THE INDIANS—GEN. SHERMAN—KIT CARSON, ETC.
At Fort Garland, in San Louis Park, Sept 21st, Gov. Cumming, Gen. Sherman, and the famous Kit Carson (then Bv't. Brig. Gen. U. S. Vols.), met in council, concerning the Utes and the Indian question generally. Sherman, as elsewhere intimated, was then in the midst of a long tour by ambulance, through the heart of the Indian country embraced in his then Military Division, and as he had already travelled about 1200 miles, with no escort except a couple of staff-officers and the necessary teamsters, without seeing a hostile Red Skin, he was getting to be somewhat skeptical on the whole Indian subject. The grand Treaty with the Utes was to come off Sept. 22d and 23d on the banks of the Rio Grande, some thirty miles northwest from Fort Garland; but as Sherman had decided to leave Garland on the 22d for his return east via the Arkansas, a preliminary council was called at Fort Garland on the 21st. Runners had been sent out a day or two before, and the Big Chiefs of the Utes kept arriving all that day. The council was held late in the afternoon, in a large room back of the commandant's quarters. The chiefs were grouped on one side of the room, squat upon their haunches, grave and dignified; while on the other sat Sherman in loose uniform, puffing a cigar, with Gov. Cumming on one side and Kit Carson on the other. Carson served as interpreter, speaking Mexican well, which the chiefs mostly understood. After some preliminary skirmishing, Sherman said he had called them together to ascertain whether the Utes were willing to quit their nomadic life and settle down on a Reservation. He urged this upon them, as their true interest, if they wished to maintain their tribal existence, and said he had only come among them to promote their happiness and welfare. He added, he had recently been visiting many other tribes with the same object and purposes, and as a friend to their race was convinced their only hope for the future lay in going on a Reservation. The chiefs debated the matter among themselves for awhile, and presently made answer, that they thanked the Big Warrior for his suggestions and approved them; but that their young men were opposed to such a policy, and they feared it would be difficult to persuade the Utes of its wisdom, until the Cheyennes and Comanches—their hereditary foes—had first adopted it. The council lasted an hour or more, with much skillful fencing and adroit diplomacy on the part of Ooray and Ancantash, the head-chiefs; but this was the substance of all that Sherman could worm out of them. He tried to explain and reason with them in various ways, but at last broke up the council in disgust, and blurted out in his peculiar way, as he strode back to his quarters, "They will have to freeze and starve a little more, I reckon, before they will listen to common sense!" Subsequently he told us of a council that he had held about a fortnight or so before, at Fort Laramie or somewhere up there, with the Arrapahoes or the Sioux. He had urged upon the chiefs, that their white brothers were opposed to war and desired peace, and he hoped there would be no more bloodshed in that region between the Red Man and the Pale Face. The chiefs presently replied, with a wariness worthy of Talleyrand, that they reciprocated his Quaker sentiments, and would do all in their power to enforce them; but that their young men were rash and fiery sometimes, and it might be difficult to hold them in. "Well, then," said Sherman to the interpreter, firing up, "Tell the rascals so are mine; and if another white man is scalped in all this region, it will be impossible to hold mine in." The chiefs saw the point, and no doubt sagely concluded they would have trouble, if ever they got Tecumseh Sherman fairly after them.
The grand Treaty with the Utes came off, as I have said, on Sept. 22d and 23d, on the banks of the Rio Grande, some thirty miles or so northwest from Fort Garland. We left Garland early in the morning by ambulance, and reached the treaty ground soon after noon. Gov. Cumming and Indian Agent Hunt had preceded us, and on arriving we found them just sitting down to discuss a Rio Grande trout, nearly as large as an eastern shad. The Utes had pitched their lodges a mile or so away, in a bend of the river, but they were constantly passing to and fro on horseback and afoot. Apparently none of them ever walked, if he could afford the luxury of a pony, and often one puny pony was made to carry two or three lubberly fellows at a time. Evidently the Plains Indians are as averse to walking, as the traditional Texan, who is said never to leave his door-sill without mounting a mustang. These Ute ponies are hardy, sagacious little fellows, some of them very handsome, and are of course, the lineal descendants of the wild horses of the Plains. Ooray, their head chief, rode a bright little bay, that would have taken a first-class premium almost anywhere. Of course, they get no grain, but subsist exclusively on grass. They constitute their owners' chief wealth, and a Ute will part with almost anything sooner than his pony. Braves, squaws, papooses, all ride astride, and generally at a gallop. They seldom use the spur, but rarely mount without a whip, and this they keep going pretty steadily while on the road. Their saddles are rude affairs of wood, with very short stirrups; but their bridles are better made, and usually have some kind of an iron bit, if at all obtainable.
In the course of the afternoon, hundreds of the Indians thronged our little camp, in all varieties of costume, though chiefly in breech-cloth and blanket or buffalo-robe. Both sexes dress much alike, and at first it was difficult to distinguish one from the other, though you soon came to know the squaws from their smaller stature. The paraphernalia of some of them was ludicrous in the extreme. One young buck had managed to secure an old-style artillery hat, with long scarlet horsehair plume, and a dilapidated white shirt; and as he strutted about in these (only these and nothing more!) considered himself wholly en regle. Another, the princess and beauty of the tribe, a dirty belle of seventeen, resplendent in paint and feathers, was arrayed in much gorgeousness of beads and buckskin, and whiffed her cigarritos by the hour together. During the morning she had ridden her thirty miles, man-fashion, with the chiefs from Fort Garland, and in the afternoon she lolled about camp in magnificent indolence. Her laugh was rich and musical, and she seemed indeed quite a pet with the tribe.
