Across America; Or, The Great West and the Pacific Coast

by James Fowler Rusling

During the day, and indeed most of the time we were there, there was considerable bartering going on between some of us and the Indians, though in a petty way. We were eager for Indian relics and trophies, to send East as souvenirs, and they were equally eager for some articles we possessed; so that barter was not difficult. Neither party knew much, if any, of the language of the other, but the bargaining went steadily on for all that. The Utes came into camp, with such articles as they wished to dispose of. If we desired them and had anything to exchange, we laid it on the ground, and then—pointing to the Indian articles—uttered the classic word "Swop?" If they assented, the bargain ended, and the exchange took place immediately. But if they refused, or wanted more, they shook their heads and answered "No swop!" These words, "Swop" and "No swop," are about the only English necessary in trading with them, and we found them current everywhere among our Indians, from the Missouri to the Pacific. In this way, our party succeeded in securing a few lances and shields, bows and arrows, grizzly-bear skins, buffalo-robes, etc., though their stock of skins had been mostly disposed of to the regular traders some time before. We found them, as a rule, fond of trading, and keen at a bargain, but averse to parting with their ponies or their bows and arrows. Their ponies they held in special regard, and asked extravagant prices for them. Their bows and arrows were made of tough, elastic wood, very scarce in that region, and they were loth to sell them, except for a pistol or a "carabina." In this matter of trading, however, a young chief named Jack Cox seemed to be a marked exception. He had a handsome wolf-skin quiver, beautifully finished and embroidered—the finest we saw there—and I was desirous of securing it, if he cared to part with it. Various offers were tendered him, but all were refused. He had set his heart on one of our repeating-rifles, and his constant answer was, as he patted the barrel, "Me take carabina! Nothing else!" Subsequently, others pressed him with various offers; but they could not shake his resolution. At last he rose up, as if vexed and irritated, and pointing to a group of Utes, who were crowding around all eager for barter, indignantly exclaimed, "Mean Indian swop—pony, bow, quiver, robe, any thing! Jack Cox no swop!" Instinctively I handed him a pipe, and begged him to join in a smoke. Accepting the courtesy, he sat down again, and as he spoke a little broken English we managed to talk some on several subjects. But, all the while, he watched the "swopping," that was going on about him, and when he saw any one about to make what he considered a foolish or bad bargain, he would sneer at his want of judgment, and set all the rest of the Indians to laughing at him—a trick which usually broke up the bargain. Subsequently, he went off to the village for a fancy buffalo robe, which he said he would "swop" me for something that pleased him, and kept his promise by returning with it an hour or so afterwards. This Jack Cox was a bright, shrewd young fellow—lithe, sinewy and straight as an arrow—about seventeen or eighteen years of age; and, if he live, will doubtless yet distinguish himself among the Utes. He was already much deferred to among those of his age, and was decidedly the keenest one among them. He had heard of Washington and the east, and asked many curious questions concerning them. I inquired if he would not like to make a trip east, as Ooray and others had done. He answered, after reflecting a little:

"How long be gone?"

I replied at hap-hazard:

"Perhaps five snows," meaning five years.

He rejoined,

"O, no! No! Not five snows! One snow! Then Jack Cox go!"

He interested us very much at the time, and we all augured well of his future.

The same evening Wellington and Jack Cox sent word, that they were going to have a Big Dance over at the village, and invited us all over. Accordingly soon after dark their tom-toms began to beat, and at about 8 p. m., several of us walked thither. The dance had already commenced, on a natural lawn that sloped down from the village to the Rio Grande. Here were perhaps a hundred or so young braves, with hand locked in hand and shoulder pressed to shoulder, moving slowly round in a circle facing inward, while back of them were gathered the whole village gazing on. Two or three of them beat time on rude drums or tom-toms, while all joined in a wild chant or song. The music was barbarous, and their movements not much of a dance; but they went through it all with much gravity and earnestness, whatever they meant by it. Jack Cox left the crowd as we approached, and invited us to participate, which several did. One was allowed to beat the tom-tom, as a special favor; but his performance proved to be not a "success," as he failed to keep time. We spent an hour with them, and no doubt the Utes will long remember the occasion, when their pale-face friends from the east danced with them by moonlight on the banks of the Rio Grande. Altogether, it was rather a unique experience, and we wondered what would come next. As we strolled back to camp, the moon had mounted above the Sierra Blanca, and was flooding the whole Park with a sea of light. The notched and jagged peaks of the Mountains all about us, tipped with snow, glittered in her beams. And the hour and the place seemed, for all the world, more like a chapter from fairy land, than sober reality.

