So Col. Otis sent some of his soldiers under a lieutenant, with directions to go there and stay and watch him. They had not been there but a month or two when the lieutenant went to the agent, and said, “I want to buy some clothes for my men.” So the agent sold him and his men some flannel shirts at the rate of three dollars apiece! This was reported to the Commissioner of Indian Affairs. So you see the soldiers are our friends at all times. After the agent was discharged, Mr. Parrish came to take care of my people, and then my poor cousin Jarry was taken sick with sore eyes, and my brother Natchez sent him to San Francisco, to be under a doctor’s care. So Mr. Sam Parrish had no interpreter at the time he sent for me. Then he and I called my people to his office, and he began to talk to them about work. First he said,—
“Now you are my children. I have come here to do you good. I have not come here to do nothing; I have no time to throw away. I have come to show you how to work, and work we must. I am not like the man who has just left you. I can’t kneel down and pray for sugar and flour and potatoes to rain down, as he did. I am a bad man; but I will try and do my duty, and teach you all how to work, so you can do for yourselves by-and-by. We must work while the government is helping us, and learn to help ourselves. The first thing I want you to do is to make a dam and then dig a ditch. That is to irrigate the land. Some of you can dig the ditch, some can build the clam, some can go to the woods and cut rails to build fences. I want you all to work while the government is helping us, for the government is not always going to help us. Do all you can until you get helped, and all you raise is your own to do with as you like. The reservation is all yours. The government has given it all to you and your children. I will do more. I will build a school-house, and my brother’s wife will teach your children how to read like the white children. I want three young men to learn to be blacksmiths, and three to learn to be carpenters. I want to teach you all to do like white people. You see the poor white man has no one to help him. He gets some land and he works it as best he can. Now you see the government is good to you. It gives you land for nothing, and will give you more—that is, it will give you clothes, and a store, and I want you, chiefs of the Piutes, to ask all your people to come here to make homes for themselves. Send out your men everywhere, and have them come to this place. This is the best place for you all, and as soon as we get started, I will write to your father in Washington, to send us a mill to grind our grain. We will raise a little something this summer. We can plant some potatoes and turnips and watermelons. We will not plant wheat, because we have no mill; but we can raise barley and oats.”
My father said to his people, “What do you all think of what this man, our new father, says?”
The sub-chief, Egan, said: “For my part I think it is very good, if he will only carry it out. There has been so much said that has never been fulfilled by our other agent. But we have no other way only to do what we are told to do. Oytes, you have your men.”
“I have my men, and our father Winnemucca has his,” said Oytes. “I am not going to work. I and my men have our own work to do,—that is, to hunt for our children. You all know we don’t get enough to eat.”
Of course I told Mr. Parrish everything each of the sub chiefs said, and so did my father.
Mr. Parrish said, “All right, Oytes,—you can do just as you like.”
My father got up and said: “My son Natchez says if we do not do as we are told by the white people, we will not get along at all. My children are talking for you all, and they tell us just what our white fathers say. We will all work at whatever our white father says we must work at.”
Egan said, “Yes, we will work. I and my men will go into the timber and cut rails.”
“My father said, “I will take the rest of the men to go to work upon the ditch.”
