A Century of Dishonor / A Sketch of the United States Government's Dealings with Some of the Indian Tribes

by Helen Hunt Jackson

These Saboba Indians are greatly dispirited and disheartened at the prospect of being driven out of their homes, and feel that the Government ought to protect them. The captain of the village, a very sensible and clear-headed man, said, "If the Government says we must go, we must; but we would rather die right here than move." The right of these Indians to the tract they have so long occupied and cultivated is beyond question. That this right could be successfully maintained in the courts is the opinion of the law firm of Brunson & Wells, whose admirable paper covering all cases of this kind is given herewith. (See exhibit.)

We found three miles from this village on Government land a narrow cañon called Indian Cañon, in which half a dozen Indian families were living. The cañon is but five or six miles long and very narrow; but it has a small, never-failing brook in it, and some good bottom land, on which the Indians had excellent wheat crops growing. The sides of it are moderately well wooded. It was surprising that so desirable a nook had been overlooked or omitted by the surveyors of the San Jacinto Ranch. We wrote to the Department immediately, recommending its being set aside for Indians' use. In another beautiful cañon, also with a never-failing stream running through it, we found living the old chief, Victoriano, nearly one hundred years old. The spot was an oasis of green, oak and willow trees, a wheat field, and apricot orchard and vineyard, the latter planted by Victoriano's father. This place has been given by Victoriano to his grandson, who we were told is taking steps to secure it to himself under the Indian Homestead Act.

Exhibit C.

THE CAHUILLA RESERVATION.

The Cahuilla Valley is about forty miles from Saboba, high up among the peaks and spurs of the San Jacinto Mountains; a wild, barren, inaccessible spot. The Cahuilla village, situated here, was one of the most interesting that we visited, and the Indians seemed a clear-headed, more individual and independent people than any other we saw. This is partly due to their native qualities, the tribe having been originally one of the most warlike and powerful in the country, as is indicated by their name, which signifies "master." The isolation of this village has also tended to keep these Indians self-respecting and independent. There is no white settlement within ten miles, there being comparatively little to tempt white men into these mountain-fastnesses. The population of the village numbers from one hundred and fifty to two hundred. The houses are of adobe, thatched with reeds; three of the houses have shingled roofs, and one has the luxury of a floor. These Indians make the greater part of their living by stock-raising. They also send out a sheep-shearing band each year. They have sixteen fields, large and small, under cultivation, and said they would have had many more except for the lack of ploughs, there being but one plough for the whole village. They raise wheat, barley, corn, squashes, and watermelons. Sometimes the frost kills the corn, and occasionally the grasshoppers descend on the valley, but aside from these accidents their crops do well. All through the village were to be seen their curious outdoor granaries—huge baskets made of twisted and woven twigs and set up on poles. The women were neatly dressed, the children especially so, and the faces of all, men, women, and children, had an animation and look of intellectual keenness very uncommon among the Southern California Indians. On the outskirts of the village is a never-failing hot spring. In this water the Indians, old and young, are said to be continually bathing. It was the Indians' impression that the lines of their reservation ran directly through the centre of this hot spring. They had been told so by some white men, but they know nothing certainly. The lines had never been shown to them. On subsequent examination at the surveyor-general's office in San Francisco we discovered that this spring and the village itself are entirely outside the reservation lines; also that another Indian settlement called Duasno, a few miles distant, and intended to have been included in the reservation, is outside the lines. The Cahuilla Reservation stands recorded as containing twenty-six sections of land; so far as we could judge of the region, it seemed to us a generous estimate to say that there might be possibly five hundred acres of cultivatable land in it. In good years there would be considerable pasturage on the sides of the mountains; but far the greater part of the tract is absolutely worthless, being bare and stony mountains. The Cahuillas, however, are satisfied with it. They love the country, and would not exchange it for fertile valleys below. They said that they would be perfectly contented if the Government would only mark their land off for them, and set up boundaries so that they could know where they might keep their own stock and keep the white men's stock out. All they asked for in addition to this was some harnesses, wagons, and agricultural implements, especially ploughs. Of these last the captain reiterated, and was not satisfied till he saw the figures written down, that ten was the smallest number that would be sufficient for the village.