The afternoon was passed in preliminary arrangements for the Treaty, and towards evening a number of us walked over to the Indian village to return our calls. We found it to consist of perhaps three hundred wigwams, arranged pretty regularly in streets, and containing in all some twelve hundred souls. The wigwams or lodges were made of skins and hides, stretched over circularly inclined poles—rude originals evidently of our army Sibley tents—with an opening at the top for the smoke to escape through. At the door were planted their spears or lances, and shields; inside, on skins or blankets, the braves were fast asleep or playing cards; without, the youngsters were playing ball or practicing with the bow and arrows. We wandered through the streets until nightfall, striking up a talk or barter in our broken Ute the best we could, and had some interesting experiences. Just then the village was all agog with excitement and joy. The day before, their Agent had given them several beeves, which they had at once slaughtered and partly eaten; the surplus was now hanging all about on lariats and poles, curing in the dry atmosphere. "Jerked-beef," I suppose, our Plains-men would call it. A flock of sheep had also been given them, and the squaws were now busy "corraling" these, as we happened along. A few refractory ewes refused to enter the corral—a slight enclosure of brush—and these were being hotly pursued by the boy-braves and dogs. The dogs headed them off on all sides, while the boys lassoed them one after another, until the squaws came up and caught them. It was fine practice for the lasso, and the youngsters seemed to enjoy it greatly. Dogs abounded everywhere. Each wigwam seemed to have a goodly supply, and the village at large a brigade besides. They were small wolfish-looking curs, as a rule, and the most vociferous and incessant yelpers I ever listened to. They had no regular bark—only a wild yelp, like their savage ancestors, the cayotes of the Plains. It is only the civilized dog, that "bays deep-mouthed welcome"—that has a full, open "bark"—and this he loses when he relapses to savagery again. There was no moving anywhere about the village, without having a score or more of them yelping at your heels; but this seemed to be the extent of their hostile intentions. When they became rather noisier than usual, some passing squaw would dash at them with a stick and a shower of "God dams," and that would scatter them for the time. Most of our Indians have all learned to swear the rough oaths of the Border, and always swear in English, as they have no corresponding words in their own language. In describing cavalry, they put the thumb and forefinger of one hand on the palm of the other, and then move them along in imitation of a gallop. In speaking of ox-trains, they stretch out their arms, and say, "Whoa-Haw! Git!" But when they come to mule-teams, they invariably speak of them as "God dams! Go 'long!" because of the copious oaths our teamsters hurl at them. Indeed, the average Indian always speaks of the donkey, as a "God dam," and thinks that the correct name. These Utes in general, I must say, seemed to be much more thrifty and comfortable than we had anticipated, though doubtless some of this was due to the recent generous issue of supplies by the Agent.
Our party scattered pretty well through the village, one after another halting to palaver with acquaintances we had picked up; but as it grew dark, we gradually drifted together and prepared to return. Dr. M. was still bargaining with a chief for a fancy shield he wanted as a souvenir, when the rest began moving off, and begged me to wait a minute until he was through. Several minutes passed by, and then his bargaining ended in failure—the Big Chief refusing to "swop"—their universal word for selling or trading. Then we started to overtake the rest, but they had passed out of view in the deepening twilight, and though we hallooed to them could get no answer—the hubbub of the village evidently drowning our voices. Emerging from the wigwams, we soon discovered, that neither of us had taken any proper notes of the landmarks, as we came over, being busy talking with the rest, and consequently neither knew the way back. Here was a pretty predicament, surely, for two ambitious young men—cast away in a village of a thousand savages, unable to speak a sentence of their language intelligibly or they ours, night already come, and no hint of how to extricate ourselves. To make it doubly absurd, we presently discovered, that our only belligerent weapons, whether for offence or defence, consisted of a Rogers' penknife apiece. We had been so remiss, as to leave camp without our revolvers—a precaution that no Mountain or Plains-man ever neglects. While pondering the "situation," we luckily caught sight of the Sierra Blanca glistening in the moonlight, and as we knew this to be southeast of our camp we concluded our route lay toward it. We set off accordingly, and had made perhaps a quarter of a mile, across sloughs now dry and through the rank grass, when one of us suggested, that we could not be going right, or our camp-fires would appear. This seemed reasonable, the country was so level; so a halt was ordered, while we scanned the horizon for fires elsewhere. Presently far away to the left, we descried a fire blazing loftily up, and concluded this must be ours, and that our comrades had put on extra fuel to guide us the better home. The direction seemed wrong, judging by the position of the Sierra Blanca; but as it was the only fire visible, except those at the Indian village, we concluded it must be ours, and changing our course struck for it accordingly. A trudge of a mile or more, with an occasional tumble into a dry slough, at length brought us to the fire, when to our disappointment we found it to be only the camp-fire of two rough-looking customers, who said they were out "prospecting" for mines. They said they had reached there just at nightfall, from a long trip through the Mountains, and as yet had seen nothing of our camp, and of course knew nothing of its whereabouts. Two Utes were squatted before the fire, who they said had just rode over from the village, and we asked one of the men, who had been talking with them in Mexican, to inquire the way to "Kit Carson's Camp" for us. He did so, and the Indians jumping up responded, they would conduct us there. We thought now we were in luck, surely, and thanking the miners for their kindness prepared to follow our copper-colored friends. Unloosing a little pony, that was picketed near by, they both clambered upon him, and then with grunts and mutterings to each other, of which we only understood an occasional "God dam," they rode along ahead for perhaps a quarter of a mile, when suddenly they turned round on the pony without stopping, chattered and gibbered away at us for a minute or two like monkeys, and then with a wild whoop, that for a moment quite dazed us, galloped wildly off toward the Indian village.