One of the men belonging to Oytes, said, “We will work; let this man go.” He meant Oytes, who was always getting us into trouble. So my people went to work with good heart, both old men and young women and children. We were as happy as could be. They worked five days, when Mr. Parrish told me to go and call them in. I did as he told me, and they all came in. He told me to tell them how glad he was to see them so willing to do as he had told them. He said, “I don’t like to see the old men and the women work, and they must not do it. The men are too old, and the women must not work in the field like the men. They can work in another way. They can cook for their husbands, and have their meals ready at noon and at supper and early in the morning.” But the old men would not mind; they worked on with the rest of the men. My people got flour, and beef, and sometimes beans. As for myself, I had to pay for my board, as I was making a great deal of money; that is, I was making forty dollars a month. At that time I only paid fifteen dollars a month. The ditch was getting finished. It was two and a half miles long and ten feet wide, and they were getting it through nicely. They were only six weeks at it. This is quite a contrast to our Pyramid Lake Reservation. They only got three miles of ditch on that reservation, which is twenty-three years old. They have been building a darn and a ditch all this time. There have been twelve different agents there during that time, who taught them nothing. When my people had finished the work Mr. Parrish gave them to do at the Malheur, he sent for Egan to come in with his men. They came two days after. The next clay Mr. Parrish sent for all the rest to come. They did so, and after they had sat down and smoked, he said to me,—
“Sarah, you may tell your people that I am glad to see them so willing to work; your other agent told me that you would not work, that you were lazy.” My father broke out laughing; they all laughed and said: “What can they expect from women who have never been taught to work?” Our father, Parrish, went on talking, and said: “All my people say that you won’t work; but I will show them that you can work as well as anybody, and if you go on as we have started, maybe the Big Father at Washington will now give us a mill to grind our corn. Do all you can, and I know government will help you. I will do all I can while I am with you. I am going to have a school-house put up right away, so that your children can go to school, and, after you have cut your hay, you can go out hunting a little while and get some buckskins; I know you would like that.”
My father said to his people, “Now, don’t you think this is the best father we ever had in all our lives?” One and all of them said: “Yes, and we are all ready to do what he wants us to.” So they all went to him and shook his hands, and his brother’s hands, too, Charley Parrish, and he has a lovely wife. Mrs. Parrish is dearly beloved by my people and myself. She is a beautiful lady as well as a good one. Oh, if they had stayed with us for five or six years, my poor people would not have suffered so much, and those who have been frozen to death would be living today.
Now we wanted a road, because our flour must be hauled here for the winter. My people went to work with good heart; in this way we lived for five months. We were happy and contented. In the month of September we had some visitors. They were Columbia River Indians, and they came to trade with my people every summer. They said, “We come to trade with you for your furs and your buckskins. We will give you horses for them.”
My people said they would ask their father before they would trade with them. The Columbia River Indians were angry at this, and went off. These Indians knew the value of the furs. They did not want our white father to know about their trading with us. The Indian who said he would not work (Oytes) went off with them, and they stopped about thirty miles away. Then the Columbia River Indians gave Oytes three horses, telling him to come back, and get some of his men to come and trade with them; they would wait there for them. So Oytes came back, and told our people to go with him to the Columbia River Indians and trade. He said: “Take everything; your furs, and blankets, and buckskins, too.”
My father and Sub-chief Egan came to me and said: “We have come to tell our father, Parrish, what Oytes is doing. He wants us to go to those bad Indians and trade with them.” Egan said, “Yes, they are our enemies, and we must not hav
e them coming here, for they will bring us trouble. We are afraid of Oytes; he is a very bad man.” I told Mr. Parrish everything that father and Egan had said about Oytes. Our good white father said the same thing as my father did. He said the Columbia River Indians were always making trouble, and it was best that they should never come to the reservation at all. Father and Egan said, “Our good father, we are afraid of Oytes, because he says he can make us all die here. Last winter we had some kind of sickness, and a great many of our children died. He said it was he who was making us sick, and he told us to pay him, or else we would all die. Every one of us paid him, but a great many died anyhow.”
“Well, I will talk to Oytes; you must not be afraid of him; I will see to him,” Mr. Parrish said.
He told Egan to tell Oytes to come over, but while my father and Egan were talking with our agent, Oytes took thirty men off with him to the Columbia River Indians.
Everything went along very nicely, and Oytes came back with his men about twenty-one days afterwards. Our agent sent for them all to come to him. After my people gathered together, he got up and said:—
“Now, my children, I am glad that you have been so obedient. You have all done well but one, and I am sorry for him, but I think he will be good also. I know he will be ashamed of himself by-and-by.”
