CHAPTER XVIII.
TRAPPING ON THE GILA.—THE PIMAS IMPART A SECRET.—RESCUE OF A WHITE GIRL.—A YOUNG INDIAN AGENT.—VISIT TO TAOS.—UNCLE KIT FAILS TO RECOGNIZE ME
The same day that I left the Fort, Jim Beckwith came down to the boat bringing my horses, twelve in number, and after buying our outfit for camping, provisions, and so on, we bought quite a lot of beads, blankets, cheap rings and such goods as we could trade to the Indians for furs.
The following day we pulled for the trapping region, by way of the old San Jose mission, and from there to the old mission of San Gabriel, thence across the Mojave desert. From there we struck out for the mouth of the Gila river, and crossed just where it empties into the Colorado. We then traveled up what is known as Salt river, some distance from where we crossed the Gila. This was early in January, and we found plenty of beaver that were easy to catch.
No trapping had been done in that region for several years. Besides, we thought at the time, and it so proved, that we were entirely out of the way of hostile Indians.
Here we put in two months trapping, with splendid success. Then, as it was getting too late in the season to trap, Jim proposed that we take our little stock of goods, or a portion of it, and visit the Pima tribe of Indians, which we found to be not as great a distance away as we had supposed, it being only about forty miles to their village.
They all knew us and were glad to see us. The chief and some other of the head men were out on their annual hunt, and we did not get to see them, as we only stayed two days, during which time they treated us the very best they knew how. They had plenty of vegetables such as turnips, onions, potatoes, sweet potatoes, etc.
While on this visit a certain young Indian got to be a great friend to me, but I am sorry to say that I have forgotten his name. He had a sister whose name was Nawasa, who also got to be a warm friend of mine, and I must say, that, although an Indian, she was a lady in her way, and I thought, really, that she was the best looking Indian I had ever seen.
The evening that we were to start back to our camp, Nawasa came to me and told me in Spanish that her brother wanted to see me, and that he had something to tell me. I started off with her, and after we had gone a short distance I asked her where her brother was, and she pointed to a bunch of bushes, saying he was there.
On my arrival at the spot I asked him what he wished to say to me. I knew he had something private and important to say, otherwise he would not have called me to an out-of-the-way place like that.
He raised to his feet and looked around to see if there was any one in sight, and said in Spanish:, "Sit down here, me and my sister have something to tell you."
He started in by saying that the Apaches were very bad Indians, and that they had killed many of my friends; which showed that he considered all white people my friends.
"Six or seven years ago," he continued, "they killed a man, his wife, and two boys, and took two girls prisoners. A long time ago the smallest girl died and the big girl buried her."
At this, Nawasa spoke and said: "Many times I have gone with her to the village and heard her sing a pretty song, but I could not understand a word of it."
I asked if this girl was living yet.
Nawasa said: "Yes, I see her every few days."
I asked her what size the girl was, and from what I could learn she was almost grown.
I asked her if the girl was satisfied, and she thought she was not, saying she was held a prisoner and had to do the work for the Indian families, or lodges, as she termed them. She said the work consisted of getting the wood and water, and whatever little cooking was to be done.
The reader will understand that while the Apaches were hostile toward the whites, and the Pimas were not, yet the two tribes were always on peaceable terms. But I could see at a glance that those two Indians felt a deep interest in that white girl. I asked Nawasa how far it was to where the white girl was. After studying awhile, she said it was about six hours, meaning six hours' ride.
I asked her when she would see the girl again, and she made me understand that if it would please me, or be of any benefit to the girl, she could see her most any day, saying that she went near the village to gather huckleberries, this being the time of year the red huckleberries are ripe in this country.
I told them that I would come back in four days, and then I would go with them to that place to gather huckleberries.
I wanted to look over the ground before laying my plans for taking the girl, provided she wished to leave the Indians.
This ended the conversation, so we went back to camp, where I found Jim Beckwith and a crowd of Indians joking, smoking and having a good time generally, for, as I have said before, this was the most sociable tribe of Indians that I ever saw.
