The captain said, “Where is she?”
“There she is.”
So the lady’s husband brought her forward. Then he said,
“The Bannocks are all out fighting. They are killing everything and everybody, Indians and whites, and I and two more of my people went with these men out to South Mountain to fight them, and we came on to Buffalo Horn’s camp and had a fight with them, and the scouts ran away and left him to the mercy of Bannocks. I saw that I could not get away when they were all mustered on me, so I jumped off my horse and placed my horse between me and them, and laid my gun over the saddle, and fired at Buffalo Horn as he came galloping up, ahead of his men. He fell from his horse, so his men turned and fled when they saw their chief fall to the ground, and I jumped on my horse again and came to Silver City as fast as I could. I tell you, my dear sister, my captain was surprised when he saw me coming, for he had left me to be killed by the Bannocks. The two other Indians were wounded, and I am wounded also.”
Just then Captain Bernard came along on his way down to Sheep Ranch, with his one company. All the soldiers looked at me as if I was some fearful beast, when Captain Bernard came to talk to me after he had seen the two captains. Captain Bernard said to me,—
“Sarah, these citizens say that you have a good deal of ammunition in your wagon.”
Oh, can anyone imagine my feelings when he said this to me? My heart almost bounded into my mouth, I said,
“Captain, they must know or they would not say so. Go and see for yourself, captain, and if you find anything in my wagon besides a knife and fork and a pair of scissors I will give you my head for your football. How can I be taking guns and ammunition to my people when I am going right away from them?”
I told Captain Bernard everything,—why I was there, and that I had started to go to Washington for my people, as they wanted me to do.
I once more said to him, “Go to my wagon and see.” “No, Sarah, I believe what you tell me is true.” Then I told him what Piute Joe had told me about his killing Buffalo Horn out at South Mountain.
“Now, captain, you do me a great favor by believing me. If I can be of any use to the army, I am at your service, and I will go with it till the war is over.”
He said, “Well, Sarah, I will telegraph to Gen. O. O. Howard. He is at Fort Boise, and I will see what he says about it. Do you know the country pretty well?”
I told him I did.
“Well, Sarah, I will send for you from the Sheep Ranch. You will come if I send, will you?”
I said, “I will come if the citizens don’t kill me.”
“Yes, Sarah, I would like to have you go as my guard, for I can get no Indian to go with me for love or money.”
“Yes, captain, I will go and do all I can for the government, if Gen. Howard wants me.”
Then Captain Bernard said good-bye and went away with his company. I stayed at the place all night, and the citizens were mad because the captain did not search my wagon for the ammunition, and they put a guard on my wagon that night. I cried and told them they ought to be ashamed of themselves. So passed the night quietly. I got up in the morning, had my breakfast, and looked after my horses. I went to the captain and said, “Please come to my wagon with all of your men and women. I want to show you all how much ammunition I have in it.”
Captain Hill asked me to forgive him for saying such a thing about me to the army officer. “I know your father is a friend to the whites. If I can do anything for you I will be most happy to do it. If you want to go to the command I will give you a horse any minute you want to go.”
Just then there came four Indians and one white man. I ran to meet them. I knew them all. I asked where they came from. They said,—
“We were sent by the commanding officer from Camp McDermitt with a dispatch to the chief of the soldiers.”
“Which way did you come?”
“We came by Camp Three Forks of Owyhee River.” They had to come that way because there was no travelling on the stage road since the driver was killed. The telegraph wire was cut, so there was no communication between Sheep Ranch and Camp McDermitt.
I then said to the captain, “I want to go with these men to the command.”
“Yes, Sarah, I can let you have a horse and a saddle, too.”
Then I told my people I would go with them. Then George, one of the men, said,
“Oh, Sarah, I am so glad you are going with us, for we are all afraid that the white people will kill us if we go alone, for just about here we met some men, and they would have killed us anyhow, only this white man saved us.”
