“We are not disappointed. We always said that the Big Father was just like all the white people.”
What could we say? We were only ashamed because we came and told them lies which the white people had told us.
“You must make that up yourselves,” they said, “for you have been to the white people’s country, and all the white people say the Big Father at Washington never tells a lie.”
My father rose and told his people he did not blame them for talking as they did.
“I say, my dear children, every word we have told you was said to us. Yes, they have said or done more than this. They have given us a paper which your mother will tell you of.”
Then he called me and said,—
“Read the paper; your brother will interpret for you.”
I did as I was told. I read very slowly. My brother did nicely, and after it was over my uncle, Captain John, rose and spoke, saying, “My dear people, I have lived many years with white people. Yes, it is over thirty years, and I know a great many of them. I have never known one of them do what they promised. I think they mean it just at the time, but I tell you they are very forgetful. It seems to me, sometimes, that their memory is not good, and since I have understood them, if they say they will do so and so for me, I would say to them, now or never, and if they don’t, why it is because they never meant to do, but only to say so. These are your white brothers’ ways, and they are a weak people.” Some of them said,
“Oh, maybe he will send back our people.” Others said, “Time will tell.” Just then my sister-in-law, brother Natchez’ wife, said, “There comes a white man. Oh, it is Mr. Emory.”
He came up and gave me a letter. It was my appointment to act as interpreter for my people at the Malheur Agency.
After this, my people went away from Lovelocks.
Then I went from place to place, trying to get my people to go to the Malheur Agency; but they told me to go and get those who were at Yakima to come back there, then they would go.
So I took my sister and started for Yakima on the 1st of April. Just think how happy I was! to go for my poor, sick-hearted people. Yes, armed with a paper signed by Secretary Schurz. I thought I would not have anything to do but to go there and get them, because they told me at Washington that they would send a letter to Mr. Wilbur, telling him what to do. I told them in Washington that my people would be afraid to go back to Malheur alone. They told me that Father Wilbur would see that they were taken back all right. If he thought we should need an escort of soldiers he would see to that.
So you see I never once thought I was going to have any trouble, and I travelled three days without seeing any one. We had nothing to eat but hard-bread. Our horses were better off than we were. That was better than all, for I would rather any time have nothing to eat than have my horse go without anything.
We had travelled four days, it was very late in the evening, and we rode up to a house. The men all ran out to see us. I said to sister, “I am afraid.” Sister said,
“I know them. About one year ago, father and others camped here, and they were very kind to father. They killed beef for us, and we camped here a long time.”
To my great joy there came up two of our people. One was my own cousin, Joe Winnemucca. Oh, how glad he was to see us.
“Is your father coming, too?” he asked.
“No, we are all alone.”
“What! You don’t say you have come all the way from the reservation alone, have you?”
“That is just what I mean, and that is not all. We are going a long way.”
“That can’t be, you two women, all alone.”
“That is what we are going to do.”
The white man came up to us and said,
“Who are you? Where did you come from?”
I said, “Sir, I am Sarah Winnemucca, and this is my sister, and we came from Pyramid Lake Reservation.”
“Oh, how do you do? I have heard of you so many times! Oh, how I wish my wife was here to welcome you. She would be glad to see you. But, however, you are welcome. Won’t you come in?”
Then he called one of his men to come and get our horses and take them to the stable.
I said, “Sir, this man is my cousin and I want to talk to him first.”
I told my cousin where we were going, and what for. How I was going to have our people back again at Malheur, and about the beautiful paper that the Great Father gave me, and what beautiful things they were going to do for us. Oh! how glad my poor cousin was, for his brother, Frank Winnemucca, was at Yakima.
Now the man came for us to go to supper. I told the white man the same after supper, and showed him the beautiful letter that Secretary Schurz gave me.
He said, “I am so glad, for your people are good workers, and the government ought to do something for them. I have lived here over twenty years. I never lost anything by your people, and whenever they came I always gave them something to eat. The last time your father was here I killed beef for him and the few who were with him.”
We stayed here three days, because it snowed so hard we could not travel. At last it cleared off, and my cousin was going with us to the next place. He said there were very bad men there. Sometimes they would throw a rope over our women, and do fearful things to them.
“Oh, my poor cousins,” he said, “my heart aches for you, for I am afraid they will do something fearful to you. They do not care for anything. They do most terrible outrageous things to our women.”
I thought within myself, “If such an outrageous thing is to happen to me, it will not be done by one man or two, while there are two women with knives, for I know what an Indian woman can do. She can never be outraged by one man; but she may by two.” It is something an Indian woman dare not say till she has been overcome by one man, for there is no man living that can do anything to a woman if she does not wish him to. My dear reader, I have not lived in this world for over thirty or forty years for nothing, and I know what I am talking about.
We did not get to the horrible place till the second day. We got there very late in the afternoon. As we rode up to the house, I heard one of the men say, “Why, there is Sarah Winnemucca!” Oh, how glad I was to hear my name spoken by some one that knew me. I knew I was all right. He came up to me and said,—
“Why, Sarah, what in the world are you doing away out here at this time of the year?”