“I want the men who cut the hay to come and stand on one side.” They did so, six in number. “Now these that cut grain.” There were ten of them. “Now there are two stacks of hay. How many stacked the small stack?” “Two.” “And the big stack?” ”Four.” “All right. The small stack will be mine. I have two horses, and I will pay you for that stack. The big one is yours. There are six horses and two mules that work for you, and if it is a hard winter you can feed your ponies, too. And I will also pay for part of the grain. I want you all to understand me. The two horses are mine, and the six horses and two mules are yours. The government has given them to you. That is why I will pay you for what you cut, and the money I give for the grain I will give to your two chiefs; that is, to your father Winnemucca, and to Egan.” He stopped and asked, “Is that all right?” My people, one and all, said, “Yes, all right.” He then asked the two men how many days they took to cut and stack the hay. The men said eight days. “Very well, I will pay you one dollar a day. Now I want to tell you something more. If you work for me or any of my men, we are to pay you for it. If you cut or pile wood, we will pay you for it. If I send you to Canyon City for myself or my men, you shall be paid for it.” He asked them if they liked his law. They all got up and said, “Truckee, Truckee.” That means very well, very well. Then he paid eight dollars apiece to the two men for the hay, and gave my father twenty dollars and the same to Egan. He then said, “How many of you want to go out hunting?” They said, “We would all like to go.”
“Well, you can go, and don’t stay too long, because your potatoes will be ready to be dug.” So he gave each man a can of powder and some lead and caps, and also to each one a sack of flour. Oh, how happy my people were! That night we all got together and had a dance. We were not so happy before for a long time. All the young people went on the hunt, and the old staid and drew their rations right along. The carpenter went on with the school-house till he had to stop on account of having no lumber to go on with. At last my people came in with their ponies laden with dried venison. My father did not come in. He sent word by Egan to me that he would go to Pyramid Lake Reservation to see the rest of our people there. So I was left all alone. I felt very badly because he went away. I was afraid of Oytes, I don’t know why. Oytes did not get any powder to go hunting with. Some of his men gave him some after they all got in. Mr. Parrish told me to tell all my people to come next day to get their rations. While I was there, talking to Egan, Oytes came and said, “I want you to talk to your father, as you call him. Tell him I and my men are going to live with our brothers; that is, the Columbia River Indians. I cannot call that white man my father. My father was black, like myself, and you are all white but me, and, therefore, tell him I quit my country.”
I said to Egan, “I will go.” Egan said, “I will go with you.” When we had got over the river we looked back and saw Oytes coming. I said to Egan, “I am so afraid of that man.” “Oh,” he said, “he is nobody. Don’t you mind him. If he can make you afraid of him that is all he wants, but if you are not afraid of him he will be one of the best men you ever saw. We will tell our agent what he said to us.” Oytes came riding fast, and overtook us. “You are our good teacher; don’t you think our agent has treated me badly, and do you blame me for wanting to go away?” I said, “Oytes, I have lived a long time with the white people, and I know what they do. They are people who are very kind to anyone who is ready to do whatever they wish. You see the agent is kind to all but you. Why, can you tell me?” I said to him. He said, “I don’t know.” “You want me to tell you?” He would not say, and I would not tell him until he said he knew why. We got off our horses and went in to talk with our agent. I told him everything that Oytes had said. Our good white father said to Oytes, “I am heartily sorry that you have such a bad heart. Let me tell you, Oytes, if you want to get your young men into trouble, you can. I have not come here to make you do what you don’t want to do. I came to tell you all that government is willing to do for you, and if you will not do it I cannot help you. I have men here to teach you all how to work, and now you want to take your men away with those bad Columbia River Indians. They are just like you. They don’t want to work like other people. Now the sooner you go the better. I don’t want to say anything more to you. Go, now.”
