Life Among the Piutes: Their Wrongs and Claims

by Sarah Winnemucca Hopkins

  “Let us go back to father—let us not go with grandpa, for he is bad.” My poor mother said, “We can’t go alone; we would all be killed if we go, for we have no rag friend as father has. And dear, you must be good, and grandpa will love you just as well as ever. You must do what he tells you to do.”

  Oh, how badly I did feel! I held my two hands over my face, and was crying as if my heart would break.

  “My dear, don’t cry; here comes grandpa.” I heard him say,—

  “Well, well, is my sweetheart never going to stop crying? Come, dear, I have something for my baby; come and see what it is.”

  So I went to him with my head down, not because I was afraid he would whip me,—no—no, for Indians do not whip their children. Oh, how happy I was when he told me he would give me something very beautiful. It was a little cup, and it made me very glad, indeed; and he told me it was to drink water out of, not to wear. He said,—

  “I am going to tell you what I did with a beautiful gift I received from my white brothers. It was of the same kind, only it was flat and round, and it was as bright as your cup is now.”

  He said to his wife, “Give me my bright hat;” and she did so.

  “You see I used to wear it on my head, because my white brother did not tell me what it was for.” Then he began to laugh, and he laughed so long! then he stopped and said, “it was not to wear, but to eat out of, and I have made myself a fool by wearing it as a hat. Oh, how my brothers did laugh at me because I wore it at our first fight with Mexicans in Mexico. Now, dearest children, I do not want you to think my brothers laughed at me to make fun of me; no—no—it was because I wore the tin plate for a hat, that’s all.”

  He also said they had much prettier things than this to eat out of. He went on and told us never to take anything belonging to them or lying outside of his white brothers’ houses. “They hang their clothes out of doors after washing them; but they are not thrown away, and for fear some of you might think so and take them, I tell you about it. Therefore, never take anything unless they give it to you; then they will love you.”

  So I kept thinking over what he said to me about the good white people, and saying to myself, “I will make friends with them when we come into California.”

  When we came to Sacramento Valley (it is a very beautiful valley), my grandfather said to his people that a great many of his white brothers were there, and he knew a great many of them; but we would not go there,—we would go on to Stockton. There he had a very good brother, who had a very big house, made of red stone; it was so high that it would tire any one to go up to some of the rooms. My uncle, my mother’s brother, asked him how many rooms were up there? My grandpa said,—

  “We have to climb up three times to get to the top.” They all laughed, as much as to say my grandpa lied. He said, “You will not laugh when I show you what wonderful things my white brothers can do. I will tell you something more wonderful than that. My brother has a big house that runs on the river, and it whistles and makes a beautiful noise, and it has a bell on it which makes a beautiful noise also.” My uncle asked again how big it was.

  “Oh, you will see for yourself; we will get there tomorrow night. We will stop there ten days, and you can see for yourselves, and then you will know, my brothers, that what I have told you is true.”

  After travelling all day we went into camp for the night. We had been there but a little while, and there came a great many men on horseback, and camped near us. I ran to my mother and said I was sleepy, and wanted to go to bed. I did so because I did not want to see them, and I knew grandpa would have them come to see us. I heard him say he was going to see them. I lay down quietly for a little while, and then got up and looked round to see if my brother was going too. There was no one but my mother and little sister. They had all gone to see them.

  “Lie down, dear,” my mother said.

  I did so, but I did not sleep for a long time, for I was thinking about the house that runs on the water. I wondered what it was like. I kept saying to myself, “Oh, I wish it was tomorrow now.” I heard mother say,

  “They are coming.” Pretty soon I heard grandpa say,

  “They are not my brothers.” Mother said, “Who are they?”

  “They are what my brothers call Mexicans. They are the people we fought; if they knew who I was they would kill me, but they shall not know. I am not going to show them my rag friend, for fear my rag friend will tell of me.”

