“My friends, here I stand before you, an old man, the snow has fallen upon me and it has left its mark, and my hair is white. My hands are clean from the shameful work you have done to Egan.
“Why, friends, our great soldier-fathers, General Howard and General McDowell, have asked me to furnish them twenty-five of my men as scouts for them. General Howard and General McDowell are my best soldier-fathers; yet they could not give me money enough to take up arms against any tribe of Indians.
“Now, my dear children, I will go with my sister, and I will say all to the Umatillas that I have said to you, right before General Forsythe and all the officers. I think it is right and just, and I also think it is the only way we can get back our women and girls.”
This is what my brother Natchez said to his men; and one and all of them said they were always ready to hear our chief, and to do what he says.
Brother then said, “How many want to go with me?”
They answered, “We will all go.”
Brother said, “I am afraid the soldiers will think we have come to fight them, if they see so many of us coming; therefore I think about thirty of us will be enough to go.”
While the talk was going on, Lieutenant Pitcher came and said,—
“Sarah, we will be ready to go back this afternoon at one o’clock.”
“All right, lieutenant,” I said.
Then I said, “Lieutenant, this is my father Winnemucca, and this is my brother Natchez; and father and brother and thirty men are going with us to see the Umatillas who are with you.”
The lieutenant said, “Very well, they can go with us.”
I had had no sleep yet. In those days I never knew what it was to be tired or sleepy.
My father then got up and spoke, saying, “I am ashamed to have to speak to you, my children. I am ashamed for you, not for myself. Where is one among you who can get up and say, ‘I have been in battle, and have seen soldiers and my people fight and fall. Oh! for shame I for shame to you, young men, who ought to have come with this news to me! I am much pained because my dear daughter has come with the fearful things which have happened in the war. Oh, yes! my child’s name is so far beyond yours; none of you can ever come up to hers. Her name is everywhere and every one praises her. Oh! how thankful I feel that it is my own child who has saved so many lives, not only mine, but a great many, both whites and her own people. Now hereafter we will look on her as our chieftain, for none of us are worthy of being chief but her, and all I can say to you is to send her to the wars and you stay and do women’s work, and talk as women do.
“Now we will go and see the man-eaters. I have never shot anything in all my life but what is good to eat. In my way of thinking and in my father’s way of thinking, no man ought to kill anything unless it is good to eat. We were obliged to fight our white brothers at one time. It was only five months after my poor father’s death. If he had lived it might not have happened. I have promised to be a friend to white people, and I have done just as I said, although they have killed my people here and there. I have not unburied my bow and arrows yet, and I hope, my children, that you will keep our promise to the end of the world, and then it will be well with us. Now we must get something to eat before we go. You have all heard what your chief has said. There is one among you who did not go out to help defend his people. He is tall and strong, but he is a coward. Put a woman’s dress upon him, and give him woman’s work to do. Let him dig roots, and prepare food, and make moccasins, and all the rest of his life let him wear women’s clothing, and not go among the men.”
My dear readers, such is the respect my people have for their chiefs, that that man still wears a woman’s dress, and does women’s work, and will continue to do so all his life. My people, and I think no Indian people, feel the same respect for a made chief. Sometimes chiefs are chosen by others and set over a tribe. There is no respect felt for such chiefs. That breaks up the family life that is the best thing for Indians. I do not like to think of my people separated from each other. Their love for their chief holds them together, and helps them to do right. A tribe is a large family. If a chief appoints sub-chiefs to help him take care of his people, they are respected unless they do wrong; but as I said before, no man can be a leader among Indians who is not a good man. His band may break away from him at any time if he does not do as his great chief does.
My father went on to say, “Some of the young men can go now and get our horses, and then we will go to see the scouts.”
We got ready and started to go to a place called Antelope Springs, where we met the troops. All the officers were glad to see my father and brothers and all my people. Rations were issued to them. I told General Forsythe what my people came for and he was glad.
After they had had their supper, all the officers were called, and the Umatillas also. They all came but one and that was U-ma-pine. General Forsythe asked them where U-ma-pine was. They said they did not know. “Well, we want him here,” the General said, “go and get him. These chiefs want to talk to you all.”
One of them went but soon came back and said he could not find him. He was afraid and staid in the hills that night, and my brother had to talk to the others. I have already told you, my readers, what he meant to say to them. The officers all cheered my brother after the talk was over. They told him that U-ma-pine and his people would suffer yet for what they had done. “General Howard,” they said, “is not going to let them off as easily as they think. We will see that they turn all the prisoners over to us, after the Bannocks all surrender.”