On our arrival at camp, Jim asked me in Spanish where I had been, and when he saw the Indian girl, said: "Oh, I see; you have been off courting;" and then he and the Indians had a laugh at my expense.
I did not say anything to Jim about what I had heard until the next day.
We started early in order to make the trip in one day. I told him the story just as I had it from the two Indians, and told him that I was going to try to get the girl away from the Apaches if she wanted to leave them.
I rode along some distance, apparently in a deep study, and he finally turned to me and said:
"I think you had better let that gal alone, for then. Apaches is the wust Injuns in the hull country. If you make the attempt and they ever git on your track, they'll run you down in spite o' you."
To the readers of this book I will say I never was more astonished in my life, than I was to hear Jim Beckwith talk as he did. In all the time that I had been with him, this was the first time I had ever seen the slightest indication of his showing the white feather, as we termed it. It seemed to me he had lost all his nerve.
I said: "Jim, my mind is made up; if that white girl is dissatisfied and wants to leave the Indians, I am going to make the attempt, and trust to luck for the balance."
From that time until the day I was to go back to the village, he tried in every way he could think of to persuade me not to make the attempt, but I told him there was no use talking, that I looked upon it as being my duty, knowing that the girl was a slave to those Indians.
On the day appointed I saddled Mexico and started for the Pima village. I met the two young Indians about two miles from the village, where they had come to meet me, and they were both riding one horse, Nawasa riding behind her brother. When I met them she jumped off from behind her brother and said she wanted to try my horse to see how he rode, and she got on Mexico behind me and rode to camp.
I stayed at the village that night, and the next morning the three of us started out to gather huckleberries.
After we were on the ground and were busying ourselves gathering berries, Nawasa said:
"If you will go on that little hill"—pointing to a hill near by— "at noon to-morrow, I will bring the white girl here to this tree, and you can see her for yourself."
She made me promise her not to go any nearer the Apache camp at this time, for, said she, "If they suspect anything wrong, the white girl will be traded off to the Indians in Mexico for a slave."
After making arrangements to meet the next day, Nawasa rode off toward the Apache town, and her brother and I rode back to the Pima village.
The following day I rode back in company with my young Indian friend to within two or three miles of the berry-patch, where we separated, and I rode out to the ridge that Nawasa had pointed out to me the day previous.
I saw them standing by the tree, as she had said. I put my glass to my eyes and saw sure enough that it was a white girl with Nawasa, and that she looked very sad.
I then rode back to the Pima village. That same night the two young Indians both came home, but they would not say a word while at camp. It seemed that they would not under any consideration have let any of the other Indians know what they were up to, so the next morning when I started home they took their horses and rode with me about two miles.
After we had got away from the village some distance, I asked Nawasa if the white girl still wanted to leave the Apaches, and she said, "Yes, she would like very much to leave them, but was afraid; as the Apaches had told her that if she ever tried to get away and was caught, she would be sold to the Mexican Indians as a slave, and there she would have to work in the fields, which would be much harder work than she has to do where she is."
I told Nawasa that if she would bring the white girl out on the same ridge that I had rode on, I would give her five strings of beads, and I would give her one string to give to the white girl. She promised that she would try, and that she would do her best.
I agreed to be back in eight days and see what arrangements had been made, and to let her know when I would be ready to take the girl.
When I got back, Jim asked me what I would do with the girl if I was successful in getting her away from the Indians. I told him I would take her to Fort Yuma.
"And what in the name of God will you do with her when you get to
Fort Yuma?" said Jim.
I told him that if Mrs. Jackson was there, which I was confident she was, that I would leave the girl with her, and that I had no fears but that the girl would be taken care of in the very best manner that Mrs. Jackson could provide for her.
Jim said: "If the girl is satisfied with the Injuns, why don't you let her alone? She don't know anything but Injun ways, and she never will."
I told him that my mind was thoroughly made up, and I would rescue that girl from the Indians or lose my scalp in the attempt. And now don't say any more about it, for it will do no good.
He said: "Go ahead and do as you please, as you have always got to have your own way about things, anyhow."
I said: "Yes, Jim; when I know I am right, I propose to have my own way."