He helped me off my horse. Sister jumped off hers, and he told my cousin to take our horses to the stable. I had known this man for some time. He used to live in Carson City, Nevada. His name is Crowles. I was glad to see him. We staid all night and were treated beautifully. I offered to pay for our supper and breakfast, and for our horses, too, but they would not take anything. So I thanked them, and we went on, and cousin went a little ways with us, and then said good-bye to us and went back. We had travelled about ten miles, when we looked back and saw three men coming after us as fast as they could ride. This Mr. Crowles had some Spanish boarders, who were living near the house, and they saw us there. Well, we saw it was war then. I said, “Dear sister, we must ride for our dear lives.”
Away we went, and they after us like wild men. We rode on till our horses seemed to drop from under us. At last we stopped, and I told sister what to do if the whole three of them overtook us. We could not do very much, but we must die fighting. If there were only two we were all right,—we would kill them; if only one we would see what he would do. If he lassoed me she was to jump off her horse and cut the rope, and if he lassoed her I was to do the same. If he got off his horse and came at me she was to cut him, and I would do the same for her. Now we were ready for our work. They were a long way back yet. We kept looking back to see how far off they were. Every time we would get out of sight, we would rest our horses, and at last, to our great joy, we only saw one coming. He will not dare to do us any harm. By-and-by he overtook us.
“How do you do?” he said.
We did not speak to him. He said, “I know your broth
er Natchez well, and your father, too.”
I was so angry, I said to him, “Clear out, you mean, hateful man; we do not wish to talk.” He said again, “What made you run your horses so?”
I said, “What made you bad men run after us?”
We came to where there were two roads, one going to Camp C. F. Smith, and one to Camp Harney. We took the Camp Harney road. We could see a house across the valley, about five miles off. He said,—
“Come with me to that place. I will give you fresh horses, for you have a long way to go.”
I did not speak, nor did sister. When he saw we would not talk to him, he turned his horse and went across the valley towards the house. So we were once more left to ourselves. We rode about five miles, and stopped to rest our horses an hour or so, and went on again. At about two o’clock we came to a warm spring, and stopped and had a bath. Dear sister and I had a good time, and were refreshed, and rode on till about five o’clock, when one of our horses gave out. We had quite a time getting the horse along, so it was very late when we got to the place where we were to go for the night. It was at Mr. James Beby’s, who was married to one of my cousins on the south end of Stein’s mountains, and at last we got there. My cousin’s wife was glad to see us; but he was not at home. We stopped there three days to see him. I knew if he was at home we could get some horses to go on to the next place, where we could take the stage to Camp Harney. I told my cousin we would go on. She said,—
“Dear, take fresh horses, and leave them at Mr. Abbot’s. He will go for them when he gets home.”
I said, “No, dear, I am afraid he would not like it, and he may get angry with you. I think we can make it nicely today,” which we did.
The next morning we were ready to go on with a man by the name of Smith, whose father was killed during the Bannock war. We left one of our horses there, and rode in his wagon to Mr. Anderson’s place. I knew everybody on that road. No white women on all the places where we stopped,—all men,—yet we were treated kindly by all of them, so far. We did not know what kind of a place Mr. Anderson’s place was now, but before the Bannock war none of my people would go there for years and years. But we had to go there now. We got there about four o’clock in the afternoon. I had known Mr. Anderson for a number of years. He was a United States mail-contractor, and always had many cow-boys at his place over night. Sure enough, there were eight of them this night. There was only one room in the house with a fireplace. He was kind to us. I told him what I had told others. After supper I felt like crying, and said to sister,—
“What shall we do? Where shall we sleep? We have no blankets.”
We could sleep out of doors, but there was snow on the ground. Oh, how badly I felt that night! It was hard to keep back the tears. At last they began to make their beds here, there, and everywhere on the floor. Mr. Anderson said to the stage-driver,—
“You and I must give up our bed to Miss Winnemucca tonight, and go in with some of the boys.”
Nothing more was said, and they went to bed with some of them, and by-and-by we lay down.
I said to sister, “Oh, how my heart jumps. Something is going to happen to us, dear.”
“I feel that way too,” sister said. We sat a long time, but it was very cold, and at last we lay down and I soon fell asleep.
Some one laid a hand on me and said, “Sarah!”
I jumped up with fright and gave him such a blow right in the face. I said, “Go away, or I will cut you to pieces, you mean man!” He ran out of the house, and Mr. Anderson got up and lighted a candle. There was blood on the side of the bed, and on my hands and the floor. He said,—
“Oh, Sarah, what have you done? Did you cut him?”
“No, I did not cut him; I wish I had. I only struck him with my hand.”
He said, “Well, a man who will do such a thing needs killing. Who was it?” He looked round, but the man was gone. Mr. Anderson did not blow out the light. The man did not come in, but some of the men went out to look for him. When they came in they said he was gone, and had taken his horse. Some of them said they guessed he was ashamed, and had gone off. Mr. Anderson said, “The big fool! He ought to be ashamed.”
