Chapter XVIII (2)

When General Lincoln went to make peace with the Creek Indians, one of the chiefs asked him to sit down on a log; he was then desired to move, and in a few minutes to move still farther; the request was repeated till the General got to the end of the log. The Indian said, "Move farther." To which the General replied, "I can move no farther." "Just so it is with us," said the chief; "you have moved us back to the water, and then ask us to move farther."

Indians are close observers, and reach unerring conclusions with marvelous rapidity. A noise inappreciable to an ordinary ear, a broken twig or leaf or the faintest impression on the grass, the hooting of an owl or the gobbling of a turkey, was sufficient to attract their attention. From these faint indications they are quick to discern the presence of a wild beast or of an enemy.

An Indian, on returning to his wigwam one day, discovered that his venison, which had been hung up to dry, had been stolen. After hastily looking around for "signs," he started in pursuit of the thief. He soon met a party of traders, of whom he inquired whether they had seen a _little old white man with a short gun, and followed by a small dog with a bob-tail._ They replied in the affirmative, and asked the Indian how he could give such a perfect description of the thief. He answered, "I know he is a little man by his having made a pile of stones in order to reach the venison, from the height I hung it, standing on the ground. I know he is an old man by his short steps, which I have traced over the dead leaves in the woods. I know he is a white man by his turning out his toes when he walks, which an Indian never does. I know his gun was short by the mark which the muzzle made upon the bark of a tree against which it leaned. I know the dog is small by his tracks, and that he had a bob-tail I discovered by the marks of it in the dust, where he was sitting at the time his master took down the meat."

The shrewd Indian now continued the pursuit, and with the help of a white man who loved fair play, actually regained his stolen venison.

THE GUNPOWDER HARVEST.

A trader went to a certain Indian nation to dispose of a stock of goods. Among other things he had a quantity of gunpowder. The Indians traded for his clothes, hats, axes, beads and other things, but would not take the powder, saying: "We do not wish for the powder; we have plenty."

The trader did not like to carry all the powder back to his camp, so he thought he would play a trick on the Indians, and induce them to buy it. Going to an open piece of ground near the Indian camp he dug up the soft, rich soil; then mixing a quantity of onion seed with his powder he began to plant it.

The Indians were curious to know what he was doing, and stood by greatly interested.

"What are you doing?" said one.

"Planting gunpowder," replied the trader.

"Why do you plant it?" inquired another.

"To raise a crop of powder. How could I raise it without planting?" said the trader. "Do you not plant corn in the ground?"

"And will gunpowder grow like corn?" exclaimed half a dozen at once.

"Certainly it will," said the trader. "Did you not know it? As you do not want my powder, I thought I would plant it and raise a crop which I could gather and sell to the Crows."

Now the Crows were another tribe of Indians which was always at war with this tribe (the Blackfeet). The idea of their enemies having a large supply of powder increased the excitement, and one of the Indians said: "Well, well, if we can raise powder like corn, we will buy your stock and plant it."

But some of the Indians thought best to wait, and see if the seed would grow. So the trader agreed to wait a few days.

In about a week the tiny sprouts of the onion seed began to appear above the ground.

The trader, calling the Indians to the spot, said: "You see now for yourselves. The powder already begins to grow, just as I told you it would."

The fact that some small plants appeared where the trader had put the gunpowder was enough to convince the Indians. Every one of them became anxious to raise a crop of gunpowder.

The trader sold them his stock, in which there was a large mixture of onion seeds (which it closely resembles) at a very high price, and then left.

From this time the Indians gave no attention to their corn crop. If they could raise gunpowder they would be happy. They took great care of the little plants as they came up out of the ground, and watched every day for the appearance of the gunpowder blossoms. They planned a buffalo hunt which was to take place after the powder harvest.

After a while the onions bore a plentiful crop of seeds, and the Indians began to gather and thresh it. They believed that threshing the onion seeds would produce the powder. But threshing failed to bring it. Then they discovered that they had been cheated.

Of course the swindling trader avoided these Indians, and did not make them a second visit.