  Oh my! oh my! That made me worse than ever. I cried, so that one could have heard my poor heartbeat. Oh, how I wished I was back with my father again! All the children were not afraid of the white people—only me. My brothers would go everywhere with grandpa. I would not have been so afraid of them if I had not been told by my own father and grandmamma that the white people would kill little children and eat them.

  Everything was all right, and the next day we went on our journey, and after a whole day’s journey we came within a mile of the town. The sun was almost down when grandpa stopped and said,—

  “Now, one and all, listen as you go on. You will hear the water-house bell ring.”

  So we did, and pretty soon we heard the prettiest noise we had ever heard in all our life-time. It became dark before we got to the town, but we could see something like stars away ahead of us. Oh, how I wished I had stayed with my father in our own country. I cried out, saying,

  “Oh, mother, I am so afraid. I cannot go to the white people. They are so much like the owls with their big white eyes. I cannot make friends with them.”

  I kept crying until we came nearer the town, and camped for the night. My grandpa said to his men,

  “Unsaddle your horses while I go and see my friend.”

  He came back in a few moments, and said:—

  “Turn your horses into the corral, and now we will go to bed without making any fire.”

  So we did, and I for one was glad. But although very tired I could not sleep, for grandpa kept telling us that at daybreak we would hear the water-house’s whistle. The next morning my mother waked me, and I got up and looked round me. I found no one but mother.

  “Oh, where is sister, mother?”

  “Oh, she has gone with the rest to see the water house.”

  “Mother, did you hear it whistle?”

  “Yes, we all heard it, and it made such a fearful noise! The one that whistled has gone on. But another came in just like it, and made just such a noise. Your brother was here a while ago. He said the water-house had many looking-glasses all round it, and when it came in it was so tired, it breathed so hard, it made us almost deaf.”

  “Say, mother, let us go and see.”

  But mother said,—

  “No, your brother said there were so many white people that one can hardly get along. We will wait until your grandpa comes, and hear what they all say. Aren’t you hungry, my child?”

  I said, “Yes.”

  “Your brother brought something that tastes like sugar.”

  It was cake, and I ate so much it made me sick.

  I was sick all day and night, and the next day I had the chills. Oh, I was very, very sick; my poor mother thought I would die. I heard her say to grandpa one day,—

  “The sugar-bread was poisoned which your white brother gave us to eat, and it has made my poor little girl so sick that I am afraid she will die.” My poor mother and brothers and sisters were crying; mother had me in her arms. My grandpa came and took me in his arms and said to me,—

  “Open your eyes, dear, and see your grandpa!” I did as he told me, because I had not forgotten what mother had said to me, to do whatever he told me to do, and then he would love me. The reason I had not opened my eyes was because my head ached so badly that it hurt me so I shut them again. My poor mother cried the more, and all our people gathered around us and began to cry. My mother said to grandpa,—

  “Can there be anything clone for her?”

  “Dear daughter,” he said, “I am sorry you have such bad he
arts against my white brothers. I have eaten some sugar-bread, and so have you, and all the rest of us, and we did not get sick. Dear daughter, you should have blessed the strange food before you gave it to your child to eat; maybe this is why she is sick.”

  It is a law among us that all strange food is blessed before eaten, and also clothing of any kind that is given to us by any one, Indians or white people, must be blessed before worn. So all my people came together and prayed over me, but it was all in vain. I do not know how long I was sick, but very long. I was indeed poisoned, not by the bread I had eaten, but by poison oak. My face swelled so that I could not see for a long time, but I could hear everything. At last someone came that had a voice like an angel. I really thought it must be an angel, for I had been taught by my father that an angel comes to watch the sick one and take the soul to the spirit land. I kept thinking it must be so, and I learned words from the angel (as I thought it). I could not see, for my eyes were swollen shut. These were the words, “Poor little girl, it is too bad!” It was said so often by the pretty sweet voice, I would say it over and over when I was suffering so badly, and would cry out, “Poor little girl, it is too bad!” At last I began to get well, and I could hear my grandpa say the same words.