I never said a word more, and we did not sleep any more that night. Mr. Anderson got up a four o’clock breakfast, for we were to start at five. We had to make Camp Harney that day, sixty miles. I still took my horse with me. We arrived at Camp Harney about six o’clock, and Captain Drury, then commanding officer, received us very kindly. There were only three ladies at the post. The captain’s wife and the other officers’ wives were kind to me while I stayed there. We staid ten days, because we could not get over the Blue Mountains, the snow was so deep. I had no money, and I tried to sell my horse, but could not. I went and talked with Mr. Stevens, who was a store-keeper at Camp Harney for many years. I showed him my appointment as interpreter, and, thanks be to my Father in Spirit-Land, this man gave me a hundred dollars. He thought I was good for it; that is, I would get paid for my work and pay him. So we got ready to go on with the government mail-carrier. Captain Drury was so kind as to let me have a government horse to ride as far as Canyon City, and the mail-carrier was to bring it back. Oh, such a time as we had going over! The snow was soft—our horses would go down and up again. If we walked we would go down too. It rained some during the day. It was ten o’clock before we got to a place called Soda Springs. The next morning it snowed, but we did not mind it, and we got to Canyon City at three o’clock in the afternoon, almost frozen to death. We had to swim our horses at one place. We stayed there three days, because the stage goes only twice a week, and we had to wait for it. Here I tried again to sell my horse, but could not. I got a man named Mr. More to take him and put him on his farm until I should come back. The man sold him because I did not come, and that was the last of my horse. Here I saw Mr. C. W. Parrish again. I showed him the papers which I got from Secretary Schurz for my people, and told him of my visit to Washington. He was so glad, and said, “Sarah, your people will be happy to get back.” I told him the girls and boys that used to love his wife and children were all dead. I told him the names of many of them, so that he could tell his wife. She gave them all names when she had them at school.
A reporter also called on me, and I told all he asked me. He gave me his address and said he would help me, and put anything into his paper that I wished him to. I thanked him for his kindness. Mr. Parrish told me I had better see to my stage passage the first thing, or someone might get ahead of me. It was not a stage, but a little wagon called buckboard, and would carry only two persons besides the driver. So I went and paid my fare and’ my sister’s, fifty dollars. It went at six o’clock in the evening, and it took two days and nights to go to the Dalles. We were to start that same evening. We had a very hard ride, arrived all right, found brother Lee waiting for us, stayed in Dalles two days, and hired horses from Father Wilbur’s Christian Indians. It took us two days to get to Fort Simcoe, which we reached on the eighth of May. Father Wilbur was glad to see me. I did not say anything for four days, but brother Lee went and told everything to our people. They came every day to see me. I told them about our people in Nevada, but did not say anything about my visit to Washington. At last I went to see Father Wilbur, armed with my letters. I said, “Father, I have come to talk to you.” He said, “Come in.” I went in and sat down. I said, “Did you get a letter from Washington?” He said, “No.”
“Well, that is strange,—they told me they would write.”
“Who?”
“The Secretary of the Interior, Secretary Schurz.”
“Why, what makes you think they would write to me?”
“Father, they told me they would write right off while I was there. It was about my people.”
He said, “We have not heard from them.”
“Father, I have a letter here, which Secretary Schurz gave me.” I gave it to him to read. He read it and gave it back to me. I saw he was angry.
“Sarah,” he said, “
your people are doing well here, and I don’t want you to tell them of this paper or to read it to them. They are the best workers I ever saw. If you will not tell them, I will give you fifty dollars, and I will write to Washington, and see if they will keep you here as interpreter.”
I said, “How is it that I am not paid for interpreting here so long? Was I not turned over to you as an interpreter for my people? I have worked at everything while I was here. I helped in the school-house, and preached on Sundays for you,—I mean I interpreted the sermons.” I told him I thought he ought to pay me something.
He said he would if I would not tell my people about Schurz’s letter. I did not promise, and went away. I did not say anything for five or six days. At last my people came and demanded of me to come to them. Brother and I went to them.
Leggins got up and said to his people,—
“My dear children, you all see that we have no friend. You all see that our mother has sold us to Father Wilbur. You see that she does not want to let us know what our father Winnemucca has done for us. We are all told that she has a paper, which has been given to her by the mighty Big Father in Washington, and she has burnt it or hid it, so we won’t know it. That way she has made her money, by selling us. She first sold us to the soldiers and had us brought here, and now she has sold us to this bad man to starve us. Oh, we shall never see our friends anymore! Our paper is all gone, there is nobody to talk for us, we are all alone, we shall never get back to our sweet country.
The tears ran down his face as he talked, and women cried. Brother could not stand it any longer. He jumped up and cried aloud, saying,—
“For shame! What are you talking about? Are you mad? Why don’t you ask before you talk?”
I had told Lee what Father Wilbur had said to me.
“Go and talk to Father Wilbur, not to my sister. It is he who has sold us, not sister; it is he who don’t want us to go back.”
Life Among the Piutes: Their Wrongs and Claims Page 21