After some time, however, he sent his partner to them for the purpose of trading goods for furs and skins. By chance they found out that this man was the partner of the one who had cheated them. They said nothing to him about the matter; but when he had opened his goods and was ready to trade, they coolly helped themselves to all he had and walked off.

The trader did not understand this. He became furiously angry, and went to make his complaint to the chief of the tribe.

"I am an honest man." said he to the chief. "I came here to trade honestly: but your people are thieves; they have stolen all my goods."

The old chief looked at him some time in silence, smoking a meditative pipe, at last he blew a puff of smoke into the air, removed the pipe from his lips, and then said: "My children are all honest. They have not stolen your goods. They will pay you _as soon as they gather their gun powder harvest._"

TARHE, OR THE CRANE, THE PATRIOTIC WYANDOT CHIEF.

At the commencement of the War of 1812 a council was called by the British officer commanding at Malden, in upper Canada. It was held at Brownstown in the State of Michigan, and its object was to induce the Wyandots to take sides with the British in the war which was inevitable.

Several speeches were first delivered, and great promises made by the British agent about what their Great Father, King George, would do for them if the nation would fight the Americans; and he closed by presenting Tarhe with a likeness of King George.

Holding it in his hand, the head chief arose and said: "We have no confidence in King George. He is always quarreling with his white children in this country. He sends his armies over the great water, in their big canoes, and then he gets his Indian friends here to join with him to conquer his children, and promises if they will fight for him, he will do great things for them. So he promised if we would fight Wayne and if he whipped us, he would open his gates of his fort on the Maumee and let us in, and open his big guns on our enemies; but when we were whipped, and the flower of our nation were killed, we fled to this place, but instead of opening his gates, and letting us in, you shut yourselves up in your ground-hog hole, and kept out of sight, while my warriors were killed at your gates. {FN} We have no confidence in any promise you make. When the Americans scratch your backs with their war-clubs, you jump into your big canoes and run home, and leave the poor Indians to fight it out, or make peace with them, the best they may."

* * * * *

{FN} See Battle of Fallen Timbers; in sketch of Little Turtle.

He then took the likeness of General Washington from his bosom and said: "This is our Great Father, and for him we will fight." Then taking the likeness of King George in his left hand he drew his tomahawk and with the edge struck the likeness, and added, "And so we will serve your Great Father."

This so excited the British officer that it is said he turned black in the face. He replied that he would make the chief repent that act. "This is my land and country," said Tarhe; "go home to your own land, and tell your country men that Tarhe and his warriors are ready and that they are the friends of the Americans."

Thus broke up the council. Tarhe returned to his home at Upper Sandusky, and with his warriors aided the Americans, with all their force, till the battle of the Thames; numbers of his Wyandots were in the army of General Harrison at the time he fought the last battle with the British and Indians.

NOBLE DEED OF A YOUNG PAWNEE WARRIOR.

At one time the Pawnees, who lived at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, engaged in the horrible practice of burning at the stake prisoners taken in war.

About the year 1824 an unfortunate female, taken in a war with the Paducah tribe, was destined to this horrible death.

The fatal hour had arrived, the trembling victim, far from her home and her friends, was fastened to the stake; the whole tribe was assembled on the surrounding plain to witness the awful scene. Just when the fire was about to be kindled, and the spectators on the tiptoe of expectation, a young warrior, only twenty-one years of age, who sat composedly among the chiefs, having prepared two fleet horses, with the necessary provisions, sprang from his seat, rushed through the crowd, loosed the intended victim, seized her in his arms, placed her on one of the horses, mounted the other himself, and made the utmost speed toward the nation and friends of the captive. The crowd around were so completely unnerved and amazed at the daring deed, that they made no effort to recapture their victim from her deliverer. They regarded it as an act of the Great Spirit, and submitted to it without a murmur. The released captive was accompanied by her deliverer through the wilderness toward her home, till all danger was past. The young warrior then gave her the horse on which she rode, with the necessary provisions for the remainder of the journey, and they parted. On his return to the village, such was the respect entertained for him, that no inquiry was made into his conduct; no censure was passed on it, and, since the transaction, no human sacrifice has been offered in this or any other band of the Pawnee tribe. Of what influence is one brave and noble act in a good cause!

