Another young officer of the United States army, who was stationed at Fort Klamath, was a party to an elopement in high life,—as all life is high at an altitude of forty-five hundred feet above the sea level; the other party being the wife of a handsome young Indian living on Klamath Reservation. However, they had but a few miles to travel, in order to reach
a “Chicago” for divorces. All people without law are a law unto themselves.
The Indian husband appealed for redress, but found no one to listen to his appeals. His wife returned to him when the regiment to which the officer belonged was ordered away, bringing with her many fine clothes; her feet clad in good American gaiters, and with an armful of childhood, in which the Indian husband claimed no interest. The mother was turned away from what was once a happy home; and to-day, with her little girl, wanders from lodge to lodge, seeking shelter where she may. This woman was really good-looking, and had proved herself an apt scholar in learning the civilized arts of house-keeping and dress-making; she also learned something of our language, in which she tells the story of her own shame and the fatherhood of her child.
I am giving these statements as made to me by white men, who are responsible, and will answer, when called upon, for their authenticity. In respect to the families of these United States officers, not through fear of the men themselves, I withhold their names. In this connection I remember a conversation with a sub-chief of the Klamaths, who could speak “Boston” quite well. His name was “Blo.” He said, “Meacham, I talk to you. S’pose an Injun man, he see a white man’s wife. He like her. He give presents; he win her heart; he talk to her sometime. He tell her, “Come go with me.” She come. He take her away. White man come home. He no see his wife. He see him children cry. He get mad. He take a gun. He hunt ’em. He find em. He ‘shoot
’em, one Injun man. What you think? You think white man law hang him?” We were travelling horseback, and “Blo” came up close to me, leaning from his saddle, and, peering into my eyes, continued, “What you think?” I looked into his face, and read murder very plainly. Had he been a white man I might have given him a negative answer. Half savage as he was, he was seeking for encouragement to commit a bloody deed in vindication of his honor. I replied that “the law would punish the Indians for stealing the white man’s wife. But if the white man was wise he would not kill the Indian, because the laws would take hold of him.” I felt that I was concealing a part of the truth, but I dared not do otherwise.
“Blo” was not so easily put off. He replied with a question that intensified my perplexity, “S’pose white man steal Injun’s wife, s’pose law catch him?” Harder to answer than the first one. If I said “Yes,” he would have demanded that the law be enforced in his case, that had come under my own observation; and that, I knew, was impossible, with public sentiment so strongly against the Indians that white men would have laughed at the absurdity of calling one of their race to account for so trifling a thing as breaking up an Indian’s family, and leaving his children worse than orphans; yet knowing full well that the whole power of the United States would have been evoked to punish an Indian for a like offence. If I said “No,” I stultified myself and my Government. I could only reply, “Suppose a woman run away,—let her go. Get a divorce, and then another wife.”
“Now-wit-ka, Ni-kanan-itch.” “Yes, I see. Law not all the time same. Made crooked. Made for white man. Aha, me see ’em now.”
During the seven days’ council, “Little Sallie” came into the office, and in plain “Boston” said, “I want divorce; my man, Cho-kus, he buy another woman. I no like him have two wife. I want divorce.”
We had just completed the organization of a court, composed of the head chief and his eight subordinates. This was the first case on the docket, and the beginning of a new history with this people,—a new way of settling difficulties. The agent provided a book for making record of all proceedings. A sheriff was appointed from among the Indians. Each sub-chief was entitled to a constable, but, in all matters pertaining to their respective bands, as between themselves and others, neither sub-chief nor constable was permitted to take any part in the proceedings of the court.
Novel scenes indeed!—Indians holding court after the fashion of white men. The chief made a short speech on taking the middle seat on “The Bench.” He removed his hat, saying “that he knew but little about the new law, but he would endeavor to make it run straight, and not run around his own people,” referring to those of his band. The sub-chiefs took their places on either side, and we gave instructions to the sheriff to open court, ordering a white man to show him through, saying, “Oh-yes! Oh-yes! The Klamath Court is now open.”—“Now-witka, Now-witka, Muck-u-lux, Klamath, Mam-ook, Bos-ti-na Law, O-ko-ke, Sun,” rang out the Indian sheriff.