  Then I began to see a little, and the first thing I asked my mother, was, “What was the angel saying to me?” Oh, how frightened my poor mother was! She cried out,—

  “Oh, father, come here! My little girl is talking to the angels,—she is dying.”

  My sister and brothers ran to her, crying, and for the first time since I was sick I cried out, “Oh, don’t, don’t cry! I am getting well,—indeed I am. Stop crying, and give me something to eat. I was only asking you what the angel meant by saying ‘Poor little girl, it is too bad!’”

  “Oh,” says grandpa, “it is the good white woman; I mean my white sister, who comes here to see you. She has made you well. She put some medicine on your face, and has made you see. Ain’t you glad to see?”

  “I said, “Can I see her now?”

  “Yes, she will come pretty soon; she comes every day to see you.”

  Then my mother came with something for me to eat, but I said, “Wait, grandpa, tell me more about the good woman.”

  He said, “My dear child, she is truly an angel, and she has come every day to see you. You will love her, I know.”

  “Dear grandpa, will she come pretty soon? I want to see her.”

  Grandpa said, “I will go and get her. You won’t be afraid, will you?”

  So my grandpa went. I tried my best to eat, but I could not, it was so hard.

  My sister said, “They are coming.”

  I said, “Mother, fix my eyes so I can see the angel. Has it wings, mother?”

  Mother said, “You will see for yourself.”

  Just then they came, and grandpa said, “Here she is.” The first thing she did she put her beautiful white hand on my forehead. I looked at her; she was, indeed, a beautiful angel. She said the same words as before. I asked my grandpa what she was saying. Then he told me what she meant by it. I began to get well very fast, and this sweet angel came every day and brought me something nice to eat; and oh, what pretty dresses she brought me. When she brought the dresses she talked to my grandpa a long time, and she cried, and after she went away he said to my mother,—

  “The dresses which my white sister gave my child were her dead child’s clothes, so they should be burned.” I began to cry, because I did not want them burned. He said to me,—

  “Don’t cry, my child; you will get nicer ones than these if you learn to love my white sister.”

  Of course the clothes were burned, and after I got well my grandpa took great delight in taking us all to see his white brothers and sisters, and I knew what he meant when he said “my little girls; “I knew he meant me and sister, and he also would say “my little boys,” when he was talking about my brothers.

  He would say, pointing to my brother, “my Natchez;” he always said this. So the white people called one of my brothers Natchez, and he has had that name to this day.

  So I came to love the white people. We left Stockton And went on farther to a place called San Joaquin River. It took us only one day to go there. We only crossed that river at that time.

  One of my grandpa’s friends was named Scott, and the other Bonsai. After we got there, his friend killed beef for him and his people. We stayed there some time. Then grandpa told us that he had taken charge of Mr. Scott’s cattle and horses, and he was going to take them all up to the mountains to take care of them for his brothers. He wanted my uncles and their families and my mother and her two sons and three daughters to stay where they were; that is, he told his dear daughter that he wanted her two sons to take care of a few horses and cows that would be left. My mother began to cry, and said,—

  “Oh, father, don’t leave us here! My children might get sick, and there would be no one to speak for us; or something else might happen.” He again said, “I don’t think my brothers will do anything that is wrong to you and your children.” Then my mother asked my grandfather if he would take my sister with him. My poor mother felt that her daughter was unsafe, for she was young and very good-looking.