On the publication of this incident at Washington the young ladies of Miss White's Seminary, in that city, presented that brave and humane young warrior with a handsome silver medal, on which was engraven an appropriate inscription, accompanied by an address, of which the following is the close: "Brother, accept this token of our esteem; always wear it for our sake; and when you have again the power to save a poor woman from death and torture, think of this, and of us, and fly to her rescue."

INDIAN GIRL'S ROMANCE.
ENTERS HARVARD BECAUSE HER ANCESTOR SPARED A WHITE MAN.

Wah-ta-waso, a full-blooded Penobscot Indian girl, will soon enter Harvard University. The girl's Indian name means Bright Eyes, and she is said to be pretty enough and intelligent enough to be worthy of the name. There is a romantic story connected with the girl's proposed entrance into Harvard. Montague Chamberlain, recorder of the Lawrence Scientific School at Harvard, has taken the Indian girl under his protection because one of her ancestors spared the life of one of his forefathers. About the time of the French and Indian War, some of the Penobscots who had wandered from Maine to the St. Lawrence joined the Indians under the French and made a raid into English territory, including an attack on Ticonderoga. With the English force was a trader from Boston named Chamberlain, who got into a hand-to-hand conflict with a powerful Penobscot Indian. In the struggle they clinched, but the redskin was the better wrestler and threw the white. Chamberlain managed to regain his feet and start on a run, but the Indian overtook him, and, having picked up a club, knocked Chamberlain down before he could use his knife. The strength and courage of the white evidently won the admiration of the Indian, for as he stood over Chamberlain with club in hand the Penobscot said in English:

"I like you. Make you my son. You good fighter."

Chamberlain was accordingly treated as a prisoner and was taken to the Indian village of St. Francis, on the St. Lawrence River. While he was permitted to roam freely about the village, the Indians kept a watchful eye on him, and he knew he was a captive. He learned, however, to like the Indian life and remained three years. Then in a fit of homesickness he decided to go home, but the captor refused to let him depart. Chamberlain had won the hearts of many of the squaws by lending them a helping hand in their drudgery, and some of the maidens of the tribe aided him in escaping under cover of darkness, he afterward became a man of consequence in Boston, and the university professor of to-day is one of his descendants.

The Penobscot Indians in time returned to Maine and settled on the island in the Penobscot River, which is still their home. Montague Chamberlain in the course of his investigations discovered that Wah-ta-waso was descended from the Indian who had taken his ancestor captive at Ticonderoga, and took it upon himself to give her an opportunity to gain an excellent education. She has had the advantage of common and high schools, and is now preparing to enter the Harvard annex next spring. Mr. Chamberlain has helped a number of the Penobscots to go to Carlisle, and he has built them a library on their island.

AN INDIAN GIRL'S TASTE OF CIVILIZATION.

On his way back from the recent snake dance at Oribi, Dr. Beecher, of Yale University, felt a sense of thirst. Turning in his saddle he looked back. A cloud of white rising above the point of red sandstone mesa told him that the "chuck wagon" and the main outfit with water were fully two miles behind.

Glancing about over the sage-covered sand dunes and across the sun-curled crust of an adobe flat to his right, his eye fell upon a little Moqui dwelling hugged up in a niche of the cliff at the edge of the mesa. A wolfish dog, barking angrily, flew out at him as he galloped up. A young Moqui woman in moccasins, leggings and blankets, came to the door. When she saw the visitor she called to the dog and nodded "How."

"Qui bamus ahwah?" asked Dr. Beecher after the dog ceased barking. The young woman smiled, and then replied pleasantly:

"I beg your pardon, sir, but if it is water you wish it may be found just a little way down the draw."