As already intimated, we found some striking characters among the Utes—Ooray, Ancantash, Jack Cox, etc.—but they were few and far between. The great mass of the tribe were small, undersized men, with coarse, animal faces, that looked as if they went hungry half the time, if not more. Their dress in general consisted of the usual breech-cloth, a blanket or buffalo-robe, and deer-skin leggings and moccasins. The nights and mornings were already sharp and chilly; but they had a knack of twisting a robe or blanket about them, even when on horseback at a gallop, that I have never seen equalled, and they declared they were not uncomfortable. In winter, however, especially their winter, we would suppose they must suffer from the weather severely. They seemed to treat their poor squaws about as shabbily as all other Indians—that is to say, about as bad as bad can be. They compelled them to wait upon and serve them on every possible occasion, no matter how degrading. In coming to and going from our encampment, the braves always galloped or trotted along on horseback, while the squaws as a rule trudged wearily by on foot, with their papooses at their backs. It was the squaws, who made their bows and arrows, spears and shields—dressed their skins—pitched and struck camp—saddled and unsaddled their ponies—and, in short, performed all other menial or laborious offices, that Indian life is heir to. They carried their papooses strapped to a board, with a wicker-work at the top to protect the child's head—the whole swung over the shoulders or across the forehead by a rude thong. This board was made round at the lower end, to rock backward and forward when necessary, and thus serve as a sort of cradle. In camp it is hung up on a tree, which places the child out of danger, while at the same time the wind sways it to and fro. On the march, the whole dangles from the mother's shoulder. Some of these Ute cradles were quite neatly adorned with paint and bead-work, and made as soft and cosy as buck-skin and buffalo-robe or beaver-fur could make them. The papooses occupying them, with their jet-black eyes and copper-colored cheeks, seemed to be model babies; for they never even whimpered. The wretched and degraded condition of their women, however, is everywhere the reproach of savage life. There was a forlorn and hopeless look in the faces of these Ute squaws, as if all their womanhood was crushed out, that would have touched a heart of stone. A father, we are told, may chastise any of his children, but a mother only her daughters. She must not lay a finger on a boy-brave, on pain of death; and this is only a specimen of her disabilities. On the whole, I must say, we were not favorably impressed with Ute life, as a rule. It had its romantic features, but their universal "shiftlessness," their long matted hair sweeping loosely about their faces or hanging in heavy plaits around their shoulders, their general squalor, raggedness and dirt, and above all, their neglect and abuse of their poor squaws—all made a bad impression and dispelled many of the poetic ideas about the "Noble Red Man," "Lo, the poor Indian, etc." that we cherish in the east. In spite of our preconceived notions, we could not help regarding the great majority of them, as but little above the wild animals, that roam over the Plains and through the Mountains with them; and as a whole—for all practical purposes of citizenship—infinitely below the colored race, even of the cotton states. Of course, there were some noble exceptions, such as Ooray and Ancantash, but then they only proved the rule. In point of intellect and character, and promise of improvement, the African will certainly beat the Red Man all to pieces, as the future will show. Nevertheless, I must say, we found the Utes truthful and honest in their way, and Kit Carson—a good judge—credited them with being the bravest and best Red Skins he had ever met, in all his wide wanderings.

I have spoken several times of Kit Carson, and as he is a real historical character, perhaps can not conclude this chapter better, than with a word or two more in regard to him. We met him first at Fort Garland, where we found him in command of a battalion of New Mexico Volunteers, and Brevet Brigadier-General. When the war broke out, and most of our troops were withdrawn from the Plains and Mountains, he applied to Mr. Lincoln for permission to raise a Regiment of Volunteers in New Mexico, to protect our settlements there, and the "good President" very properly granted it. At the head of these, Kit did excellent service during the war, on one occasion taking 9,000 Navajoes prisoners with less than 600 men, and at its close was ordered to Fort Garland and given command of a wide region there. We found him in log quarters, rough but comfortable, with his Mexican wife and half-breed children around him. We had expected to see a small and wiry man, weather-beaten and reticent; but met a medium sized, rather stoutish, florid, and quite talkative person instead. He certainly bore the marks of exposure, but none of that extreme "roughing it," that we had anticipated. In age, he seemed to be about forty-five. His head was a remarkably good one, with the bumps of benevolence and reflection well developed. His eye was mild and blue, the very type of good nature, while his voice was as soft and sympathetic as a woman's. He impressed you at once as a man of rare kindliness and charity, such as a truly brave man ought always to be. As simple as a child, but brave as a lion, he soon took our hearts by storm, and grew upon our regard all the while we were with him. He talked and smoked far into the night each evening we spent together, and we have no room here for a tithe of what he told us. Born in Kentucky, he emigrated to the Plains and Mountains when a child, and attached himself to a party of trappers and hunters, when he was so small that he couldn't set a trap. When he became older, he turned trapper himself, and as such wandered all over our possessions, from the Missouri to the Pacific, and from British America to Mexico. Next he became a government scout and guide, and as such piloted Fremont and others all over the Plains and through the Mountains. He confirmed the accounts, we had heard, that Fremont, as an explorer, was somewhat of a charlatan, and said the worst time the Pathfinder ever had was, when on one of his expeditions, he disregarded his (Kit's) advice, and endeavored to force the Mountains northwest of where Fort Garland now stands. Kit told him he could not get through or over them at that period of the year, and, when Fremont nevertheless insisted on proceeding, he resigned as guide. The Pathfinder, however, went sternly forward, but got caught in terrible snow-storms, and presently returned, with half of his men and animals perished outright, from cold and hunger. Subsequently, Kit became a U.S. Indian Agent, and one of the best we ever had. Familiar with their language and customs, he frequently spent months together among them, without seeing a white man, and indeed became sort of half Indian himself. In talking, I observed, that he frequently hesitated for the right English word; but when speaking bastard Spanish (Mexican) or Indian, he was as fluent as a native. Both Mexican and Indian, however, are largely pantomime, which may have helped him along somewhat. The Utes seemed to have the greatest possible confidence in him, and invariably called him simply "Kit." Said Sherman, while at Garland, "These Red Skins think Kit twice as big a man as me. Why his integrity is simply perfect. They know it, and they would believe him and trust him any day before me." And Kit returned this confidence, by being their most steadfast and unswerving friend. He declared all our Indian troubles were caused originally by bad white men, and was terribly severe on the barbarities of the Border. He said he was once among the Indians for two or three years exclusively, and had seen an Indian kill his brother even, for insulting a white man in the old times. He protested, that in all the peculiar and ingenious outrages for which the Indians had been so much abused of late years, they were only imitating or improving on the bad example of wicked white men. His anathemas of Col. Chivington, and the Sand Creek massacre of 1864, were something fearful to listen to. He pleaded for the Indians, as "pore ignorant creatures," whom we were daily despoiling of their hunting grounds and homes, and his denunciations of the outrages and wrongs we had heaped upon them were sometimes really eloquent.