I ran to my wagon to get ready. I told Morton and his little girl that I was to leave them, and the little girl began to cry. Her father talked to me and said,
“Sarah, don’t leave Rosey, for she has come to love you.” I told him I had to work for my people.
“Now, Sarah, as I have never talked to you before, will you be my wife? We will go to Silver City and get married right away.”
I said to him, “You honor me too much by offering marriage to me, Mr. Morton. I thank you very much for your kind offer, but I cannot marry a man that I don’t love. You and your daughter can go down tomorrow; I shall be at the Sheep Ranch, and there I will wait for you.”
My horse was ready and I bade him good-by. This was on the 12th of June, 1878.
We rode full gallop most of the time. We had thirty miles to go to the command. Just as we got in sight of the camp at Sheep Ranch, we saw a man coming. He did not see us until he got pretty close to us. When he saw us, he stopped and looked at us. We were riding along slowly, and the white man that was with us was ahead of us so that he could see there was a white man with us, but he turned round and ran as fast as he could, and the white man who was with us called to him just as loud as he could. He ran on and turned to shoot. Our white man took off his hat to show him we were not his enemies, but he got worse, and then I said, “Let us run after him, for he knows we are not Bannocks, for Bannock women don’t ride side-ways nor do they wear riding-dresses.” So we put after him just as hard as we could, the white man and I riding side by side, halloing to him just as an Indian would do when he is after his enemy. I tell you we very soon made him stop his foolishness. When Captain Bernard saw me coming with four Indians, he and other officers came to meet me. His first question was, “What is the matter with the Indians?” Without saying a word, I gave him the letter they had given me from Camp McDermitt, which explained all without my saying a word. Bernard told the men to take the Indians to their camp and give them something to eat, as it was eight o’clock, and he took me to his own tent. I was treated with most high respect by the captain and his officers. After supper he took me up to the hotel and I stayed there all night. The captain wanted me to help him get the Indians to go with a dispatch to Camp Harney, or to the Malheur Agency, and find out the whereabouts of the hostile Bannocks. He said if they would go they would be well paid. I told them, word for word, what Captain Bernard had told me to say to them. Then they said,—
“Sarah, we will do anything we can for the officers and you; we will go with dispatches anywhere but to the hostile Bannocks; we cannot go to them, for, Sarah, you don’t know what a danger that is. Sarah, your brother Natchez was killed, or is dead, for the same morning on which we were to start, three white men said so. Natchez and they made their escape from the hostile Bannocks and the Bannocks pursued them, and Natchez’ horse gave out. And all your folks were crying the day we left Camp McDermitt. Dear sister, it is not safe to go to them. Of course we know only what the white men told us. Oh, we do hope it is not so. If Natchez is killed by the Bannocks, oh, it will be too bad indeed.”
Oh, when they told me this sad news about my dear brother, my heart was dead within me. A thousand thoughts passed through my mind. I said to myself, “If my brother was killed by the Bannocks and we do go and be killed by them too!” Then I told Captain Bernard the Indian men would not go for love or money. I told the captain I would
go, if I had to go alone, and he would give me a good horse. He said,—
“Sarah, you cannot go, can you?”
“Yes, I will go if there is a horse to carry me.”
“Sarah, if you are in earnest, I will send a telegram to General Howard and see what he says about it.”
On the morning of June 13th I got up very early and went down to the camp and had my breakfast, and then I called the Indians, and asked George to accompany me to Malheur Agency or to the whereabouts of the hostile Bannocks.
“Are you playing with me, Sarah, or do you think I would let you go alone? No, no, I will go with you,— John and I will go.”
“Well, we will go as soon as the telegram comes from General Howard. George, we will go, no matter what comes of it. There is nothing that will stop me.”
Just as I got these words out of my mouth, Captain Bernard called me, and I went to him.
The saddest day hath gleams of light,
The darkest wave hath bright foam ‘neath it,
And twinkle; o’er the cloudiest night
Some solitary star to cheer it.