This ended the conversation, for the time being, at least, for Jim saw that I was determined in the matter, and he said no more about it.
On the day appointed I took my two favorite saddle-horses and rode over to the Pima village. I started very early and arrived at the village about four o'clock in the afternoon.
After knocking about the village for a little while, my two Indian friends proposed that we take a ride.
Of course I knew the horseback ride was only a ruse to get a chance to tell me the plans laid by herself and the white girl for her escape, although she said that she just wanted to try my Pinto horse to see how he would ride.
And here I will say that I don't believe there was another Indian in that village who had any idea of the scheme that was being worked up between myself and those two Indians, for they would never say a word to me while within earshot of any of the tribe.
The other Indians thought I was courting Nawasa, and it was always the custom among those Indians for a young couple never to ride out alone.
It has always been a mystery to me why those young Pimas took such a deep interest in the white girl, for they were merely untutored Indians, having only a few years since seen the first white man, and had not seen many since then.
But those two young Indians seemed to be as kind-hearted persons as I ever met, and were the most intelligent Indians I ever saw, who were not educated, and I often regretted that I did not take them to some school and have them educated, for it would have been a great benefit to the people on the plains at that time.
But to go on with my story. We took our ride, and as soon as we were well away from the village Nawasa told me that she had seen the white girl and completed plans for her escape. She said that after making arrangements with the girl, she—Nawasa—had not gone to the Apache village, but had met the girl at the huckleberry patch most every day.
She said: "The girl will come to the berry-patch every day until we go there for her, provided the Indians with whom she lived would let her go, that she might be there to-morrow, and she might not come till the next day. The girl is willing to go with you, and we will go to the berry-patch to-morrow and wait till she comes."
The next morning the three of us started out ostensibly to pick berries.
After we were out of sight of the village the young Indian man took my Pinto horse and started in the direction of Fort Yuma, it being understood that he was to stop about half way between Fort Yuma and the place where we would meet the girl. He was to wait there until the middle of the afternoon, and if we were not there by that time he was to return to camp.
Nawasa and I went on to the berry-patch, but the white girl was not there. We had not waited long, however, until Nawasa looked up and said in Spanish, "There she comes now."
I looked and saw the girl running. She did not discover us until she was within about fifty yards of us, and when she saw us she stopped very suddenly and hung her head.
I did not know at the time whether she was ashamed or whether she had been with the Indians so long that she was really afraid of a white person; but Nawasa was not long in getting to her, and the girl would look at me and then look back, as though she had a notion to go back to the Apache village.
When I rode up to where she was, she dropped her head and would not look up for some little time.
I saw that her face was badly tattooed, but her body was not, and as she stood there, apparently undecided what to do, she was to me an object of pity, and her dejected countenance would, I think, have appealed strongly to even Jim Bridger's heart.
I told Nawasa to help her on behind me, for we must be off quick. Nawasa said: "She don't want to go." I then spoke to the white girl in Spanish, and said: "My dear girl, why do you hesitate? Get up behind me and I will take you to your own people. Why do you want to stay here and be a slave for those Indians?"
I wish I could give in detail the persuasive language used by that untutored but kind-hearted Indian girl, to get her to leave the Apaches. She would tell her that if she would only go with me that I would take her to her own people, and would tell her how happy she would be with them.
After a great deal of persuasion, as I sat on my horse I reached down and took her by one arm and told the Indian girl to help her up behind me. She took her by the foot and helped her on my horse, and mounting her own horse we flew out of that section about as fast as our horses were able to carry us.
I was riding Mexico, and he was one of the swiftest horses in that country, and he had great endurance, also.
We rode some distance before I said anything to the girl, though Nawasa had kept along at our side, talking to her all the time to keep her spirits up. Finally I spoke to her in the English language, but it was some time before I could get her to utter a word; I don't know whether it was through fear or bashfulness.
Four miles' ride brought us out of the timber into an open prairie, with low hills covered with bunch-grass, and here and there a bunch of prickly pears, so rank that one dared not attempt to ride through them. There were little mountain streams running through the country, with no kind of timber but willows, strewn here and there along the banks.
