Trail Tales Part 4

Her tribal friends ventured back after all was safe, and with an Indian's trail-finding tact hunted high and low, far and wide, but no trace was ever found of the wee baby.

"But, then, what mattered it? It was nothing but an Indian baby, and its mother only an Indian squaw! Who cares for a squaw any way?"

MARY MUSKRAT

Now abideth faith, hope, love, these three; and the greatest of these is love.--_Saint Paul_.

When the "teacher" first went among the Indians at Fort Hall her reception was neither cordial nor cold, for she was not received at all. She had not been invited and she was not welcome. For the first eighteen months after reaching the fort she could often hear in the nighttime the movement of a moccasin, as some tired Indian spy changed his cramped position, for she was religiously watched and irreligiously suspected. They could not understand why she, an unmarried white woman, should leave her home and spend time among them.

The braves strode by her in sullen silence, eloquently impressing their contumelious hauteur. The no less stolid squaws, who observe everything and see nothing, disdainfully covered their faces with their blankets or looked in silence in the opposite direction when the teacher met them or lifted the tent-flap.

After a long time she won her way with some of the wee ones, and thus touched the hearts of the mothers, through whom she made a road broad and wide into the affections of the tribe. They trusted her with the secrets of the people, and she was at home in every teepee in the reservation. Gathering the girls together, she taught them the beautiful words of the Bible, and for many years she lived, loved, and labored there.

Mary Muskrat was one of the Bannock girls in the mission school. The little shrinking, more-than-half-wild papoose of the desert had been toilsomely but surely trained by the teacher, that bravest of little women.

Pulmonary consumption is the bane of the civilized Indians. It carries them off in mult.i.tudes. Despite their outdoor living, it seems that few, if any, ever recover from an attack. The dread disease had fastened itself upon Mary and she was sick unto death. Her little shack was no fit place for a living person, and here was one dying.

Frequent visits from her teacher afforded the dying maiden her only relief. Once, after watching her through a severe paroxysm of coughing, it seemed that life had gone completely. Removing the squalid bunch of rags which served as a pillow, and lowering the head, the devoted teacher stood watching the supposed lifeless form. But she saw the lips moving, and, bending low, she heard the dying girl whisper, "What time I am afraid I will trust in Thee." Continuing, she breathed out, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.... Yea, though I walk through the valley and the shadow of death, I will fear no evil." Pausing, while the heart of the white woman was praising G.o.d for his goodness to the dusky child, Mary opened her beautiful eyes, and, seeing her protectress and benefactress standing there, said, "O, dear teacher, the Lord is my shepherd."

Then the Shepherd came and took her to dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

BAD BEN

A little child shall lead them.--_Isaiah_.

Ben's daughter, Mary[1], was the delight of the old man's heart. She had been taken most unwillingly, so far as both were concerned, and placed in one of the Eastern schools for Indian youths. Ben had objected strenuously, but the stronger arm prevailed.

The teacher at the mission had never in all her many years in that place felt fear until after Mary was taken away. When the father would come to the school to ask for news of her, he had his face painted black, indicating madness or war--"bad heart" he called it. The little woman who had won the hearts of the people did not know what the enraged man might do or when he would do it. Once, after many such terrifying visits, he volunteered the information that he was making him a house and a farm "all same witee man." He had built it of some railroad ties he had found and had begun to cultivate a garden and cut some wild hay. "Me makee heap good wikiup, all same witee man; Mary he all same witee squaw, by 'um by."

The white plague is the only disease the Indian fears or calls sickness. Once, when Ben went to the school where a dozen or so other happy-faced little girls were being taught and prepared for the Eastern school, Miss F---- was obliged to tell him Mary was sick. For a while his savagery was apparently renewed. He became wild again. His visits increased in frequency, and all the time the teacher was in mental torture, for he seemed to feel that the white woman was in some manner connected with his child's going away and her present condition.

The dread day came when she must tell the loving father that there was now no hope for his "lil' gal," as he affectionately called her. Then another more dreaded day rolled round, and the last story must be told: Mary had died. She would be buried in the far east. Poor old father! He could not even see her then. How could he be made to understand?