We were now worse off than ever, and our affairs were evidently coming to a crisis. Of course, we halted again, and called another "council of war." M. advised going back to the miners' camp-fire, and trusting our fortunes for the night with them. I objected that we knew nothing about them; that they were suspicious looking customers anyhow—hadn't the air of genuine miners; and suggested that we camp down where we were, on the banks of a bayou, as there was plenty of dry wood there for a fire, and when morning came we would hunt up the Rio Grande, and follow it down to our lost camp. He assented to this, but on reflection I further suggested, whether it wouldn't be better, after all, to go boldly into the Indian village, and govern ourselves by circumstances. We knew Ooray and Ancantash, the head chiefs, and why not ask for them? If we could find them, our troubles would be over. If we couldn't, at the worst, we could claim the hospitality of some other chieftain, and quarter for the night in a Ute wigwam. I urged that the Indians already knew where we were anyhow, and also knew that we were unarmed and lost; that it would be disagreeable to hear their arrows whizzing around us there, or perhaps be scalped and tossed into the bayou before morning; and that, in short, I would risk the Utes, if he would. M. approved the plan, as the best we could do under such dismal circumstances; so off we trudged again for the Indian village, which by that time we were beginning to wish we had never seen. We tried to keep our courage up by discussing Mark Tapley, and his philosophy of the "jolly;" but the result could hardly be called a success. Perhaps the two braves who had so suddenly deserted us, with such unearthly whoops, were lying in wait for us somewhere ahead! Perhaps the next step we would hear an arrow whiz by, or over us—perchance through us! Nevertheless, I remember also a ludicrous feeling at the idea—after escaping unscathed from the rebellion—of falling ignominiously there, on the banks of the Del Norte, by the hand of a Ute, with only a pocket-knife to defend myself with!
However, we proceeded cautiously forward, with many a halt and "hist," and presently without molestation reached the village again. The dogs, of course, challenged our approach with a multitudinous yelping, as before: but some friendly squaws appeared, and soon dispersed them with a copious shower of "God dams." Approaching a lodge in which we saw a number of Indians reclining around a fire, we tried to make them understand, that we were lost and wanted to find the way to "Kit Carson's Camp;" but met with the same poor success as before. Then we inquired for Ooray and Ancantash, but they either did not comprehend, or else were unwilling to bother with us, as their only answer was a grunt—"Ugh"—or a stare. Evidently, on reflection, they concluded we were bores, for they soon resumed their pipes, and the low drawling song they were crooning when we entered. We tried two or three more lodges, with the same result, and had about made up our minds to camp down for the night, where we were, when M. suggested that we try one more wigwam, and if we failed there to give it up. This seemed almost providential; for as we entered the lodge-door, up sprang a lithe young chief, whom we had met during the day, and came smiling toward us with the greeting, "How, Gen-e-ral! How, Doc-tor! Know me? Me, Wellington!" (How is all the Indian has learned yet of How do you do? or How are you?) Greasy and dirty as the fellow was, we could have hugged him with delight; for now we knew our troubles were all over. We answered him, "O yes! Know Wellington, of course! In our wigwam to-day! But lost now! No find wigwam! Kit Carson's Camp?" He comprehended our lingo, and "the situation," in a moment, and quickly replied, "Yes! Wellington go!" and then, with an eye to the main chance, shrewdly added, "How much?" We answered, "Two paint, and some tobacco." He held up three fingers, and bargainingly responded, "Three paint, and 'baccy a heap?" By "paint" he meant little packages of Indian paint—blue, vermillion, yellow—such as some in camp had brought along for barter, and we readily acceded to his terms. As it was growing late, he asked another young buck to go along, who demanded the same terms, which of course we cheerfully granted. Then they took up their bows and arrows, drew their blankets around their shoulders, and bidding the rest "bueno noche" we moved off.
We soon observed, that they were conducting us toward the Sierra Blanca, in the same direction that we took originally. We questioned Wellington about this, but he persisted it was right; and so we pushed on, though not without some misgivings. A half hour or so, however, brought us safely to camp, where we found our friends discussing our absence, and wondering what had become of us. We cautioned each other to say nothing about our adventure; but the joke was too good to keep, and the facts all came out in the course of the evening, as we sat around the camp-fire and smoked our fatigue away. However tame it may read now, it was exciting and romantic enough at the time, and I record it here for the moral involved, to wit: 1. Mind your topography, on leaving camp; 2. Never quit camp, without your rifle or revolver!