On we went, over the hills and across the valleys, putting our horses down to what they could stand and at the same time keeping a sharp lookout behind to see if the Indians were trailing us.
Our course for the first twenty miles, to where we met the young Indian, was a little north of west, and from there almost due west.
About two o'clock we arrived at the point where we were to meet the young Indian, and found him there, waiting.
We dismounted, and I was not long in changing my saddle from Mexico to my Pinto horse. This horse would weigh nearly eleven hundred pounds, and had good life and splendid bottom.
By this time the white girl was beginning to talk some.
After having my saddle changed and on my horse, the Indian girl told her she would go no farther with us. She told Nawasa that she was afraid to go with me, as she was afraid that I would take her to Mexico and sell her for a slave, where she would have to work in the fields. But Nawasa assured her there was no danger, saying: "Esta umbra mooly ah-me-go," meaning, "This man is a great friend of mine;" and she again told her not to be afraid, for I would take her to her own people.
This seemed to give her some encouragement.
After the young Indian had shown me the direction to Fort Yuma, by landmarks, etc., I asked him how far it was.
He stepped out by the side of my horse, and after taking a good look at him, said in Spanish: "About three hours, or perhaps three and a half." I then told Nawasa to help the girl up again, and she did so.
When we were about to start, the two Indians came up to us and said: "Adios anlyose," which means, "Good-bye, my friend;" at the same time shaking hands with us both.
After riding a short distance I commenced talking to her in our own language.
It seemed that she had almost forgotten English, and when she would try to talk it she could not join the words together so as to make much sense of it. It was hard to understand her, but between English and Spanish together she could manage to talk so that I was able to understand her. However, her English seemed to improve by degrees, and I asked her if she would not be glad to get back to her own people, so they could dress her up and make a lady of her.
I do not believe that the poor girl had really thought of or realized her rude condition.
She said: "No, I can never be a white girl," and at the same time commenced crying, and said in broken English, "Now I remember seeing my mother dressed all nice, and plenty more women all dressed nice." It seemed after talking to her in her own language a short time she could call back to memory things that she had forgotten altogether.
I asked her how long since she was taken by the Indians. She had to study some time before she could answer, but finally in broken English, intermingled with Spanish, she said she thought seven years.
I asked if she was taken alone. She said, no, she had a little sister taken at the same time she was. I asked her where the little sister was, and she replied that she had died, and she thought she had been dead about three years.
I asked her if the Indians had killed her father and mother. She said: "Yes, and my little brother, too; and burned our wagon and all that was in it."
Then I said to her: "I don't see how you can love those Indians who had killed your father, mother and brother." She replied that she had no one else to love.
I then said to her, "You will soon be among friends, for I am taking you to a woman that will be as good to you as your own mother was," and at that moment we hove in sight of the Fort. I pointed to the Fort, and told her there was where the woman lived that I was taking her to.
We were now safe from an attack from the Apaches, and only a few minutes later I drew rein at Fort Yuma.
I first rode up to the guard, whose beat was in front of the
Commander's tent, and asked where Lieut. Jackson's quarters were.
He pointed to a tent not far from where we then were, saying:
"That is his tent, and his wife is there, too."
As I rode to the Lieutenant's quarters, all eyes were turned in our direction. Mrs. Jackson came to the door of the tent and recognized me at once, and her first words were: "Chief, in the name of common sense, where are you from, and who is this you have with you?"
I said: "Mrs. Jackson, this is a girl I rescued from the Indians. She has no parents and no relatives, that she knows of, and I have brought her to you, thinking you would be a friend to her."
The reply of that noble woman was, "I will, with all my heart," and at that she assisted the girl in getting off the horse and led her into her own tent.
By this time Lieut. Jackson and all the officers of the Fort were there, and it seemed to me that the Lieutenant would never quit shaking my hand, and when he went to introduce me to the other officers who were present, laughingly said.
"What shall I call you? I have known you as the 'Boy Scout,' also as the 'Chief of Scouts.' I have known you when you were giving lessons in hunting, and now you have come in from a hostile Indian country with a white girl riding behind you. What shall I call you?"