After he was gone, Mr. Parrish said to Egan, “You will all get your rations, and day after tomorrow is Sunday. On Monday I want you all to come here. We will dig our potatoes, and some of you must make a place to put them in.” On Monday came men, women, and children, and they went to work to dig potatoes, and everything was put away for winter. They were told to come and get their potatoes whenever they wanted to, and soon my people were called again. This time women and children were to come too. What a beautiful time we had all day long issuing clothing to all,—ten yards of calico to every woman, ten yards of flannel for underwear, and unbleached muslin also to every woman. Pantaloon goods were given to the boys, handkerchiefs, shoes, stockings, shawls, and blankets. Men got shirts, pants, hats, looking-glasses and shoes; some red shirts, some got red blankets, some white. They got whatever color they liked. It was the prettiest issue I had ever seen in my life, or have seen since. Everybody got something but two,—one man and one woman. He would look at me and smile, but he did not say anything till it was all over. Mr. Parrish did not say anything to him. Everybody was gone but Oytes and myself. He came to me and said, “You and I are two black ones. We have not white fathers’ lips.” I said, “No, we are two bad ones. Bad ones don’t need any pity from any one.” He laughed and went away. That same night my cousin came over and said, “Oytes is coming over to kill our agent. We have said everything to him; we have given him our blankets, but that won’t do. What will we do?” I said, “We will tell Mr. Parrish.” So I ran and told him, and he told his brother and all his men, six altogether, and three women, the doctor’s wife, C. W. Parrish’s wife, and her servant girl, and three children, twelve white persons, among seven hundred Indians to come. Our good agent sent for Oytes to come over the next morning. Egan brought him, and Mr. Parrish said to him, “Oytes, I have three hundred dollars. If you will let me shoot at you, if my bolt won’t go through your body the money is yours. You say bolts cannot kill you.” Our agent shook him, and Oytes cried out, “Oh, my good father, don’t kill me. Oh, I am so bad. Oh, I will do everything you say. I never will say no to anything you will say. I will do just as my men are doing. I will not go away if you will forgive me.” Our agent said, “All right, Oytes; don’t let me hear any more of your talk, do you hear? You shall not fool with me, and don’t say any more to your own people.” “No, good father, I will not say anything more.” So they shook hands, and were goo
d friends afterwards. Our good agent gave him a red blanket, and red shirts and hat, and pants and shoes. He gave him everything he could think of, and told him to give back all the things belonging to his people. So we got along happily afterwards, and Oytes was the first one to be ready with his men when our agent wanted work done. We were all good friends, and our agent liked my people, and my people loved him. All his men were good men. My people did some work during the winter. There were three miles of a ditch to make, and they all worked on it. There was only half a mile to be finished, when a very long letter came one day, and Mr. Parrish called all the men to come in the evening. He told us that we had two hundred and ninety-two enemies in Canyon City. He said the name of the captain of these men was Judge Curry. This man wanted the west end of our reservation, and our Big Father in Washington wanted to know what we thought about it. “These white men,” he said, “have talked to your Father in Washington, saying that you are lazy, and will not work.” Leggins and Egan said, “Our Father, you are here to talk for us. Tell our Big Father that we don’t want to give up any of our reservation. We want it all. The Pyramid Lake Reservation is too small for us all, and the white people have already taken all the best part of it. We cannot all live there, and in case they take it all we can have this to live on. There are a great many of our people, and we do not want to give up any of our land. Another thing, we do not want to have white people near us. We do not want to go where they are, and we don’t want them to come near us. We know what they are, and what they would do to our women and our daughters.” Our white father told us he would write and tell all we said to our Big Father in Washington, so we lived along happy all winter. At last our school-house was done, and my people were told that it was ready, and for the little children to come to school. It was the first day of May, 1876, Mrs. Parrish was to be teacher, and I was to help her, and get the same pay for teaching the children English. I had given up my position as interpreter to my cousin Jarry, because he was almost blind. I asked Mr. Parrish to give it to him, because he had a wife and daughter, and no way of making a living for them. So Mr. Parrish sent for him to come and take my place.
Life Among the Piutes: Their Wrongs and Claims Page 10