My people staid all night with us. The next morning, very early, we were ready to go on. But Mr. U-ma-pine could not be found anywhere. My people went along with us some ten miles to get a sight of the brave man who killed Egan. At last they gave it up and said good-bye to me, and went back to Camp McDermitt. Here my brother Lee said, “Sister, can I go with you and my wife?”
I said, “You can if you wish to.”
We travelled about forty miles that day on account of no water. A good many of the soldiers’ horses gave out. We camped here at a place called, “The Three Forks of the Owyhee River.” The canyon is very deep; on the right hand side of the river are very high mountains.
My brother told me a very funny story about the soldiers’ doings at this place. “A few years ago we were on that hill yonder. The soldiers were on that steep mountain side. We then called out to them. They stopped, and they were so frightened that they shot at us across, and one and all of us called out to them again.”
Here my brother laughed so that I thought he would never stop. At last he said, “Dear sister, they had a cannon on a mule, and they shot at us before they took it off the mule’s back, and the poor mule fell down the steep mountain.”
Here we all laughed. Brother said, “Some of our people said if the soldiers were going to shoot mules at them they had better go away, and they travelled all night without stopping. They only said that to make fun.”
After travelling three days we got to Silver City. We went to Tinker’s Mill, on Tinker’s Creek, and camped for the night.
General Forsythe received instructions to divide his command,—Sanford to accomplish what had been given the whole, and Bernard to deviate southward and gather up the Indians who might be lurking in the neighborhood of Duck Valley, South Mountain, and the region on to McDermitt, General Forsythe himself to go at once to Boise City to take command of the troops to the south and east of Boise City. I was ordered to go with Captain Bernard and Captain Winter’s company to Duck Valley, to gather up my people, and Brother Lee, with his wife, to go with some of our people who were there. They were told to go with them to Camp McDermitt, Nevada, and two days after we left Silver City we went to Duck Valley, and found some of my people there. They were very glad to see me. I told them that the order was that all our people were to go to Camp McDermitt. The captain told me to tell them that they must go, because the citizens might mistake them for Bannocks, and would kill them. He told
me to say that the citizens were very angry with the soldiers because they would not kill all the Indians they could find. “We don’t want,” he said, “to kill good Indians, but we want to be your friends, and we don’t want to see the citizens kill you. That is why I want you to go where the soldiers can look out for you all.” Among these was the father of Piute Joe, who killed Buffalo Horn at South Mountain. He said to me,
“Tell our soldier-father that we want to go, but are afraid to. If he will send some of the soldiers with us we will only be too glad to go, or give us a paper and then the citizens won’t kill us.”
I told Captain Bernard what Piute Joe’s father had said, and he gave him a letter and he said, “We will go tomorrow.” The next day we went back the same way we came, and camped at a place called Trout Spring.
The officers caught a great many trout that afternoon. We staid all night at that place. That evening the captain said to me,—
“Sarah, would you like to take a letter to Silver City for me? The companies will not go that way. We will cut across the country from here if you will go. You can get upon the stage and go to Boise City and leave your horse there. You will get there before we shall.”
I said “Yes, I will go.” The distance was fifty miles, so I started at seven o’clock in the morning. I said to myself, “I will see how fast I can ride, and at what time I will get there.”
I did not meet any one on the way. I rode into Silver City at two o’clock in the afternoon, and the next morning I was in the stage on my way to Boise City, Idaho, and went to see General Forsythe. He found me a place to stop at, and sent me to see the prisoners at Fort Boise. I went, but they would not speak to me. They were Shoshones. I went in first to see the men. While I was talking with the men, one of the women came in and said in Shoshone, “Don’t tell her anything. She will tell the soldiers what you say.” One of the men said, “I wonder who she is.”
“I will tell you who I am if you will ask me; if you will tell me why you are here, maybe I can help you.” I waited to see if they would say anything. I again said,—
“Will you tell me where you were when the soldiers took you?” They would not speak yet. “Your soldier-father sent me here to ask you what you want to do,” but they would not say anything to me.
I went and told General Forsythe that his prisoners would not speak to me. I stayed in Boise City ten days. I was then told to go with Captain McGregor and Sanford’s command, two companies of cavalry, going the way of Baker City, and then to Camp Harney, Oregon, where I expected to see a great many of my people, and Bannocks too, for it was reported that the old woman whom I had sent away to my people to tell them to come back to the Malheur Agency was there. After travelling six days in that burning sun we arrived at Canyon City, and camped about three miles down the river. I thought to myself I will go and see Mrs. Parrish, for she was living at Canyon City. I saw all the officers going up, and I wished to go too and see my clearest friends. I rode into the city, and saw a negress that I knew who used to cook for a woman by the name of Moore. She ran up to me and said, “Oh, Sarah, I am afraid someone will do you harm. There is a woman living here who swears that the first Indian she sees she will shoot, because she had her husband killed during the war.”