Of course, we paid Wellington and his friend their paint and tobacco, and dismissed them with hearty thanks. We won their hearts by inviting them both to lunch next day, and continued fast friends during the rest of our stay there.
The next day (Sept. 23d) having been set apart for the Treaty, Indians of both sexes and all ages at an early hour began to swarm through our encampment. All, of course, were naturally on hand, to hear the Big Talk and share the many presents. The chiefs and braves were there first, gorgeous in paint and feathers; but long before the Council assembled, the poor squaws also arrived, freighted with their papooses. The spot selected was a sloping sward on the banks of the Rio Grande, and but a short distance therefrom. Blankets were spread on the grass for the Commissioners and head chiefs: the young chiefs and braves formed a rude circle around these; and beyond these still were the women and children. The four leading men seemed to be Ooray, Arrow, Sha-wa-she-wit, Blue Flower, Ancantash, and Chi-chis-na-sau-no, also abbreviated into Shauno. The head chief of the tribe, and the finest looking Indian we had yet seen, was Ooray. He was a medium sized, athletic looking man, of about forty, with as fine an eye and head, as you will see anywhere. Moreover, he was very neat and clean in his person, as if he believed in the saving virtues of soap and water—something wonderful for a Red Skin. Two or three years before, he had made the tour of Washington and the East, and to-day wore the handsome silver medal, that President Lincoln then gave him. Kit Carson said he had made good use of this eastern trip, and being already a rising man, the knowledge and experience then acquired had since raised him to the king-ship, notwithstanding his want of age—several of the chiefs being older, but none so shrewd as he. The head-warrior, however, was Ancantash, and he was certainly one of the coolest and bravest looking men I ever met. He was a reticent, reflective, but very observant man, with many of the calm characteristics of our own Grant, and no doubt is quite as desperate and obstinate a fighter in his small way. Kit Carson cited instances of his prowess, that showed supreme manhood and courage; but there is not room for them here. Shauno, taller and more dignified, had a face and form much like Tecumseh's, and altogether was about as fine a looking specimen of the savage as history makes mention of.
The Council opened, as usual, with a general smoke, the pipe being passed for a whiff or two from one to another all around, and then Gov. Cumming proceeded to address his copper-colored friends. He said the Great Father at Washington had made him Big Agent for Colorado[8], and as such he had come down from Denver, to bring them their annual presents, hear their grievances, if any, and have a general talk about their future welfare. This was interpreted by Kit Carson into Mexican, with profuse pantomime, after the Indian fashion, and then reinterpreted by Ooray into Ute for the benefit of his red brethren. It was received with a general grunt of satisfaction all round, and then Ooray replied:
"Good! Let the Big Chief speak on!"
"Our Father at Washington has many children, both white and red, and the Great Spirit bids him regard all alike. He has watched his red children, the Utes, a long time, and generally found them peaceable and friendly. Therefore, he loves them very much, and is pained to see them diminishing in numbers from year to year. He thinks this is because of their wars with other tribes, and increasing scarcity of game, and believes if they would settle down in one place, like his pale-face children, they would be much better off. Then they could raise cattle, and sheep, and barley, and have comfort and plenty always."
To which, Ooray:
"True! So; a heap! Utes got plenty now. Hunt give. But soon all gone, and then Utes starve a heap. Long time ago, Utes always had plenty. On the prairie, antelope and buffalo, so many Ooray can't count. In the mountains, deer and bear, everywhere. In the streams, trout, duck, beaver, everything. Good Manitou gave all to red man; Utes happy all the year. White man came, and now Utes go hungry a heap. Game much go every year—hard to shoot now. Old man often weak for want of food. Squaw and papoose cry. Only strong brave live. White man grow a heap; Red man no grow—soon die all."
To which, Gov. C.:
"Our Great Father knows all this, and it grieves him very much. But he can think of no way to remedy it, except by the Utes quitting their wandering life, and settling down on a Reservation. If they will do this, and will stop fighting the Cheyennes and Comanches, he will have a good Reservation set apart for them, with water, wood, and grass in abundance. He will give them cattle, sheep, seeds, and implements. And he will send good white men among them, to teach them farming, etc. By this means, the Utes will soon have houses and fields, flocks and herds, the same as white men, and all will be better off and happier."
To which, Ooray:
"Yes! So! Much true! Ooray and Big-Chief understand, and know Utes must go on Reservation some day—raise beef, pony, and barley—or perish. But young braves no understand; hard to make 'em. Some, too, say, if Utes go on Reservation, Cheyennes and Comanches—enemies of Utes always—will know where to find. Then some night, when Utes all asleep, will come like a squaw and kill a heap. Utes hate Cheyenne—Comanche—God dam!"
"But our Great Father will prevent that. He will build forts, and station his blue coats near you, and they will keep off the Cheyennes and Comanches."