The only solution of the problem was the holding of a memorial service for her. One of the Pocatello pastors went up to hold such a service at the Agency and Ben was present. He was told that if he lived with his heart clean, "no have bad heart," he would see his Mary again. No one could tell to what extent this message found place in his mind until later. One day he was seen approaching the mission school slowly and apparently sorrowful. Miss F---- met him at the door. On entering he said, "O, Miss F----, bad Injun no liky me have hay, no liky me have wikiup all same witee man. Bad Injun burn me up; all me wikiup, all me hay, all me everyt'ing. But me no have bad heart [that means, "I do not hate them"], me no have bad heart, Miss F----; me no have bad heart; me want see my lil' gal some day."

So the lonesome man went away to his one-time home to try to live among the unchristian and unprogressive Indians without having any hatred toward them, for he wanted to meet his Mary.

[1] Mary is a very frequent name among the Bannocks of Fort Hall.

A THREE-CORNERED SERMON

So shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth: it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it.--_Isaiah_.

Thy word, Almighty Lord, Where'er it enters in Is sharper than a two-edged sword To slay the man of sin.

--_Montgomery_.

A peculiar wireless telegraphy has ever been in vogue among the aborigines of many lands. The interior tribes of Africa have it and use it to perfection. The plains Indians and those of the mountains know its use, and messages are sent which cause much wonderment to the white man.

In 1899 the ghost-dancing was in progress among all the Indians of the United States. All Indiandom was excited to the highest degree.

Disturbances among them were watched and feared by the government. The Bannocks and Shoshones of Fort Hall were nerved to a high tension and quickly athrill to any new movement. Hearing that an unusual interest was being displayed among the Nez Perces of the north, a committee of the Fort Hall men was sent to ascertain what it was. It proved to be a revival of religion conducted by the Presbyterians. The committee was composed of heathens, but they saw, were conquered, and came home reporting it was good, and requested that there be similar meetings held among them. It was so planned and arranged. A Nez Perce Presbyterian minister was to be their visitant evangelist.

The various Protestant churches in Pocatello had been by turns supplying preaching to the people of Fort Hall's tribes, and to the whites who were the residents at Ross Fork, the seat of the Agency. On the particular evening when the special meetings were to begin it was the turn of the writer to preach. The Rev. James Hays, a full-blood Nez Perce, was there as evangelist. But he could not speak a word of the Bannock-Shoshone mixed jargonized dialect. He had been educated in English and could understand me so as to interpret, rather translate into Nez Perce, but who could reach the people to whom we had the message? There was present a renegade fellow, Pat Tyhee (big Pat, or chief Pat), _not an Irishman_. He was a Shoshone who years before had gone to live among the Nez Perces and had married a woman of them. He could interpret Hays, but could he be trusted? He was a very heathenish heathen. The missionary teacher, Miss Frost, consulted with Mr. Hays and myself as to the wisdom of asking Pat to play interpreter for the momentous occasion; after fervently praying we concluded to take the risk and trust to G.o.d's leading. Pat, the heathen, was chosen. It was a queer audience. There were some whites, some Indians.

It was odd to see Gun, the Agency policeman, there with his only prisoner. There were Billy George, the tribal judge; and Hubert Tetoby, the a.s.sistant blacksmith, as well as others of local importance. To add to the excitement of the evening, it was the night before ration day at the Agency, when all the Indians from the entire Reservation were present--fifteen hundred of them--for their share.

It was a wild time--the raw blanketed man was there for a Saturnalia.

He knew no law but his desires. The unprotected young woman had no security from him. Indeed, while we were gathering in the mission house for this service, I noticed a slight stirring at my feet, and looked, and there was Mary, a young widow, who had scuttled in silent as a partridge and was snuggling down on the floor just back of my feet, successful in getting away from some red Lothario who had pursued her to the door.