Just then a man came up to me and gave me a letter. I did not stop to read it, but ran with it to the officers who were right across the street from where I was. I gave it to Captain McGregor. “Come,” said he, “go to the camp as fast as your horse can carry you.” We ran across to get our horses. I got upon mine and rode down to the camp as if I was riding for dear life. I did not know why Captain McGregor sent me for till he came down from the city. He then told me it was the sheriff who wanted to arrest me as a witness against Oytes.
I did not see my dear friend, Mrs. Parrish (the white lily) that time. We went on to Camp Harney and got there two days afterwards, and found all the Bannocks and the Snake River Piutes there. After we got rested I sent for the baby that was found on the battle-field. I went to every camp with the child, but could not find its mother. The next day I got its little yellow shirt and its beads, as General Howard had told me to keep them, so the little one’s mother might find her child by its clothes and beads. I did as I was told by him, and again Mattie and I went to find its mother. At last we came to a camp where there was a young woman. I saw at once they were in deep mourning, and I knew them too. I said,—
“John Westler, I have here a little girl baby that was found on the battle-field, and if I can I want to find her father and mother. It may be a Bannock child.”
The father of the little child got up and looked at the baby. He cried out, “Oh my baby, my child, my lost little girl!” Its mother got up also and came. They wept with joy. They said everything that was beautiful to Mattie and me for saving their little child. They told me most fearful things that happened the same day that the child was lost. They said there was a little baby that was crushed against the trees, as the soldiers fought them through the thick timber. They said they were running for their dear lives through the timber for miles and miles. The timber was very dense; so much so, that it was impossible to travel with pack-animals, except by packing them on top, and not on the side as my people usually pack them. In that timber these children were crushed, and this little one was thrown from its basket and left on the road in the hurry and confusion.
All my people and the officers called this little baby my baby, and they named it Sarah.
Everything went on aright until October, when an order came from Washington, saving that all the Indians that belonged to the Malheur Agency should be gathered together at Camp Harney, and be ready to go to the Malheur Reservation for the winter. So I was told to go to Camp McDermitt and bring all my people to Camp Harney. Company A was first to go with me. So everything was got ready, and we started for Camp McDermitt. It took six days. At last we arrived at the camp. I told my people what the Big Father in Washington said. Some of my people said, “We know there is something wrong. We don’t like to go.” But the officers told them there was nothing to fear. They would be sent to the Malheur Agency.
My people asked me over and over again. I told them I did not know any more than they did, therefore I could not say. At last I said, “What need have you to be afraid? You have not done anything. All the officers know that you have acted for the whites. General Howard knows all about you. None of you have fought the whites. You have all done your duty to the whites during the campaign.”
After talking with them so long, my brother Natchez told them to go. He said to them, “Our soldier-fathers will see that you are all right. They say you are to go back to the Malheur Agency.” Then Leggins said, “Reinhard is there yet. We ought not to go there while he is there, for we shall die with hunger. We all know how we suffered while we were there.”
Leggins said to me, “You, our mother, must talk to the soldier-fathers, and have them send him away before we go back to the reservation. Tell them before we leave here that if we go there we will starve, and then have another trouble.”
I told the commanding-officer what my people said about Reinhard. Then the commanding-officer, Captain Wagener, got angry and said,—
“I don’t want so much talk; if you don’t go peacefully, I shall have to make you go. If we had not got orders from Washington, we would not say so. We are just like yourselves: we are ordered and we have to do our work. Tomorrow you must all get ready to go.”
My poor people were in great trouble. They talked all night, and then at last said, “We will go.” Early the next morning, the horses were ready, and we were all ready to start. You should see how my people love each other. Old and young were crying at parting with each other. Brother Natchez went with us for two days. We got to Camp C. F. Smith. Here my brother left us to go back. In six days more we arrived at Camp Harney, and Leggins told the officers he and his people did not want to camp with the Bannocks, and the rest of the wards.
Before we left Camp McDerm
itt, this man Leggins was appointed chief over them all by my brother and father. The commanding-officer, Major Cochrane, told Leggins he could camp wherever he liked. At this I was very glad. So was he. The major is very humane,—a very kind officer.
After we were at Camp Harney two weeks, my people were told to come to the commissary, and soldiers’ clothing would be issued to them.
After they got their clothes they looked so nice! But my heart ached for the women and children, for there was no clothing for them. There were no calicoes to be issued to them. But it could not be helped. It was not as if they had it and would not issue it to them, as all the agents do. My people knew this, and they had nothing to say, All this time we were so happy. Leggins would often say or ask me, “When are we to go to the agency?” I said, “I have not heard anything about it.”
Life Among the Piutes: Their Wrongs and Claims Page 18