I said: "Lieutenant, call me Will Drannan, the trapper, for I am now engaged in that business."
"Yes, I see you are," responded the Lieutenant with a hearty laugh, "and I see you have had splendid success in your new enterprise." He then asked me if I had trapped the girl.
I told him that I did not trap her, but that I got her away just the same.
The Lieutenant then introduced me to the officers, and had the orderly take charge of my horses. I was never kept more busy in my life answering questions than I was for the next two hours, relative to the girl and my plan of rescuing her.
Among the officers was a captain by the name of Asa Moore, who had heard all about this massacre only a short time after it occurred, and he said he thought there were some of the relatives living somewhere in California, but he did not know just what part of the state.
I had forgotten to say that on our way to the Fort I asked her name. It seemed at first that she had forgotten it, but after studying some little time she tried to speak the name, which at that time I understood to be Otus, but I have learned since that her name was Olive Oatman. She did not seem to remember her given name. The Indians had a name for her, but I have forgotten what it was.
Lieut. Jackson invited us into his tent, but when we got to the door it was barred.
Mrs. Jackson asked us to wait a few minutes until she got some clothes on Will's girl.
A few minutes later, when we were called into supper, Mrs. Jackson had washed the girl and had her dressed in calico.
Mrs. Jackson told us that after she got her dressed, the girl sat down and wept bitterly and said she did not know how to wear such clothing.
I remained at the Fort two days, and I must say that this girl improved both in talking and in manners during the time I was there far beyond our expectations.
When she would appear down-hearted or discouraged Mrs. Jackson would talk to her in such a kind and motherly manner that the girl would cheer up at once and would be anxious to try to make something of herself.
After spending two days at the Fort, and knowing that Jim Beckwith would be uneasy about me, I commenced making preparations to return.
Mrs. Jackson promised me that she would give the girl the very best care possible while she remained with her, and if she could hear of any of her relatives she would see that she got to them safely.
With this understanding I left the girl with Mrs. Jackson, but before I was ready to start the Lieutenant came to me and asked if I did not want a job of scouting. I told him that I did not at present, that I was going to Santa Fe and did not know when I would return again.
He then handed me a letter of recommendation, saying, "If you ever happen to want a position scouting, just show this letter and it will be of some benefit to you," and he assured me that if at any time he could assist me in any manner he would cheerfully do so.
When I was ready to start, Miss Oatman asked Mrs. Jackson what she should say to me. Mrs. Jackson told her to tell me good-bye, and tell me that she was very thankful to me for all I had done for her. But the poor girl could not remember it all. She could only remember the words "Good-bye, I thank you," at the same time shaking hands with me.
This was the last I ever saw of the girl, but have heard various reports concerning her since. I have been told that Mrs. Jackson raised money at the Fort to send her to San Francisco to have the tattoo marks removed from her face by the celebrated Dr. Fuller of that city, but they having been formed with vegetable matter, he was unable to remove them. I was also informed that she was afterwards sent to New York for the same purpose, but with no better success.
Only a short time ago, since coming to Idaho, I heard that she had really found some of her relatives somewhere in the state of Oregon, where she remained and raised a family; while a still later report is that she is married to a rich merchant and is living somewhere in the state of New York.
I have often thought of this poor girl since, and it has always been a question in my mind whether I did right in taking her away from the Indians after she had been with them so long; but if I did do right, and she or any of her relatives should by chance see this work and glance over its pages, I wish to say that to that kind-hearted Indian girl of the Pima tribe, Nawasa by name, and her brother belong the praise of rescuing Olive Oatman from the Apache Indians.
In the first place, had it not been for her and her brother, I would never have known of the girl, and even after I knew she was there, I could not have done anything without Nawasa's assistance, for she could not have worked more faithfully and earnestly if there had been a thousand dollars in the operation for her.
On my return trip I rode the first day to the Pima village and remained there that night.
I hired my young Indian friend to go among the Apaches and trade beads for furs, and he went home with me.