The doctor grabbed the pommel of his saddle in his surprise. He managed to say "Thank you," and then turned his horse toward the spring, as he was directed. For some time after he had satisfied his thirst he sat in the shade of a bowlder and watched his horse carefully and cautiously nibble off little bunches of gramma grass that grew closeup under the big thorny melon-cacti, and all the while he was wondering how it was that the Indian woman spoke such perfect English.

Suddenly his horse threw up its head, jumped a few feet to one side, then dropped quietly back to browsing. Looking over his shoulder, the doctor saw the Moqui woman coming down the trail with a huge water jar hung on her back in a large fold of her blanket. She smiled when she came up and made a remark about the sandstorm of the day before. The doctor gallantly caught up the gourd dipper and insisted on filling the jar for her. All the while he kept up a running conversation, and when he poured the last dipper full of water into the jar he had reached the point where he could ask her with propriety to tell him all about herself, and he did.

She was reluctant at first, but finally she began her story by saying she had been left an orphan at four years of age. Then she continued her story:

"You see there was no one to take care of me but my grandfather. One day a missionary prevailed upon him to send me to the Indian school at Ream's cañon. I stayed there until I was sixteen years old. I became much interested in my work, and at the end of my last year at Ream's cañon I was told that I was to be sent east to the Carlisle School in Pennsylvania. I look back upon that day as the happiest of my life--no, I won't say that, either, for the day I left Carlisle was a great day to me. It had been told me every day that I should go back to my people and show them the error of their ways. It was with a happy feeling of duty and responsibility that I started west.

"But what a fool I was! I hate to think about it. When I arrived in Oribi in my Eastern clothes I immediately became the laughing-stock of the village. Every time I spoke I was either jeered at by my companions or rebuked by my elders. The young men of the village made unpleasant remarks about me as I passed, and the old men and women upbraided me for having no respect for my ancestors' customs and traditions. I endured their reproaches and sneers for a long while, but at last I gave up in despair, threw away my Eastern clothes and my Eastern manners with them. Then I left Oribi and came here to live with a distant relative and to forget the past.

"I thought of going back to Pennsylvania, of clerking in a store, of doing housework and all that sort of thing; but after a time I gave it all up and resigned myself to my fate."

"And what did fate have in store for you?" asked the doctor.

She answered, smiling, "A husband."

"Now you are wrapped up in your children and are happy?"

"No, I have no children. My only child died when it was but six months old. It took a fever, and when I saw that it was in danger I tried to get my husband to go to Winslow for a physician, but it was all in vain. He would not listen. He feared the wrath of the chief and of the native priests. I saw it was no use, so I simply nursed my child until one night it died in my lap. The next day we took the little thing back to the graveyard up on the mesa and buried it with the regular Moqui ceremony."

"Well," said the doctor, after a pause, "what can be done for the Moquis?"

"Nothing. Let them alone. They are happy now, and, you know, 'where ignorance is bliss 'tis folly to be wise.'"

In the meantime the "chuck wagon" had gone by, and the doctor rose to leave. He offered to send her some books and magazines, but she begged him not to do so, saying that she wanted to forget such things.

{Illustration: A Ukiah (Alaska) Indian Maiden in Japanese Costume.}

LEAVING THE LATCH-STRING OUT.

During the French and Indian War many towns and settlements in Pennsylvania and New Jersey, as in other sections of the country, suffered severely from Indian raids.

A family of Friends, who lived in a lonely house not far from the Delaware River, and seemed to feel no fear, took no precautions against the savages. Their simple dwelling had never known a lock or bolt, and the only concession they had ever made to the custom of "the world's people" was to pull in at night the string that lifted the wooden latch of their door. Even this precaution seemed to them needless, and was as often forgotten as remembered.

Prowling parties of Indians had begun frightful ravages in the vicinity of the settlement, and evidences of their cruel work could be seen every day nearer and nearer. Warnings came to the Quaker and his wife, and one night the effect of the fears of others more than their own kept them awake.

The argument of the old Friend with himself, as he lay thinking was after this fashion: he had always trusted in God; yet to-night he had pulled in the latch-string. A measure to prevent intrusion meant suspicion. Suspicion under the circumstances, meant fear.

