Life Among the Piutes: Their Wrongs and Claims

by Sarah Winnemucca Hopkins

  After they had told me their story, I said to them that I was very sorry for them, as I had nothing to do with. Then they asked me what I meant by saying that.

  I said, “In the first place I have no money to go to Washington, but I would be most happy to do all I could for you. In the second place, you all know how Agent Reinhard discharged me for reporting him to the officers at Camp Harney. I will do all I can, but that is very little.”

  So they went back to the Malheur Agency on the 23d of April, and I stayed with Mrs. Courly all along. Then they came back again on the 29th of May, the same men and three others, making six in all. They were very glad to see me, for they said they were afraid I had gone away. They had come back to tell me again about Agent Reinhard’s doings. He had driven them away from the agency; and their people were all down the river, about twenty-five miles away from it.

  “They are there trying to catch salmon to live upon, as they had nothing else to eat, and we can catch enough for all that are there. There are with us about fifteen families of Bannocks at the fishery. They came from Fort Hall. It is Bannock Jack’s band. They have brought us very sad news from there. They say that all their ponies have been taken from them, and all their guns too, for something two of their men had done. They got drunk and went and shot two white men. One of the Indians had a sister out digging some roots, and these white men went to the women who were digging, and caught this poor girl, and used her shamefully. The other women ran away and left this girl to the mercy of those white men, and it was on her account that her brother went and shot them. They are the cause of all our trouble, and caused us all to lose our horses and everything we had, and we all left there thinking your good agent was with you yet. We have come to make us a home with you, but we see that your new agent is very bad indeed, for not giving you anything to live on. He knows you have not got anything and can get nothing, unless you steal it somehow.”

  This is what the Bannocks told my people, and they brought it to me in St. John Day’s valley, and asked me to go with them. I told them I could not go just then, but I would go about the last of the month.

  They said, “We ourselves have lost some of our horses, and we would like to have you write us a letter that we can show to some of the whites who live round here. Maybe they could tell us something about it. But we think the Columbia River Indians have stolen them, or the Umatilla Indians, we don’t know which, for a party of both of them were at the agency.”

  Very late in the fall my people came again while I was living with Mrs. Courly, and once more they asked me to talk for them. I then told them I would do what I could. “If it was in my power I would be too happy to do so for you, but I am powerless, being a woman, and yet you come to me for help. You have your interpreter; why does not he talk for you? He is the man for you to go to.” Then they said to me,—

  “Sarah, we know that Jarry is in with the agent, and it is no use for us to ask him or the mail-carrier, who have everything they want and enough to eat, and Reinhard does not care whether we get anything or not. So we came to you, for you are the only one that is always ready to talk for us. We know our sister can write on paper to our good father in Washington if she will.”

  I told them I would come over as soon as I could get over the mountains with my wagon, as I had a nice little wagon of my own. Then they said good-bye and went away.

  On the first of June two gentlemen called on me from Canyon City. They said they had heard down there that I was going over to the agency soon. I told them it was true.

  “We heard that you have a team of your own, and we have come to ask you if you would take us over with you, and from there we can go over to Malheur City.”

  One of the men said, “I have a daughter, and there will be three of us who would like to go with you if you will take us. We will pay you well. How much will you charge us to go with you?”

  I told them I did not know. I could not tell just then. I then asked the gentleman who said he had a daughter to bring her to see me, and I would then tell him. So on the same day, he and his little daughter called on me, and he introduced her as Rosey Morton. She was only twelve years old and very pretty. I then told him I would take them to Malheur City for twenty dollars. He said, “I will give it to you,” and I told them to be ready on the morning of the fourth of June. They came. We started that afternoon and went on to the Summit that night; started early again the next morning and got to the agency about six o’clock in the evening. I took my passengers to the agent’s house and left them there, and went to where the interpreter lived. It was about two miles and a half further. As soon as I got there my cousin, the interpreter, sent for Oytes and Egan, as they were down at the fishery. I heard Jarry say to the men he was sending,

  “Tell them that Sarah is here. If they can come tonight, well and good. If not, tell them to be sure to come tomorrow. Tell the Bannocks to come, too.” The interpreter did not tell me many things. He only said, “A great many of the Bannocks are here with us now, and I don’t know what they are going to do here. They will tell you all about themselves.”

  It was some time in the night when they came. I heard Jarry, the interpreter, say to Egan,—

  “Did you bring any salmon or anything to eat? Sarah went to bed without anything to eat. We have not anything at all down here.”

  “We have not caught any salmon for ten days,” Egan said, “and, therefore we had nothing to bring. What does that praying agent mean by not giving us our rations? What does he say about giving rations, anyhow; or, what does he say about giving us some of the wheat which we raised last year?” ”Well, Egan, he did not say anything, when I told him what you and Oytes said about the wheat. I was there yesterday to see if I could buy some flour of him, but he won’t sell me any. He told me to tell you and Oytes that he has written to Washington about the wheat, and just as soon as the order comes he would send to your people.”