Nawasa was very anxious to know how I got through with the girl, but did not dare say anything while in camp; so the next morning when her brother and I were leaving she caught a horse and rode with us some distance. As soon as we were out of hearing of the other Indians, she and her brother commenced asking all sorts of questions concerning the girl; whether I thought she would be happy with her own people or not.
Those Indians had learned in some way that somewhere, a long distance away, the white people had great villages, and Nawasa asked if I thought the white girl would be taken to the large cities.
The young Indian and I arrived at our camp about four o'clock that afternoon and found Jim Beckwith in a splendid humor, for he was glad to see me. He had given up all hope of ever seeing me again, for he thought the Apaches had followed me up and killed me. I told him what I had brought the young Indian for, and he was well pleased with the arrangement.
We fitted him out with beads that cost us twenty dollars, and tin pans and blankets, agreeing to come to his village in two weeks for our furs.
When the two weeks were up we took our pack-horses and went to the village, and to our surprise he had traded off the beads and blankets to much better advantage than we could have done ourselves.
For this favor we gave him in compensation two pairs of blankets, four brass finger rings and four strings of beads; and the young fellow thought he had been well treated for his trouble.
It was now getting late in the season, and after buying all the furs the Pima tribe had we commenced making preparations to pull out for Taos, as we had about all the furs we could pack on our horses to advantage, having fourteen pack-horses in all.
We packed up and started, and made the trip without anything of consequence happening on the way. We did not see any hostile Indians and had very good success, only losing one pack and horse while crossing a little stream, the name of which I have forgotten; and arrived at Taos in the latter part of June.
It was late in the afternoon when we rode up to Uncle Kit Carson's home. He and his wife and little child were out on the porch, and as soon as we rode up, both recognized Jim Beckwith, but neither of them knew me, for when they had seen me last I was almost a beardless boy, and now I had quite a crop of beard and was a man of twenty-five years of age.
"Hello, Jim!" were Uncle Kit's first words, and he and his wife came out to the gate to shake hands with him.
"Well, how are you, anyhow; and how have you been since you left, and who is this you have with you?" said Uncle Kit, the last in a low tone of voice.
I had dismounted some yards distant, and on the opposite side of the pack-horse from them. Jim told Uncle Kit that I was a discouraged miner that he had picked up in California, saying: "He don't amount to very much, but I needed some one for company and to help me through with the pack-train, so I brought him along."
By this time I had made my way through the bunch of pack-horses and walked up to Uncle Kit and spoke to him, and I think I got the worst shaking up that I had had for a long time, and I don't think there ever was a father more pleased to see his son return than Uncle Kit was to see me.
Our horses were turned over to the hired man, who took care of them, and the next two days were spent in visiting Uncle Kit and his wife. Of course I had to tell them of the hardships I had undergone during my absence from home; my adventures, narrow escapes, etc.
I learned that Mr. Hughes had died during my absence; I also learned that Johnnie West was at Bent's Fort.
After resting two days we packed up again and started for Bent's Fort. Uncle Kit went along with us to assist in making a good sale of our furs, and we arrived there just in time, as the last train was going out for the season, and we sold them for a good price.
Here I met Jim Bridger, Johnnie West and a number of other acquaintances and friends who supposed I had been killed and scalped by the Indians. I was sorry to learn that Johnnie West, like the majority of the old frontiersmen, had fallen into the habit of drinking up every dollar that he earned.
While we were here, Uncle Kit made a proposition that himself, Jim
Beckwith, Jim Bridger and myself take a trip to the head of the
Missouri river and put in the winter trapping.
He said he wanted to make this trip and then quit the business, saying: "I have business enough at home to attend to, but I have always had an anxiety to take a trip to the headwaters of the Missouri river."
The four of us returned to Taos, arriving there just in time to celebrate the Fourth of July, arriving on the second, and now I was home again in my fine buckskin suit. The night of the fourth we all attended a big fandango, and had a huge time. I was somewhat over my bashfulness by this time, and by the assistance of Mrs. Carson and two or three other ladies present, I was enabled to get through in pretty good shape. After that night's dancing, I felt that if I were back at the Fort, where I tried to dance my first set, I would show them how dancing first began.