He talked the matter over with his wife. It would be safer now to test their faith than to throw it away, he said. She agreed with him, and he got up and hung out the latch-string again.

Less than half an hour afterward the Indians came. The defenseless inmates of the house were wholly at their mercy. They heard the savage band creep by their bedroom window and pause as if surprised to find the latch-string out. Then they heard them open the door. A muttered talk in the native tongue kept the listeners in suspense for a minute or two; then the door was shut softly and the raiders went away.

The next day the smoke of ruined dwellings in sight of their cabin, and the lamentation of neighbors over their killed or captured kindred, told the Friends what they had escaped.

It was not until years afterward, during a conference between the colonists and the Indians, that the story was told of what had passed that fatal night at the Quaker's door. A chief, who had himself been a leader of the gang in the attack on the white settlement, declared that when he saw the latch-string out, the sign of fearless confidence made him change his mind. He held a short parley with his followers, and the substance of it was:

"These people are no enemies. See, they are not afraid of us. They are protected by the Great Spirit."

"A WOMAN CAN'T HOLD HER TONGUE."

Saratoga Lake, in New York, is such a calm and beautiful sheet of water that Indians had a legend that it was the special resort of Manitou, or the Great Spirit, and they professed to believe that all who shouted or made a noise while crossing would offend the Great Spirit, and he, in punishment for the indignity, would cause the offender to sink to the bottom like a stone.

Now, it happened that an Indian boatman was conveying a lady across the lake, who, knowing the Indian's superstition and the reason for it, determined to teach him a lesson and disprove the legend. Accordingly, when half way across, she shouted aloud several times. But the Indian boatman, Charon-like, pulled grimly and silently at the oars, until the keel touched the further shore.

"There!" exclaimed the lady, "did I not tell you the Great Spirit had no more to do with this lake than any other. You see I did not sink to the bottom when I shouted." Fixing his eyes sternly on the offender, the Indian replied: "The Great Spirit is very patient and all wise. He knows white squaws can't keep their mouths shut."

ENORMOUS AMOUNT OF MONEY SPENT ON INDIANS.

In the Indian census report an interesting attempt is made for the first time to cast up in figures an aggregate of the Government expenditures on account of the red men residing within the United States since the Union was established in 1789. The result of this attempt indicates in the statistics presented that the gigantic sum of $1,105,219,372 was spent by the Government up to the year 1890 either upon the Indians directly or indirectly because of Indians. Counting in, however, the civil and military expenses for Indians since then, together with incidental expenses not recognized in the official figures given, it is safe to say that up to June 30, 1895, a further sum of $144,780,628 may be added to the aggregate figures, making a grand aggregate of $1,250,000,000 chargeable to Indians to date.

The Indian wars under the Government of the United States are stated to have numbered more than forty and to have cost the lives of about nineteen thousand white men, women and children, including about five thousand killed in individual encounters of which history takes no note and of thirty thousand Indians, including eighty-five hundred killed in personal encounters.

THE SURPRISED INDIANS.

On one occasion a company of soldiers was attacked by Indians while ascending a steep mountain pass. It happened that the soldiers had several small cannon packed on the backs of burros. Wishing to frighten the Indians, who were in close pursuit, and not having time to unpack the cannon, it was decided to load and fire them from the backs of the sturdy little beasts of burden. This was accordingly done. But one of the gunners in his haste and excitement put in an extra large charge of powder. When, therefore, the burro was backed to the edge of the precipice, and the cannon aimed downward at the Indians and touched off, the concussion was so great as to hurl both cannon and burro over the precipice and down the mountain side, pell mell, loosening stones as they tumbled right in the midst of the astonished Indians, some of whom were knocked over and in turn hurled on down the mountain side. The war-whoop was changed to a yell of terror as the surviving Indians fled down the mountain pass. The next day one of this band of Indians was captured, and on being asked, through the interpreter, what caused the Indians to retreat so fast at the commencement of the fight, he answered "Injuns no fraid of guns, pistols, swords or cannons, but when white soldier shoot whole donkey at Injun, Injun run 'cause he cannot fly."