  “Well, what has Washington to do with the wheat, I’d like to know?”

  “Well, Egan, that is what he told me to tell you and Oytes.”

  Then I heard Egan say, “Is Sarah asleep? We had better talk to her now for fear Reinhard will find out she is here, and send her away, as he did before.”

  So my cousin came and told me that the chiefs Egan and Oytes wanted to have a talk with me. I did not dare to say no, so I got up and went to the council-tent. As I went in, Chief Egan introduced me to the Bannocks. He told them I was their former interpreter at the agency, and that I was their teacher also.

  “She has done everything in her power for us,” he said, “and our praying agent discharged her for no other cause than that Oytes and I took her to Camp Harney to report him. Therefore you need not be afraid to talk to her. She is our friend. Tell her all your troubles. I know she will help you.”

  Egan stopped talking and then Bannock Jack went on and said,—

  “You say our great chieftain’s daughter is good, and you say she can talk on paper, too, and therefore I will ask her if she heard what the papers are saying about our troubles at Fort Hall?”

  When this question was put to me I told them I had been living quite a way from Canyon City, and had not seen the papers, and could not tell them anything about it.”

  “Well,” said Bannock Jack, “you can talk on paper.”

  I said “Yes, I could.” Then he said, “Will you be so kind as to write down all I will tell you?”

  Then I sent for some paper and a pencil to write it down as he asked me to. He went on and told me the very same thing that my people had already told me when they came to see me at St. John Day’s Valley, except this: Bannock Jack said the white people had told their chiefs to go and get the two men who had killed the two white men. They said they must get two Indian men within ten days. If they did not they would all suffer for it. When this was told us our chiefs sent our men to find them, and it took some little time to do so, and when they did find them they were bringing them in. One more day would have brought them
to Fort Hall. But some of the friends of the two men came and met them, and said that all of their people were in prison, and “oh, everything was taken from them, their guns and their ponies, and they were guarded by a great many soldiers, and it is said they are all going to be killed.”

  “And what is the use,” they said, “for us to go with these men? We had better keep away from them.” Well, it was these men’s friends who went on the war-path, and this was the beginning of the Bannock war. Then Bannock Jack asked me if I had it all written down. I said, “Yes.” Then he said, “Will you be so kind as to send it to Washington and ask our Great Father in Washington to help us get back our guns and our ponies. They were not given us by our Good Father in Washington. If they had been we would not say a word. They were bought by our own hard work. We think it very hard for a whole tribe to lose everything and to be all killed beside, and for what they did not give us time to do, and as if we had refused to get the men.”

  The second chief, Egan, got up again to talk. He began by saying, “My dear mother,”—for this is the way our people address any one who is their superior. If a woman, it is their mother; if a man, it is their father. So Egan began in this way. When he got up to talk to me, he said,—

  “When our good father, Sam Parrish, was here, oh, then we were happy. Our children were not crying for anything to eat, and causing our hearts to ache for them. We all had everything we wanted, we had plenty of clothes, and were all doing well. And you, our dear mother, told us the truth. You told us that Sam was going away, and that there was a Christian agent to be sent here in his place; but you said you knew he would not do for us like our father Parrish. Oh, it was too true! Here we are all starving under this Christian man. He has not made any issues of clothing since he came here. After he discharged you, and you were gone, he called for a council, and all went to hear what he had to say. He told us that if we did not like the way he did, all we had to do was to leave the place, that he did not care, and he also said, “If my interpreter does not do as I want him to, he can go too. The government is not going to fool with you. Now if you want to work, the government will pay you one dollar a day.” I, chief of the Snake River Piutes, stopped the agent by saying, ‘I want to talk a little.’ I commenced by saying, ‘You are a good man. You talk with our Great Father up in the Spirit-land. You look up to the sky, and make us think you are a good Christian, and we want you to tell us the truth, not lies. We know nothing. We don’t read, and therefore we don’t know what to think. You, who are greater than anybody, say that this is government land, not land for us; and you say we must work for government, and government will pay us one dollar a day for our work. Yes, we will work for the government for money, for we love money just as well as you do,—you good Christian men who have come here. We were told by our good agent, Sam Parrish, that this land was ours for all to work upon and make us homes here. He also told us the government had set it apart for us Indians, and government would help us all if we would help ourselves, and that we must always be ready to go to work at whatever work he put us to, and that everything we raised on the place was ours, and the annuities that were sent here were given to us by our good father Parrish. He gave us everything our hearts could wish for. He also told me to tell all my people who had no homes to come here and go to work like white men. The white folk have to work very hard and we must do the same. Our good agent never had any trouble with us, because we would do everything we could to please him, and he did the same by us. He gave us our annuities without saying ‘You must do this or that, or you leave here.’ No: he treated us as if were his children, and we returned his kindness by doing everything he set us to do. He was with us two years, and we were all happy. He did not shoot our ponies because the ponies broke the fences, but he would say, ‘Your horses have broken into your grain, look out for them’; and then we would run and get them out and mend the fences. He did not do like you, good Christian man, by saying, ‘Here, my men, go and shoot those Indians’ horses! They are in our grain.’ Our father Parrish told us all to be good and never take any stray horses that came on our agency; nor did he want us to go and get stray horses. Have you done so? No: you and your men have done everything that is bad. You have taken up every horse that came along here, and you have them in your stable, and you are working them. And another thing, your men are doing what Parrish told us not to do, that is gambling. You and your men have brought a book amongst us that has big chiefs’ pictures and their wives’ pictures on the papers, and another picture which you call Jack, and another something like it.