A few rods from the hot spring there stood a good adobe house, shut up, unoccupied. The history of this house is worth telling, as an illustration of the sort of troubles to which Indians in these remote regions, unprotected by the Government, and unable to protect themselves, are exposed. Some eight years ago the Cahuillas rented a tract of their land as pasture to two Mexicans named Machado. These Machados, by permission of the Indians, built this adobe house, and lived in it when looking after their stock. At the expiration of the lease the house was to be the property of the Indians. When the Machados left they said to the Cahuilla captain, "Here is your house." The next year another man named Thomas rented a pasture tract from the Indians and also rented this house, paying for the use of it for two years six bulls, and putting into it a man named Cushman, who was his overseer. At the end of the two years Thomas said to the Cahuillas, "Here is your house; I now take my cattle away." But the man Cushman refused to move out of the house; said it was on railroad land which he had bought of the railroad company. In spite of the Indians' remonstrances he lived on there for three or four years. Finally he died. After his death his old employer, Thomas, who had once rented this very house from the Indians, came forward, claimed it as his own, and has now sold it to a man named Parks. Through all this time the Indians committed no violence on the trespassers. They journeyed to Los Angeles to find out from the railroad company whether Cushman owned the land as he said, and were told that he did not. They laid the matter before their agent, but he was unable to do anything about it. It would seem of the greatest importance in the case of this reservation, and of all others similarly placed, that the odd section claimed or owned by the railroad companies should be secured and added to the permanent reservation. Much further trouble will in this way be saved.

An incident which had occurred on the boundaries of the Cahuilla Reservation a few weeks before our arrival there is of importance as an illustration of the need of some legal protection for the Indians in Southern California. A Cahuilla Indian named Juan Diego had built for himself a house and cultivated a small patch of ground on a high mountain ledge a few miles north of the village. Here he lived alone with his wife and baby. He had been for some years what the Indians call a "locoed" Indian, being at times crazy; never dangerous, but yet certainly insane for longer or shorter periods. His condition was known to the agent, who told us that he had feared he would be obliged to shut Juan up if he did not get better. It was also well known throughout the neighboring country, as we found on repeated inquiry. Everybody knew that Juan Diego was "locoed." (This expression comes from the effect a weed of that name has upon horses, making them wild and unmanageable.) Juan Diego had been off to find work at sheep-shearing. He came home at night riding a strange horse. His wife exclaimed, "Why, whose horse is that?" Juan looked at the horse, and replied confusedly, "Where is my horse, then?" The woman, much frightened, said, "You must take that horse right back; they will say you stole it." Juan replied that he would as soon as he had rested; threw himself down and fell asleep. From this sleep he was awakened by the barking of the dogs, and ran out of the house to see what it meant. The woman followed, and was the only witness of what then occurred. A white man, named Temple, the owner of the horse which Juan had ridden home, rode up, and on seeing Juan poured out a volley of oaths, levelled his gun and shot him dead. After Juan had fallen on the ground Temple rode closer and fired three more shots in the body, one in the forehead, one in the cheek, and one in the wrist, the woman looking on. He then took his horse, which was standing tied in front of the house, and rode away. The woman, with her baby on her back, ran to the Cahuilla village and told what had happened. This was in the night. At dawn the Indians went over to the place, brought the murdered man's body to the village, and buried it. The excitement was intense. The teacher, in giving us an account of the affair, said that for a few days she feared she would be obliged to close her school and leave the village. The murderer went to the nearest justice of the peace and gave himself up, saying that he had in self-defence shot an Indian. He swore that the Indian ran towards him with a knife. A jury of twelve men was summoned, who visited the spot, listened to Temple's story, pronounced him guiltless, and the judge so decided. The woman's testimony was not taken. It would have been worthless if it had been, so far as influencing that jury's minds was concerned. Her statement was positive that Juan had no knife, nor weapon of any kind; sprang up from his sleep and ran out hastily to see what had happened, and was shot almost as soon as he had crossed the threshold of the door. The district attorney in San Diego, on being informed by us of the facts in the case, reluctantly admitted that there would be no use whatever in bringing a white man to trial for murder of an Indian under such circumstances, with only Indian testimony to convict him. This was corroborated, and the general animus of public feeling vividly illustrated to us by a conversation we had later with one of the jurors in the case, a fine, open-hearted, manly young fellow, far superior in education and social standing to the average Southern California ranchman. He not only justified Temple's killing the Indian, but said he would have done the same thing himself. "I don't care whether the Indian had a knife or not," he said; "that didn't cut any figure at all the way I looked at it. Any man that'd take a horse of mine and ride him up that mountain trail, I'd shoot him whenever I found him. Stockmen have just got to protect themselves in this country." The fact that Juan had left his own horse, a well-known one, in the corral from which he had taken Temple's; that he had ridden the straight trail to his own door, and left the horse tied in front of it, thus making it certain that he would be tracked and caught, weighed nothing in this young man's mind. The utmost concession that he would make was finally to say, "Well, I'll agree that Temple was to blame for firin' into him after he was dead. That was mean, I'll allow."