When this was interpreted to Ooray, for the first time he lost his savage dignity, and laughed outright. When he reinterpreted it to the Utes, there was a general chorus of laughter, which lasted several minutes. Evidently, they had little respect for the average soldier of the Plains, whether infantry or cavalry. Presently, however, Ooray recovering his dignity replied:
"Why don't our Great Father's blue-coats keep off the Cheyennes and Comanches some now? Last snow the Comanches came right by the forts, found the Utes in one place, and killed many. Utes killed Comanches back a heap. Now Utes move about much—hunt buffalo on the prairie—build wigwam in the mountains—fish in Del Norte. Utes stop not in one place, and Comanches no find. But Utes settle down; then Comanches come and kill. Tell Great Father, Cheyennes and Comanches go on Reservation first; then Utes will. But Comanches first."
This was about the same answer substantially, that they had given Gen. Sherman down at Fort Garland; and with all his diplomacy, Gov. C. could not extract more from them. There was a deal of good common sense in it, too—the instinct of self-preservation—and the governor could not help admitting this, much as he desired to enforce the views of the Government. He rehashed his arguments, and presented them anew in various ways; but to all of them, Ooray steadily made answer:
"Ooray has spoken!" And there the matter ended.
Subsequently, after some considerable talk with his brother chiefs, Ooray resumed:
"Suppose Utes go on Reservation, and bad pale-face come and shoot Indian; what will our Great Father do then?"
"Why," answered Gov. C., "Our Great Father will have him arrested and tried in his courts; and, if found guilty, will hang him. If the Great Father's own brother, he would hang him all the same."
Ooray had great difficulty in understanding this. Gen. Carson had to repeat and explain it a number of times, before he could comprehend what a court and jury were, and even then he seemed somewhat dazed. Doubtless he found it hard to believe, that we would hang any white man for killing an Indian, let alone our Great Father's brother, after what he had seen and heard of law and justice on the border. But after much questioning back and forth, he appeared to catch some glimpse of the idea, and after pondering it awhile, sorrowfully answered:
"Yes! So! Ooray comprehend! Much good! But my people no comprehend. No make them now."
He seemed to think there was no use, in even trying to get such an idea into their heads, and communicated to them some short answer, which apparently satisfied them.
Again, after much deliberation, he warily asked:
"Suppose pale-face steal pony from red-man, what will Great Father do?"
To which Gov. C.:
"He will compel the pale-face to restore the pony. And if the thief can't be found, and his red children prove their loss, the Great Father will pay for it in goods or money."
This seemed to give great satisfaction, when he first interpreted it; but presently the chiefs became excited, and a hot discussion spread among them. Kit Carson said, as well as he could make out, they were canvassing among themselves, whether on the same principle the government would not compel them to restore or pay for what they stole from the whites; and as their thefts were evidently much the larger, they speedily directed Ooray to dodge this question, without further talk.
There was some other desultory conversation, and much repetition necessarily; but the above is about the substance of it all. The council lasted two or three hours, and finally wound up with a dignified expression of thanks by Ooray, for the interest the Great Father and Gov. C. took in them. This was followed by a general expression of "Bueno! Bueno!"[9] by the rest of the Indians, and so the pow-wow ended. The governor managed his side of the affair with much shrewdness and ability, but failed to secure the positive pledges the government so much desired. On the other hand, Ooray certainly conducted himself with great dignity and good sense, for an "untutored savage," and fully realized our old-time notions of an Indian chieftain. Should he live, he will yet make a figure among the Indians, and go down to history as a Logan or a Red-Jacket. His trip to Washington, he told me, convinced him, it was idle for his people to contend with the pale-faces, and his counsels were always for peace and civilization. Subsequently, some months afterwards, when the Utes rose in hostilities against his advice, he deliberately repaired to Fort Garland and gave himself up, refusing to have anything to do with the tribe, until they laid down their arms again. All honor and praise to this dusky son of the Plains and Mountains!
After the council broke up, there came a grand distribution of presents, the most sensible of which were a flock of sheep and a small herd of cattle. The balance amounted to but little in a practical point of view, though the Utes of course were delighted with their beads, paint, scarlet blankets, gilt trinkets, etc. The Agents seemed to deal fairly and honestly by their savage wards, and I doubt not Mr. Hunt (since Gov. of Colorado) did his duty in the premises very faithfully.