  “And with these your men come to our camps, and gamble with your interpreter and your mail-carrier, every time you pay them off. This is what your blacksmith Johnson is doing; and your school-teacher, Frank Johnson, instead of teaching my people’s children, does more gambling than teaching. What you pay to your interpreter and mail-carrier, the two Johnsons win back again with the book that you brought here. So we are at a loss to know which of you are right: whether Sam Parrish told us lies or you, or our chieftain’s daughter, Sarah Winnemucca, about the land being ours; and you who talk with our Great Father in the Spirit-land three times a day, have come here and told us the land is not ours.’ This is what I said to the agent after you left us, and now you have come and found me almost starved.

  “Now one and all of you, my men, give our mother what little money you have. Let her go and talk for us. Let her go right on to Washington, and have a talk with our Great Father in Washington.”

  Then they all asked me if I would go if they would give me the money to go with. I told them I would only be too happy to do all I could in their behalf, if they wanted me to. So they went to work and got together and every one gave what they could, and all Egan got for me was twenty-nine dollars and twenty-five cents. This was got for me by Egan, the chief of the Snake River Piutes. This was indeed very little to start with. But as I had promised, I thought I would go to Elko, Nevada, with my horses and wagon and sell them there, and go to Washington and see what I could do for them. So our council ended on the 7th of June, 1878. And Mr. Morton asked me again if I would take him and his little daughter to Silver City, Idaho. I told him yes, if he would pay fifty dollars for the three of them, and pay one half of it down, which he did. So we started on the morning of the 8th of June. We journeyed on for three days, and heard nothing about an Indian war. But we saw houses standing all along the road without anybody living in them; and we talked about it, and did not know what it meant. On the twelfth we met a man on the summit, just before getting to a place called Fort Lyon, who told us there was the greatest Indian war that ever was known. He said the Bannock Indians were just killing everything that came in their way, and he told us to hurry on to a place called Stone House. That was the first I heard that the Bannocks were on the war-path. So we hurried on to the place. We got to the stage-road, and as we were going up the road we met three men coming down. They told us that the stage-driver had been killed. There had been no stage running for three days. He said there had been fighting going on at South Mountains, and a great many were killed, and some Piute Indians were killed too. I said,—

  “Are they on the war-path, too?”

  They said, “No, they were with white men who went out to fight the Bannocks, and the Bannocks had whipped them. Everybody is at the storehouse with their families.” He told the not to go any farther than there, for they would surely kill us if they came across us.

  “They want nothing better than to kill Chief Winnemucca’s daughter.”

  So these men went on down the road and we went on as fast as we could, and drove up to the storehouse just at eleven o’clock. They ran out to my wagon. They all had their guns and one of the men asked me who I was and where I was going. I said I was Sarah Winnemucca, and I was going to Elko, Nevada. As I told him who I was he held out his hand and said,—

  “I am Captain Hill, and I want you to stop here, for you are in great danger; just drive in there.” I did so. I told Mr. Mo
rton to take care of the team, and I took the little girl and went into the house. Then Captain Hill took me into the parlor and asked me if I knew anything about the outbreak of the Bannocks. I told him I did not know anything about it till yesterday, when a man met me at the Summit, beyond Camp Lyon, who told me. He then asked me if I knew Captain Bernard. I told him I did. “He will be here tonight,” he said, “or tomorrow sure, with his command.” He asked me who the man was who was with me. I told him I did not know much about him, but he and his little daughter were going to Silver City. All this time I little thought of the talk that was going on about me, until about twenty scouts arrived and with them a Piute Indian. Then the captain of the scouts came to me and asked me to talk English with him, not Indian. So I asked him who he was. He said, “Me name Piute Joe.”

  “What is the matter?” said I.

  “Me no see,” he said, “where you all going—me hope no sauce—” I said, “Captain, what is the use of my talking to you? If you are afraid of me there is a white woman who can talk my language well, You can call her and she can tell you if I say anything wrong.”