Forty Years Among the Indians / A true yet thrilling narrative of the author's experiences among the natives

by Daniel W. Jones

To the reader, who is not acquainted with those days, it will be necessary to say that there were friendly Indians in and around the settlements who took no part in this war, but would not inform on the hostiles when they came in, in a peaceable manner, to visit them. I had often heard of this Indian—Ancatowats—being one of Black Hawk's most active raiders. When I called him by name he said he did not know me. I told him how I felt towards the Indians. Soon I got his confidence and we had a long talk. He told me all about the hostiles and others of the Uintahs who were not actively at war. He said the Indians wished they could get some of my saddles. (I had sold them a great many in former years.) Said their saddles were all gone or broken up, so that their horses all had bruised backs. He bought three saddles of me at the time. He also told me that there was a new agent in town from Washington whom he thought was a good man; that he talked good and that he also wanted a saddle.

This Indian said to me that he thought maybe I could go out with the agent and make saddles for the Indians if I wanted to, and that, as I was an old friend and had never been out to fight them, he did not think they would want to kill me. I went and talked with George A. Smith, giving him a full understanding of my feelings, also telling of the proposition of the Indian. Brother Smith agreed with me that if someone could get among the Indians and talk to them in a proper spirit it would do more good than fighting them, and said, "If you have faith to try it you shall have my faith and blessing in the effort."

I laid before him some of my plans, which he approved of, advising me to say nothing to anyone else about the business, but to use prudence and the best judgment possible. He warned me that I would have a hard job and hoped that I would not get discouraged.

I managed to see the agent and mentioned to him my desire to visit the agency, telling him that I was an interpreter. He said if I could bring a testimonial from some responsible party he would employ me, as he wished someone, who really understood the Indians and was friendly with them, to act as interpreter. I furnished the necessary paper and asked the privilege of taking my tools and some material under an agreeable arrangement. This was allowed. I closed up my business and went, in company with the agent, to Uintah.

On arriving at that place I was notified by the Indians to leave within three days or they would kill me. This I was prepared to expect, for my Indian friend in Salt Lake did not speak very positively in regard to my safety in going, but thought maybe it would be all right. This word came from Tabby, my old friend. He would not come to see me, but sent word, saying, "You are an old friend, but the Mormons have killed many of my people; you are a Mormon, and if you stay here you will be killed. Some are mad because I do not want you killed at once. Now hurry and get ready for I do not want to see you die."

I went to work, feeling first rate, and made me a saddle within the time. Some of the Indians would come where I was at work and watch me, but would not speak. I treated them with perfect indifference.

When the saddle was done an Indian wanted to buy it. I told him I could not sell it; that I had to leave or the Indians would kill me. He said he would go and see if they would not wait three days more, so that I could let him have the one on hand. I agreed. He returned in a few hours and said it was all right. Some might ask, "Could you believe him?" I answer, most certainly.

I sold the saddle starting on another, which had the same history, thus continuing for some time until I began to feel quite at home, making saddles and selling them for a good price, with the prospect of being killed every three days. There is an old saying that one can get used to almost anything except getting killed more than once.

Tabby often passed by where I could see him, but would never look towards me. I believed that in his heart he was my friend, for I was his. This looked a little strange, but, understanding Indian character so well, I knew it would not do for me to speak first.

One day Tabby stepped into my shop accompanied by his young squaw. I had my work-bench across the room so that I faced the door, all my stuff behind and protected by the bench. I kept very busy, scarcely speaking to anyone coming in. Simply selling saddles under the rule mentioned. He came up to the bench in haughty Indian style, never offering to speak. I felt almost like laughing for I knew he was playing a part, and I determined to beat him if possible, so I never even looked up from my work. Soon he laid a new butcher knife down on the bench without speaking a word. I took the knife and made a nice scabbard for it, and laid it on the bench before him. He then took a pair of stirrups from his squaw and laid them on the bench. I had a pair of stirrup-leathers made and hanging up. I took them and put them on the stirrups and laid them down as I had the knife, then went on with my work without taking any further notice.