  “I would like to take her along,” he said, “but I want her to learn how to work and cook. Scott and Bonsai say they will take the very best care of you and the children. It is not as if I was going to leave you here really alone; your brothers will be with you.” So we staid. Two men owned the ferry, and they had a great deal of money. So my brothers took care of their horses and cows all winter, and they paid them well for their work. But, oh, what trouble we had for a while! The men whom my grandpa called his brothers would come into our camp and ask my mother to give our sister to them. They would come in at night, and we would all scream and cry; but that would not stop them. My sister, and mother, and my uncles all cried and said, “Oh, why did we come? Oh, we shall surely all be killed some night.” My uncles and brothers would not dare to say a word, for fear they would be shot down. So we used to go away every night after dark and hide, and come back to our camp every morning. One night we were getting ready to go, and there came five men. The fire was out; we could see two men come into the tent and shut off the postles outside. My uncles and my brothers made such a noise! I don’t know what happened; when I woke I asked my mother if they had killed my sister. She said, “We are all safe here. Don’t cry.”

  “Where are we, mother?”

  “We are in a boarding-house.”

  “Are my uncles killed?”

  “No, dear, they are all near here too.

  I said, “Sister, where are you? I want to come to you.”

  She said, “Come on.”

  I laid down, but I could not sleep. I could hear my poor sister’s heartbeat. Early the next morning we got up and went down stairs, for it was upstairs where we slept. There were a great many in the room. When we came down, my mother said, “We will go outside.”

  My sister said, “There is no outlet to the house. We can’t get out.”

  Mother looked round and said, “No, we cannot get out.” I as usual began to cry. My poor sister! I ran to her, I saw tears in her eyes. I heard someone speak close to my mother. I looked round and saw Mr. Scott holding the door open. Mother said, “Children, come.”

  He went out with us and pointed to our camp, and shook his head, and motioned to mother to go into a little house where they were cooking. He took my hand in his, and said the same words that I had learned, “Poor little girl.” I could see by his looks that he pitied me, so I was not afraid of him. We went in and sat down on the floor. Oh, what pretty things met my eyes. I was looking all-round the room, and I saw beautiful white cups, and every beautiful thing on something high and long, and around it some things that were red.

  I said to my sister, “Do you know what those are?” for she had been to the house before with my brothers. She said, “That high thing is what they use when eating, and the white cups
are what they drink hot water from, and the red things you see is what they sit upon when they are eating.” There was one now near us, and I thought if I could sit upon it I should be so happy! I said to my mother, “Can I sit on that one?” She said, “No, they would whip you.” I did not say any more, but sat looking at the beautiful red chair. By-and-by the white woman went out, and I wished in my heart I could go and sit upon it while she was gone. Then she came in with her little child in her arms. As she came in she went right to the very chair I wanted to sit in so badly, and set her child in it. I looked up to my mother, and said, “Will she get a whipping?”

  “No, dear, it belongs to her father.”

  So I said no more. Pretty soon a man came in. She said something to him, and he went out, and in a little while they all came in and sat round that high thing, as I called it. That was the table. It was all very strange to me, and they were drinking the hot water as they ate. I thought it was indeed hot water. After they got through, they all went out again, but Mr. Scott staid and talked to the woman and the man a long time. Then the woman fixed five places and the men went out and brought in my brothers, and kept talking to them. My brother said, “Come and sit here, and you, sister, sit there.” But as soon as I sat down in the beautiful chair I began to look at the pretty picture on the back of the chair. “Dear, sit nice and eat, or the white woman will whip you,” my mother said. I was quiet, but did not eat much. I tasted the black hot water; I did not like it. It was coffee that we called hot water. After we had done, brother said, “Mother, come outside; I want to talk to you.” So we all went out. Brother said, “Mother, Mr. Scott wants us all to stay here. He says you and sister are to wash dishes, and learn all kinds of work. We are to stay here all the time and sleep upstairs, and the white woman is going to teach my sister how to sew. I think, dear mother, we had better stay, because grandpa said so, and our father Scott will take good care of us. He is going up into the mountains to see how grandpa is getting along, and he says he will take my uncles with him.” All the time brother was talking, my mother and sister were crying. I did not cry, for I wanted to stay so that I could sit in the beautiful red chairs. Mother said,—