“Now, Sarah,” he said, “if you will go to your father, tell him and his people that they shall be taken care of and be fed. Get all the well-disposed of your people to come near the troops, where they can be safe. Now, Sarah, if you can succeed, your reward shall be five hundred dollars. Don’t forget to tell them that all who behave well shall be properly fed.”
I said to the captain, “I came through the Malheur Agency on the 6th of the month and there is nothing for them to eat there.”
He said, “Tell them all to come to the troops.”
Then I asked him to write me a letter to take with me in case that my horses should give out and I should come to a ranch where I could get some horses. He wrote,
“To all good citizens in the country:—Sarah Winnemucca, with two of her people, goes with a dispatch to her father. If her horses should give out, help her all you can and oblige
Captain Bernard.”
With this letter I started down the crossing of Owyhee River, about fifteen miles from the Sheep Ranch, at about a quarter of a mile from the place where the stage-driver was killed, and when we got there the citizen-scouts were all asleep. If we had been hostile Bannocks we could have killed every one of them. Some of these scouts were getting from fifteen to twenty-five dollars a day, and this is the way the citizen-scouts earned their money during an Indian war. They go off a little way from the troops and lie down and come back and report that there are Indians within half a mile from the troops. We went into the house and waked them up. I said to them, “Is this the way you all find the hostiles? We could have killed every one of you if we had been they. I want a fresh horse if you have one, as I don’t think one of our horses will stand the trip, as we are going to the Malheur Agency or to the hostile Bannocks wherever they are. We are sent by General O. O. Howard, and here is a letter which Captain Bernard gave me.”
One of them read it and said, “All right, Sarah, we will give you the best horse we have here.” Then they gave us our dinner and we started on our work. We had not gone but about a mile beyond the crossing at Owyhee River when we struck the hostiles’ trail. We followed it down the river as much as fifteen miles, and then we calve to where they had camped, and where they had been weeping, and where they had cut their hair. So we knew that it was hereabout that Buffalo Horn had been killed, for they had been tearing up clothes, cutting off hair and breaking up beads there. Here they left the river and struck off toward Barren Valley. They had to go up a hill and here I found the poor stage-driver’s whip, which I took with me. We rode very hard all day long—did not stop to rest all that day. The country was very rocky and no water. We had travelled about fifty miles that day. Now it was getting dark, but we rode on. It was very difficult for us to travel fast, for our horses almost fell over sometimes. I said,—
“Boys, let us stop for the night, for our horses will surely fall over us and kill us, and then the hostile Bannocks will not have the pleasure of killing us.” Here my men laughed at me, so we stopped for the night and ate our hard bread without any water. Then I gave my orders by saying,—
“John, you stand guard, George and I will sleep a little, and then wake him and let him stand guard the rest of the night, and we must start just as soon as we can see to travel.” So I lay down to have a little sleep, using my saddle for a pillow. I did not sleep, as my horse kept pulling me as I had tied him to my arm. I heard John come and say to George, “It is daylight.” I jumped up and said, “We will go; I am almost dead for water.” We started on the full jump across Barren Valley, toward Mr. G. B. Crawley’s ranch. As we came nearer and nearer, I said, “I can’t see the house.” So we rode on until I saw it was burnt down, and the men said, “Yes, and we see the smoke yet.” Yes, it was still burning. We saw a fresh track here and there. I saw by the look of everything that it was set on fire the morning of the thirteenth of June. George said to me, “Sarah, let us not stop here, for they must be close by.”
I saw that they were afraid. I said to them, “It is of no use to be afraid; we have come to see them and see them we must, and if they kill us we have to die and that is all about it, and now we must have something to eat. George, you go and look out while John and I make some coffee, and when it is ready we will call you.” John said, “Sarah, let us kill some of the chickens.” I said, “No, John, we will not, for they do not belong to us.”