The service began. I preached from the words of Martha to Mary, "The Master is come and is calling for thee." It was an attempt to show that Jesus needs us as living agents to work with him. Mr. Hays, I suppose, and always have believed, translated to Pat in Nez Perce what I said. Pat in turn interpreted to the a.s.sembled band of mixed Indians. To be sure, I understood not a thing either said: but when I looked at the earnest, love-ridden, and sweat-covered face of the yearning Nez Perce, I believed that what he was saying was all I said and more. And Pat--he was a sight! Had his hands been tied, I really believed he could not have expressed himself at all. He is about six feet six in his moccasins, and those long arms accompanied the lengthy guttural expressions in an intensely effective manner. At the close of the three-cornered sermon the question was asked, "How many of you from this time forward are willing to follow Jesus and be known as his a.s.sistants?" Among the most prominent and enthusiastic replies that came were those of Hubert Tetoby, Billy George, _and Pat Tyhee, the heathen interpreter_. Looking me straight in the eyes, swerving neither to the one side nor the other, these madly-in-earnest men of the mountains held their hands up high as they could reach them. And in six weeks from that date there was a Presbyterian church there composed of sixty-five members, of whom only one, the teacher, Miss Frost, was white; and Pat Tyhee was made one of the elders. There had been no Christians there at all before those meetings. It was an Indian Pentecost.

THREE YEARS AFTER

Father of all! in every age, In every clime adored, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord.

--_Alexander Pope_.

Some hypercritical person, and possibly some sincere soul, may ask: "Did such revival do any permanent good? Does not the so-near savage easily backslide?" To this may be given this partial reply: It depends somewhat on the sort of white folks there are in the immediate vicinity. As elsewhere stated in these pages, the pale face has been the great undoer of the red man. "Civilization" in some garbs is worse than savagery. The white skin has been the pa.s.sword for some awful systems of debauchery among the aborigines of America. An Indian speaker, and chief of police of one of the Indian reservations of Oregon, said at the Second World's Christian Citizenship Conference in Portland, 1913: "Before the white man came the Indian had no jails or locks on their doors. The white man brought whisky; there is now need of both jails and locks."

About three years after the meeting at Fort Hall, where the three-cornered sermon was delivered, Mr. Roosevelt made a visit to the West. Major A. F. Caldwell, Agent of Indian Affairs at Fort Hall, told the fourteen hundred red natives that if they would turn out in their handsomest manner, he would give them all a "big eat" after the visit.

Promptly on the day designated the famous rough rider and the desert riders were in evidence, the latter in abundance. They went far out along the railway to meet the train, and then galloped their wiry, pintoed ponies along by the side of the car, performing many feats of daring horsemanship, throwing themselves from the flying bronchos and remounting without a pause, and other stunts which they invented.

After the "pageant had fled" the expectant and hungry Indians were herded into a large vacant lot in Pocatello, where all sorts of provisions had been collected for the feast. I was anxious to see them, and so were many other equally bold and possibly a wee bit impolite people, for when they had a.s.sembled a great crowd of curious white folks was there gazing.

The Young Men's Christian a.s.sociation secretary and I overlooked the scene from a hotel whose wall formed one side of the enclosure where the long tables of loose planks were laid. All was hurry, bustle, and confusion, not much unlike what everyone has witnessed at the ordinary picnic.

The Christians and the non-Christians had divided as though not of the same tribe or blood. These had their tables on one side, those on the opposite. When all was ready the savage part of the divided company fell to with vim, vigor, and haste, just as white people often do at outdoor dinners; but see the others! After all had been carefully spread, odorous cans of tempting viands opened, and everything adjusted, the hungry horde was seated. A low word of attention was given by some one; every head was bowed, quiet was absolute, and Billy George in guttural tones said something the Lord of all could understand. When he was through these also fell to with an unmistakable zest and the day ended merrily for the Indians and profitably for some of the onlookers.

This Billy George was crippled by the bullets of some of the reservation Indians who did not like his progressive ways. He had lost one leg for this reason. One night, as he was fastening up his animals, he stooped to lift one of the bars of his corral. Just as he raised himself, a shot that was doubtless meant for his lowered head struck his leg and it had to be amputated.

On the night of his conversion, when he had raised his hand high as he could reach, he in the after meeting mimicked the white folks who had slowly and with many side-lookings so slightly moved their hands upward. He said, "Huh, white folks heap scared, do this way;" and he imitated them grotesquely.

Often when leaving his teepee for the hills in order to haul his winter wood, he would go to the home of Miss F----, the missionary, and tell her he was going away, and at the same time asking her to be sure to care for his squaw and papooses if he did not return; for, said he, "Bad Injun ketchy me some day; no liky me; you savy me liky whity man."

So fair of mind was he, and so humanely progressive, that the government had chosen him as one of the men before whom petty cases among the tribe were taken. If he could not solve the problems, they were then carried to the Agent; then on up if not there adjusted.