It was, doubtless, good judgment, under the circumstances. Here were the remnants of fourteen different tribes and bands, who had been at war with white men and each other, and who, though subjugated, had not been thoroughly “reconstructed.”
They were located in the valley, within sight of the agency, and were living in little huts and shanties that had been built by the Government.
Each tribe had been allotted houses separated from the others but a few hundred yards at farthest. They drew their supplies from the same storehouse, used the same teams and tools, and were in constant contact. They had come here at the command of the United States Government, in chains, bearing with them the trophies of war; some of them being fair-haired scalp-locks, and others were off red men’s heads. Think for a moment of enemies meeting and wearing these evidences of former enmity; shaking hands while each was in possession of the scalp-locks of father or brother of the others!
But, at the time of the visit referred to, no sentinel walked his rounds. No bayonet flashed in the sunshine on the watch-tower of the stockade at Siletz. The granaries and barns were unbarred; even Agent Simpson’s own quarters were unlocked day and night. Fire-arms and tools were unguarded; Indians came and went at will, except that Agent Simpson had so taught them that they never entered without a preliminary knock. The Indian men came not with heads covered, but in respectful observance of ceremony.
The kitchen work and house-keeping were done by Indian women, under the direction of a white matron. The agent’s table afforded the best of viands. Tell the world that Indians cannot be civilized! Here were the survivors of many battles, who, but a few short years since, had been brought under guard, some of them loaded with chains, and with
blood on their hands, who were living as I have described.
Sometimes, it is true, the remembrance of former feuds would arouse the sleeping fires of hatred and desire for revenge amongst themselves, and fights would ensue. But no white man has ever been injured by these people while on the Reservation, since their location at Siletz.
This statement is made in justice to the Indians themselves, and in honor of those who had control of them, both of whom merit the compliment. Amongst these people were Indian desperadoes, who had exulted in the bloody deeds they had committed. One especially, braver than the rest, named Euchre Bill, boasted that he had eaten the heart of one white man.
This he did in presence of Agent Simpson, during an effort of the latter to quell a broil. The agent, always equal to emergencies, replied, by knocking the fellow down, handcuffing him, and shutting him up in the guard-house, and feeding him on bread and water for several days, after which time he was released, with the warning that, the next time he repeated the hellish boast, he would “not need handcuffs, nor bread and water.” Bill understood the hint. The agent remarked to us that “Bill was one of his main dependants in preserving order.”
During our visit we went with the agent to see Euchre Bill. He was hewing logs. On our approach he dropped the axe, and saluted the agent with “Good-morning, Mr. Simpson,” at the same time extending his hand. When informed of the personality of our party, Bill waved his hat, and made a slight bow, repeating the name of each in turn.