During the day, and indeed most of the time we were there, there was considerable bartering going on between some of us and the Indians, though in a petty way. We were eager for Indian relics and trophies, to send East as souvenirs, and they were equally eager for some articles we possessed; so that barter was not difficult. Neither party knew much, if any, of the language of the other, but the bargaining went steadily on for all that. The Utes came into camp, with such articles as they wished to dispose of. If we desired them and had anything to exchange, we laid it on the ground, and then—pointing to the Indian articles—uttered the classic word "Swop?" If they assented, the bargain ended, and the exchange took place immediately. But if they refused, or wanted more, they shook their heads and answered "No swop!" These words, "Swop" and "No swop," are about the only English necessary in trading with them, and we found them current everywhere among our Indians, from the Missouri to the Pacific. In this way, our party succeeded in securing a few lances and shields, bows and arrows, grizzly-bear skins, buffalo-robes, etc., though their stock of skins had been mostly disposed of to the regular traders some time before. We found them, as a rule, fond of trading, and keen at a bargain, but averse to parting with their ponies or their bows and arrows. Their ponies they held in special regard, and asked extravagant prices for them. Their bows and arrows were made of tough, elastic wood, very scarce in that region, and they were loth to sell them, except for a pistol or a "carabina." In this matter of trading, however, a young chief named Jack Cox seemed to be a marked exception. He had a handsome wolf-skin quiver, beautifully finished and embroidered—the finest we saw there—and I was desirous of securing it, if he cared to part with it. Various offers were tendered him, but all were refused. He had set his heart on one of our repeating-rifles, and his constant answer was, as he patted the barrel, "Me take carabina! Nothing else!" Subsequently, others pressed him with various offers; but they could not shake his resolution. At last he rose up, as if vexed and irritated, and pointing to a group of Utes, who were crowding around all eager for barter, indignantly exclaimed, "Mean Indian swop—pony, bow, quiver, robe, any thing! Jack Cox no swop!" Instinctively I handed him a pipe, and begged him to join in a smoke. Accepting the courtesy, he sat down again, and as he spoke a little broken English we managed to talk some on several subjects. But, all the while, he watched the "swopping," that was going on about him, and when he saw any one about to make what he considered a foolish or bad bargain, he would sneer at his want of judgment, and set all the rest of the Indians to laughing at him—a trick which usually broke up the bargain. Subsequently, he went off to the village for a fancy buffalo robe, which he said he would "swop" me for something that pleased him, and kept his promise by returning with it an hour or so afterwards. This Jack Cox was a bright, shrewd young fellow—lithe, sinewy and straight as an arrow—about seventeen or eighteen years of age; and, if he live, will doubtless yet distinguish himself among the Utes. He was already much deferred to among those of his age, and was decidedly the keenest one among them. He had heard of Washington and the east, and asked many curious questions concerning them. I inquired if he would not like to make a trip east, as Ooray and others had done. He answered, after reflecting a little:
"How long be gone?"
I replied at hap-hazard:
"Perhaps five snows," meaning five years.
He rejoined,
"O, no! No! Not five snows! One snow! Then Jack Cox go!"
He interested us very much at the time, and we all augured well of his future.
The same evening Wellington and Jack Cox sent word, that they were going to have a Big Dance over at the village, and invited us all over. Accordingly soon after dark their tom-toms began to beat, and at about 8 p. m., several of us walked thither. The dance had already commenced, on a natural lawn that sloped down from the village to the Rio Grande. Here were perhaps a hundred or so young braves, with hand locked in hand and shoulder pressed to shoulder, moving slowly round in a circle facing inward, while back of them were gathered the whole village gazing on. Two or three of them beat time on rude drums or tom-toms, while all joined in a wild chant or song. The music was barbarous, and their movements not much of a dance; but they went through it all with much gravity and earnestness, whatever they meant by it. Jack Cox left the crowd as we approached, and invited us to participate, which several did. One was allowed to beat the tom-tom, as a special favor; but his performance proved to be not a "success," as he failed to keep time. We spent an hour with them, and no doubt the Utes will long remember the occasion, when their pale-face friends from the east danced with them by moonlight on the banks of the Rio Grande. Altogether, it was rather a unique experience, and we wondered what would come next. As we strolled back to camp, the moon had mounted above the Sierra Blanca, and was flooding the whole Park with a sea of light. The notched and jagged peaks of the Mountains all about us, tipped with snow, glittered in her beams. And the hour and the place seemed, for all the world, more like a chapter from fairy land, than sober reality.
As already intimated, we found some striking characters among the Utes—Ooray, Ancantash, Jack Cox, etc.—but they were few and far between. The great mass of the tribe were small, undersized men, with coarse, animal faces, that looked as if they went hungry half the time, if not more. Their dress in general consisted of the usual breech-cloth, a blanket or buffalo-robe, and deer-skin leggings and moccasins. The nights and mornings were already sharp and chilly; but they had a knack of twisting a robe or blanket about them, even when on horseback at a gallop, that I have never seen equalled, and they declared they were not uncomfortable. In winter, however, especially their winter, we would suppose they must suffer from the weather severely. They seemed to treat their poor squaws about as shabbily as all other Indians—that is to say, about as bad as bad can be. They compelled them to wait upon and serve them on every possible occasion, no matter how degrading. In coming to and going from our encampment, the braves always galloped or trotted along on horseback, while the squaws as a rule trudged wearily by on foot, with their papooses at their backs. It was the squaws, who made their bows and arrows, spears and shields—dressed their skins—pitched and struck camp—saddled and unsaddled their ponies—and, in short, performed all other menial or laborious offices, that Indian life is heir to. They carried their papooses strapped to a board, with a wicker-work at the top to protect the child's head—the whole swung over the shoulders or across the forehead by a rude thong. This board was made round at the lower end, to rock backward and forward when necessary, and thus serve as a sort of cradle. In camp it is hung up on a tree, which places the child out of danger, while at the same time the wind sways it to and fro. On the march, the whole dangles from the mother's shoulder. Some of these Ute cradles were quite neatly adorned with paint and bead-work, and made as soft and cosy as buck-skin and buffalo-robe or beaver-fur could make them. The papooses occupying them, with their jet-black eyes and copper-colored cheeks, seemed to be model babies; for they never even whimpered. The wretched and degraded condition of their women, however, is everywhere the reproach of savage life. There was a forlorn and hopeless look in the faces of these Ute squaws, as if all their womanhood was crushed out, that would have touched a heart of stone. A father, we are told, may chastise any of his children, but a mother only her daughters. She must not lay a finger on a boy-brave, on pain of death; and this is only a specimen of her disabilities. On the whole, I must say, we were not favorably impressed with Ute life, as a rule. It had its romantic features, but their universal "shiftlessness," their long matted hair sweeping loosely about their faces or hanging in heavy plaits around their shoulders, their general squalor, raggedness and dirt, and above all, their neglect and abuse of their poor squaws—all made a bad impression and dispelled many of the poetic ideas about the "Noble Red Man," "Lo, the poor Indian, etc." that we cherish in the east. In spite of our preconceived notions, we could not help regarding the great majority of them, as but little above the wild animals, that roam over the Plains and through the Mountains with them; and as a whole—for all practical purposes of citizenship—infinitely below the colored race, even of the cotton states. Of course, there were some noble exceptions, such as Ooray and Ancantash, but then they only proved the rule. In point of intellect and character, and promise of improvement, the African will certainly beat the Red Man all to pieces, as the future will show. Nevertheless, I must say, we found the Utes truthful and honest in their way, and Kit Carson—a good judge—credited them with being the bravest and best Red Skins he had ever met, in all his wide wanderings.