The account of our visit to the Cahuilla Reservation would be incomplete without a brief description of the school there. It numbers from forty to fifty scholars, and is taught by a widow who, with her little daughter ten years of age, lives in one small room built on at the end of the school-house. Part of the room is curtained off into a recess holding bed, washstand, and bureau. The rest of the room is a sitting-room, kitchen, store-room, and barely holds the cooking-stove, table, and chairs. Here alone, with her little daughter, in a village of near two hundred Indians, ten miles from any white man's home, this brave woman has lived more than a year, doing a work of which the hours spent in the school-room are the smallest part. The Indians come to her with every perplexity and trouble; call on her for nursing when they are ill, for food when they are destitute. If she would allow it her little room could always be crowded with women, and men also, eager to watch and learn. The Cahuillas have good brains, are keen, quick, and persevering. The progress that these children have made in the comparatively short time since their school was opened was far beyond that ordinarily made by white children in the same length of time. Children who two years ago did not know a letter, read intelligently in the second and third readers, spelled promptly and with remarkable accuracy, and wrote clear and legible hands, their copy-books being absolutely free from blots or erasures; some of the older pupils went creditably through a mental arithmetic examination, in which the questions were by no means easy to follow. They sang songs in fair tune and time, and with great spirit, evidently enjoying this part of the exercises more than all the rest. We had carried to them a parcel of illustrated story-books, very kindly contributed by some of the leading publishers in New York and Boston, and the expression of the rows of bright dark eyes as the teacher held up book after book was long to be remembered. The strain on the nervous system of teachers in such positions as this can hardly be estimated by ordinary standards. The absolute isolation, the ceaseless demand, the lack, not only of the comforts, but of many of the necessities of life, all mount up into a burden which it would seem no woman could long endure. Last winter there was a snow-storm in the Cahuilla Valley lasting two days and nights. A fierce wind drove the dry snow in at every crevice of the poorly built adobe house, like sand in a sand-storm. The first day of the storm the school had to be closed early in the day, as the snow fell so fast on books and slates nothing could be done. The last night of the storm the teacher and her little girl spent the entire night in shovelling snow out of the room. They would pile it in a blanket, open the door, empty the blanket, and then resume shovelling. They worked hard all night to keep pace with the storm. When the snowing stopped the school-room was drifted full, and for many days after was wet and damp. It would seem as if the school term in such places as this ought not to be over eight months in the year. The salaries, however, should not be reduced, for they are barely living salaries now, every necessary of life being procured at a great disadvantage in these wild regions. One of these teachers told us she had been obliged to give an Indian $1 to ride to the nearest store and bring her one dollar's worth of sugar. It was the opinion of the Cahuilla teacher (a teacher of experience at the East before her marriage) that the Indians would accomplish more in eight months than in the nine. The strain upon them also is too great—of the unwonted confinement and continuous brain work. Should this change be made the vacation should be so arranged as to be taken at the sheep-shearing season, at which times all the schools are much broken up by the absence of the elder boys.

Exhibit D.

THE WARNER'S RANCH INDIANS.