Charles F. Lummis, in "Some Strange Corners of Our Country," says of the Navajo magicians:

"But the crowning achievement of the Navajo--and, in my knowledge, of any Indian--magicians, is the growing of the sacred corn. At sunrise the shaman plants the enchanted kernel before him, in full view of his audience, and sits solemnly in his place, singing a weird song. Presently the earth cracks, and the tender green shoot pushes forth. As the magician sings on the young plant grows visibly, reaching upward several inches an hour, waxing thick and putting out its drooping blades. If the juggler stops his song the growth of the corn stops, and is resumed only when he recommences his chant. By noon the corn is tall and vigorous and already tasseled out; and by sunset it is a mature and perfect plant, with tall stalk, sedgy leaves and silk-topped ears of corn! How the trick is performed I have never been able to form so much as a satisfactory guess; but done it is, as plainly as eyes ever saw anything done, and apparently with as little chance for deception."

A PROFESSOR IN WOLF'S CLOTHING.

Prof. Frederick Starr, of the University of Chicago, a friend and correspondent of the author, is a high authority on anthropology and ethnography, and for some years has been closely studying the native tribes of this continent. His investigations have taken him to many reservations, and hosts of Indians are his friends.

Whenever he revisits the Iroquois people he will receive a cordial welcome. Not long ago he was made a member of that federation--a Seneca, and therefore a brother of all the Iroquois--and has as much right to sit in a council of the Senecas as any Indian whose ancestry antedates the landing of Columbus. That he is capable of occupying this place with honor the Indians did not doubt, for, when they adopted him formally, he was not named Pale Moon, Lively Beetle, or any such appellation, but Haysetha, the wisest speaker in the council.

When the anthropologist first met his future brethren they did not take to him very kindly. Their suspicious natures do not allow them to make friends easily with the white men, or permit one to make a careful study of tribal customs.

One of the large reservations of the Iroquois is near Chautauqua, where the professor was delivering a series of lectures on the American Indian. He happened to mention that the Iroquois near by were different from other Indian peoples thrown in contact with civilization, in that they still used rites and ceremonies which were in vogue centuries ago. The pupils wished to witness these and an expedition was organized.

The rig broke down midway. The distance back to town or to the reservation was a little over twelve miles. No one was in the humor for such a long walk, and it devolved upon the professor to scurry about to find a wagon large enough to hold twenty-five people.

Near by was an old Iroquois who had a hay wagon which would fill the bill, but the Indian refused point blank to aid them. Neither pleadings nor money could swerve him from his purpose not to let the white men have his wagon. The case seemed hopeless, and Professor Starr had about made up his mind to take the long trudge back without paying the visit when a happy thought struck him.

He remembered that many of the Iroquois belong to the Wolf family--that is, have the wolf as their "totem"--and are always loyal to each other. Consequently he determined to pass himself off as a "Wolf," since there are many white men with Indian blood in their veins who are members of the family.

"Now, you must not refuse me," said the professor. "I'm no ordinary white man. I'm a 'Wolf.'" The effect was magical. The Indian hitched up his horses and did not even want to take pay for his trouble.

When the reservation was reached Professor Starr saw an old man making a rattle, he wanted it.

"How much?" he inquired.

"One dollar, white man," was the reply.

Professor Starr, however, had no intention of paying this exorbitant price. He determined to play the "Wolf" again.

"I'm no ordinary white man," he said. "I'm a 'Wolf,' a brother. You won't charge me more than 50 cents." The Indian took the half-dollar.

Farther on the professor found a corn mask used in a sacred dance. He wanted this to take back to Chicago with him.

"One dollar, white man," said the squaw who owned it. The "Wolf" had served him twice and the professor resolved to try it thrice.

"I'm no common white man," he declared. "I'm a 'Wolf.' You shouldn't charge me more than 50 cents."

"No difference, white man," she replied. "I'm 'Bear' (another totem who are rivals of the 'Wolves'). Pay one dollar."

And the professor paid the price demanded.