So we made our coffee as quickly as we could. We made it in one of the tin cans that had been burnt, and called George, who came down, and we all ate our breakfast as fast as we could, and I said to my boys, “What do you two think?, Had we better go to the Malheur agency, or follow up the trail, which looks as if all the Indians were going towards Stein’s mountains. You are men, you can decide better than I can.”
“Now, Sarah, you know this country better than we do, and you know what to do, and if we say go this way or that way you would blame us if anything should happen, and another thing we have come with you and are at your command. Whatever you say we will follow you.”
“Well, since you have left it all to me, we will follow up the fresh trail that goes towards Stein’s mountains. I think it is our people going to Camp McDermitt.” It was now about six o’clock in the morning of the fourteenth of June. So we started again and rode as fast as our horses could travel. We had about sixty miles to go to find some white people. We travelled on and found a clock on their trail at a place called Juniper Lake, and we all knew it was the hostile Bannocks we were following. The next thing we found was a fiddle and I took it along with me. About noon I saw something coming down the mountain. “Oh,” said I, “oh, look there! What is it?” ”Oh, it is mountain sheep.” We galloped up towards them. They came close to us and John shot and killed one. We took some of the meat and there I lost my fiddle, and it is there to this day, as I never went back to find it.
As we rode on about five miles from Juniper Lake, we saw some one upon the mountains, as if they were running, so we waved our handkerchiefs at them. There were two of them. As we came nearer to them I said to George, “Call to them.” He did so. I saw them rise to their feet. I waved my handkerchief at them again and one of them called out, “Who are you?” I said, “Your sister, Sarah.” It was Lee Winnemucca, my brother, who had called out. So they jumped on their horses, and came to us, and the minute he rode up he jumped from his horse and took me in his arms and said, “Oh, dear sister, you have come to save us, for we are all prisoners of the Bannocks. They have treated our father most shamefully. They have taken from us what few guns we had, and our blankets, and our horses. They have done this because they outnumber us, and we are all up in the mountains with them Oh, sister, have you brought us some good news? Have you come for us? Oh, dear sister, here I am standing and talking to you, knowing the great danger you are in by coming here, and these men, too. The Bannocks are out in the mountains, looking out. Take off your hat and your
dress and upbraid your hair, and put this blanket round you, so if they should come down they would not know who it is. Here is some paint. Paint your face quick. Here, men, hide your guns and take off your clothes and make yourselves look as well as you can.”
All this was done as quickly as possible, and we were all dressed like the hostile Bannocks. I asked,—
“Where is our father?”
“We are all up over that mountain. We are but six miles from here.”
“I must go to him. I have a message for him and for all our people, too.”
“Oh, no, dear sister, you will be killed if you go there, for our brother Natchez has made his escape three days ago. They were going to kill him because he had saved the lives of three white men. Oh, dear sister, let me pray you not to go, for they will surely kill you, for they have said they will kill every one that comes with messages from the white people, for Indians who come with messages are no friends of ours, they say every night.”
“But, dear brother, they will not know me.”
“Yes, Oytes will know you, for he is their chief now, since Buffalo Horn is killed.”
“Dear brother, I am sorry to tell you that I must go to my father, for I have come with a message from General O. O. Howard, I must save my father and his people if I lose my life in trying to do it, and my father’s too. That is all right. I have come for you all. Now let us go.”
The mountain we had to go over was very rocky and steep, almost perpendicular. Sometimes it was very hard for us to climb up on our hands and knees. But we got up at last, and looked down into the hostile encampment. Oh, such a sight my eyes met! It was a beautiful sight. About three hundred and twenty-seven lodges, and about four hundred and fifty warriors were down Little Valley catching horses, and some more were killing beef. The place looked as if it was all alive with hostile Bannocks. I began to feel a little afraid. I looked down upon them, and I said,—
Life Among the Piutes: Their Wrongs and Claims Page 14