I have spoken several times of Kit Carson, and as he is a real historical character, perhaps can not conclude this chapter better, than with a word or two more in regard to him. We met him first at Fort Garland, where we found him in command of a battalion of New Mexico Volunteers, and Brevet Brigadier-General. When the war broke out, and most of our troops were withdrawn from the Plains and Mountains, he applied to Mr. Lincoln for permission to raise a Regiment of Volunteers in New Mexico, to protect our settlements there, and the "good President" very properly granted it. At the head of these, Kit did excellent service during the war, on one occasion taking 9,000 Navajoes prisoners with less than 600 men, and at its close was ordered to Fort Garland and given command of a wide region there. We found him in log quarters, rough but comfortable, with his Mexican wife and half-breed children around him. We had expected to see a small and wiry man, weather-beaten and reticent; but met a medium sized, rather stoutish, florid, and quite talkative person instead. He certainly bore the marks of exposure, but none of that extreme "roughing it," that we had anticipated. In age, he seemed to be about forty-five. His head was a remarkably good one, with the bumps of benevolence and reflection well developed. His eye was mild and blue, the very type of good nature, while his voice was as soft and sympathetic as a woman's. He impressed you at once as a man of rare kindliness and charity, such as a truly brave man ought always to be. As simple as a child, but brave as a lion, he soon took our hearts by storm, and grew upon our regard all the while we were with him. He talked and smoked far into the night each evening we spent together, and we have no room here for a tithe of what he told us. Born in Kentucky, he emigrated to the Plains and Mountains when a child, and attached himself to a party of trappers and hunters, when he was so small that he couldn't set a trap. When he became older, he turned trapper himself, and as such wandered all over our possessions, from the Missouri to the Pacific, and from British America to Mexico. Next he became a government scout and guide, and as such piloted Fremont and others all over the Plains and through the Mountains. He confirmed the accounts, we had heard, that Fremont, as an explorer, was somewhat of a charlatan, and said the worst time the Pathfinder ever had was, when on one of his expeditions, he disregarded his (Kit's) advice, and endeavored to force the Mountains northwest of where Fort Garland now stands. Kit told him he could not get through or over them at that period of the year, and, when Fremont nevertheless insisted on proceeding, he resigned as guide. The Pathfinder, however, went sternly forward, but got caught in terrible snow-storms, and presently returned, with half of his men and animals perished outright, from cold and hunger. Subsequently, Kit became a U.S. Indian Agent, and one of the best we ever had. Familiar with their language and customs, he frequently spent months together among them, without seeing a white man, and indeed became sort of half Indian himself. In talking, I observed, that he frequently hesitated for the right English word; but when speaking bastard Spanish (Mexican) or Indian, he was as fluent as a native. Both Mexican and Indian, however, are largely pantomime, which may have helped him along somewhat. The Utes seemed to have the greatest possible confidence in him, and invariably called him simply "Kit." Said Sherman, while at Garland, "These Red Skins think Kit twice as big a man as me. Why his integrity is simply perfect. They know it, and they would believe him and trust him any day before me." And Kit returned this confidence, by being their most steadfast and unswerving friend. He declared all our Indian troubles were caused originally by bad white men, and was terribly severe on the barbarities of the Border. He said he was once among the Indians for two or three years exclusively, and had seen an Indian kill his brother even, for insulting a white man in the old times. He protested, that in all the peculiar and ingenious outrages for which the Indians had been so much abused of late years, they were only imitating or improving on the bad example of wicked white men. His anathemas of Col. Chivington, and the Sand Creek massacre of 1864, were something fearful to listen to. He pleaded for the Indians, as "pore ignorant creatures," whom we were daily despoiling of their hunting grounds and homes, and his denunciations of the outrages and wrongs we had heaped upon them were sometimes really eloquent.
