others of your leading men
said, at the great peace talk, that he was an honest man, and that all
important difficulties between you and our people should be settled
before him. I knew this affair should be settled before him, and have
known it all the time we have been talking. I came here on a peace
mission. If you will send Hastele into our country to learn the truth
concerning what I have told you, let as many more come along as you
like. I wish you would send the best interpreter you have along with
him.
"It is no use to ask me about pay. In the meantime your people can
trade among the 'Mormons' in safety. They will be glad to see you
if you will come in the day time, as our people come into your
country--not to prowl around your lodges to steal and kill. I came to
do as I agreed to do at the good talk at Fort Defiance."
I felt that the last I said had the desired effect. Their feelings
began to soften.
After some further conversation among themselves, the interpreter said,
"They are talking good about you now."
I replied, "I am glad; it is time they talked good. What have they said
about me?"
"They say you have a good heart. They think they will wait until they
see their greater chiefs, and believe that the matter will be settled
before Hastele."
It was then agreed that I should come to Mowabby, in twenty-five days,
and they would see if it was not advisable to send some one over, and
satisfy themselves of the truth of my statement. Twenty-five notches
were cut in a stick, and when they were all gone by cutting off one
notch each morning, I was to be at Mowabby.
The history of my intercourse with the Indians on the east side of the
Colorado, for fifteen years, had all been talked over. In fact, I had
been on trial before them for all my sayings and doings that had come
within their knowledge. I was able to answer all their questions, and
give good reasons for all my acts.
My mind had been taxed to the utmost all this time. I had been in the
farther end of a crowded lodge, with no reasonable probability of
getting out of it if I wished to, and without the privilege of inhaling
a breath of fresh air.
Some roasted mutton was brought in and presented to me to take the
first rib.
The sight of the roasted meat, the sudden change of affairs, together
with the recollection of the threats of a very different roast to the
one I had on hand, turned my stomach. I said to those around me, "I am
sick."
I went to the door of the lodge. It was refreshing to breathe in the
open air, and look out into the glorious moonlight. I thought it was
midnight; if so, the council had lasted about twelve hours.
A woman's heart seems kindlier than man's among all people. A Navajo
woman, seeming to comprehend my situation, came to me and asked me if
she could not get me something I would like to eat.
She mentioned several varieties of food she had on hand, none of which
I desired. She said she had been at my house in Kanab, and she saw I
liked milk, and she would get me some. With a dish in her hand she went
about among the goats, stripping them by moonlight.
She brought me about a pint of milk, which I drank, went into the
lodge, and lay down and slept until some of the party said it was light
enough to see to get our horses.
I asked the Navajos to bring up our horses. I felt it was safer for me
to remain in the lodge, than to be out hunting horses, and liable to
meet some angry spirits who had been about the council.
The horses were brought, and the Smiths and I were soon in our saddles,
and leaving behind us the locality of the trying scenes of the past
night.
Again was the promise verified, which was given me by the Spirit
many years before, that if I would not thirst for the blood of the
Lamanites, I should never die by their hands.