Said he, "To think of that dog Chivington, and his hounds, up thar at Sand Creek! Whoever heerd of sich doings among Christians! The pore Injuns had our flag flyin over 'em, that same old stars and stripes thar we all love and honor, and they'd bin told down to Denver, that so long as they kept that flyin they'd be safe. Well, then, here come along that durned Chivington and his cusses. They'd bin out several days huntin hostile Injuns, and couldn't find none no whar, and if they had, they'd run from them, you bet! So they just pitched into these friendlies, and massa-creed them—yes, sir, literally massa-creed them—in cold blood, in spite of our flag thar—women and little children even! Why, Senator Foster told me with his own lips, (and him and his committee investigated this, you know), that that thar d——d miscreant and his men shot down squaws, and blew the brains out of little innocent children—even pistoled little babies in the arms of their dead mothers, and worse than this! And ye call these civilized men—Christians; and the Injuns savages, du ye?
"I tell ye what; I don't like a hostile Red Skin any better, than you du. And when they are hostile, I've fit 'em—fout 'em—as hard as any man. But I never yit drew a bead on a squaw or papoose, and I loathe and hate the man who would. 'Tain't nateral for brave men to kill women and little children, and no one but a coward or a dog would do it. Of course, when we white men du sich awful things, why these pore ignorant critters don't know no better, than to follow suit. Poor things! I've seen as much of 'em as any white man livin, and I can't help but pity 'em! They'll all soon be gone anyhow."
Poor Kit! He has already "gone" himself to his long home. But the Indians had no truer friend, and he would wish no prouder epitaph, than this. He and Sherman were great friends, and evidently had a genuine regard for each other. They had known each other in California in '49, when Sherman was a banker there, and Kit only an Indian guide. In '65, when Kit was at Leavenworth on a visit, Sherman sent for him to come down to St. Louis, and they spent some time together very pleasantly. Now Sherman returned his visit, by coming to Fort Garland, in the heart of the Rocky Mountains. It will be betraying no secret to say, that Sherman had but a poor opinion of the Plains country, especially of New Mexico and Arizona; for he did not hesitate to say so anywhere. While at Garland, he told the following good story one night, as we all sat smoking around the fire, and he will pardon me for repeating it here. He said the Quartermaster General during the summer had written him several letters, calling his attention to the enormous cost of our posts on the Plains, in New Mexico, etc., and begging him if possible to suggest some plan, that would reduce expenses, etc. "At first," said Sherman, "I paid no attention to these letters, because I could not help the matter. The Posts were there—established by order of the Hon. Secretary of War—and he knew it. Moreover, the people would have them there, and I could not help it, if they did cost a 'heap.' Above all, I was ordered to keep them up, and I always obey orders; so what could I do? So, at first, I did not answer his letters, but let him write away! But finally they got to coming so thick and long, that one day I sat down and replied, that the Posts were all there, and ordered there, as he knew, and we were bound to supply them, no matter what it cost. But that, in my judgment, of the whole vast region there, the greater portion was not worth a Confederate note to us, and never would be; and if he wished my opinion as to the best way of reducing expenses, I would respectfully recommend, that the United States sell New Mexico, and all the region round about, to Maximilian for $15,000,000, and lend him the greenbacks to pay with!
"I must say, the government don't seem to have considered my recommendation favorably yet. But neither have I received any more letters from the Q. M. Gen'l. So, I suppose, he is satisfied!"
He told this with infinite gusto, as if he enjoyed the joke hugely, and presently added:
"The idea, however, wasn't wholly my own, but was suggested by an old story we used to hear about Gen. Sumner. You knew Sumner, I suppose, in the East? We used to call him Bull Sumner, in old times, because he was so obstinate, and so thoroughly a soldier. Well, some years ago, he was sent out to command in New Mexico, and he certainly entered upon his duties with great alacrity and enthusiasm. He was going to explore the country, he said, make known its vast resources, pacify the Red Skins, induce immigration, settle up the country, and thus do away with our costly Posts, and all that. Of course, he was sincere in the matter—always was sincere—one of the honestest men I ever knew. So, he went to work, and for two or three years worked hard, summer and winter—did a vast amount of work. But, finally, he came to the same conclusion I have—viz. that the whole region was worthless—and reported to the Secretary of War, that in his judgment, the wisest thing we could do, would be to buy out the New Mexicans and pay them to emigrate—to old Mexico, if possible—and then throw the whole country open (and keep it open) to the buffalo and the Indians!
"Sumner, they say, recommended this seriously, and thought it a good thing. But I have never heard that the government agreed with him, any more than it will with me!"
These were the stories substantially; but it is impossible to give the twinkle of his eye, the jocular toss of his head, and the serio-comic twitch of his many-wrinkled features, as he got them off. Meanwhile he smoked furiously, and kept up that everlasting long stride of his up and down the floor, with his hands deep in his trowsers' pockets, as if he would never weary. Sherman is a great talker and smoker, and beyond doubt a great man and original thinker in many ways. At the Denver banquet, he made a better speech than his distinguished brother (the Senator from Ohio); and it is no wonder he outwitted Joe Johnston, and smashed Hood as he pleased, when "marching through Georgia." Neither is it any wonder, when you come to scan him closely, that he should sometimes err a little, as he did at Raleigh. Evidently, with all his great talents, now and then he needs a "governor" to steady him, as much as any other steam-engine does. Then, he is a hundred horsepower or more; and as General of the Army, long may he live!
The Treaty over, we returned to Denver through the heart of the Mountains, as related in the preceding chapter; and now for Salt Lake and beyond.