The book of the American Indian 1923

Front matter

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Contents

XIV. Tue Dears or THE CHIEF. ........... 270

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

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II

By this time Seger had reduced the school to something like order, and the pupils were learning fast; but truancy continued to render his afternoon sessions farcical, for as soon as they had eaten their midday meal many of the children ran away to the camp across the river and there remained the entire afternoon. Others paid no heed to the bell, but played on till weary before returning to the school. In all this rebellion Atokan was a leader, and Seger, after meditating long, determined on a form of discipline which might have appalled the commander of a regiment of cavalry. He determined to apply the rod.

Now this may seem a small thing, but it was not; it was a very momentous thing. It was indeed the most dangerous announcement he could make to a warlike tribe chafing under restraint, for red people are most affectionate parents and very seldom lay violent hands upon their children or even speak harshly to them. Up to this time no white man had ever punished a red child, and when Seger spoke to the agent about it he got no help; on the contrary, the old Quaker said:

“Friend Seger, I think thee a very rash young man and I fear thee will involve us all in a bloody outbreak.’ Then he added, ““Can’t thee devise something else?”

“I must have discipline,” argued Seger. “I can’t have my pupils making a monkey of me. There are only four or five that need welting, and if you give me leave to go ahead I'll make ’em toe the mark; otherwise, I’ll resign.”

‘Thee can go ahead,” testily exclaimed the agent. “‘But thee sees how we are situated. We have no troops in call. Thee knows, also, that I do not approve of force; and yet,”’ he added, in reflection, ““we have made a failure of the school—thee alone seems to have any control of the pupils. It is not for me to criticize. Pro- ‘ceed on thy way, but I will not be responsible for any trouble thee may bring upon thyself.”

**I will take all that comes,” responded Seger—who had been trained in the school of the Civil War, “and I will not involve you in any outbreak.”

That night Seger made his announcement: “Hereafter every scholar must obey my bell—and return to the schoolroom promptly. Those who do not will be whipped.”

The children looked at him as if he had gone crazy.

The Book of the American Indian .

He went on: “Go home and tell your people. Ask them to think it over—but remember to be here at sunset, and after this every bell must be obeyed instantly.”

The children ran at once to the camp, and the news spread like some invisible vapor, and soon every soul in the entire agency, red and white alike, was athrill with excitement. The half-breeds (notoriously timorous) hastened to warn the intrepid schoolmaster: “Don’t do that. They will kill you.” The old scouts and squawmen followed: “Young feller, you couldn’t dig out of the box a nastier job—you better drop it right now and skip.”

“T am going to have discipline,” said Seger, “‘or tan the jacket of every boy I’ve got.”

Soon after this he met Tomacham and Tontonava, both men of great influence. After greeting him courteously Tomacham said:

‘I hear that you said you were going to whip our children. Is this true?”

“It is!” answered Seger, curtly.

“That is very wrong and very foolish,’ argued Tontonava. “We did not give our children into your care to be smitten with rods as the soldiers whip mules.”

“Tf the children act like mules I will whip them,” persisted Seger. “T punish only bad children—I do not beat good ones.”

‘It is not our custom to strike our children. Do you think we will permit white men to do so?” asked Tontonava, breathing hard.

Assuming an air of great and solemn deliberation, Seger said, using the sign language to enforce his words: “‘Go home and think of this. The Great Father has built this schoolhouse for your children. He has given them warm clothing and good food. He has given’ them beds to sleep in and a doctor to help them when they are sick. Now listen. Miokany is speaking. So long as they enjoy all these things they are bound to obey me. They must obey me, their teacher,” and he turned and left the two old men standing there, amazed and indignant.

That night all the camps were filled with a discussion of this wondrous thing. Seger’s threat was taken up formally by the men in council and informally by the women. It was pivotal, this question of punishment—it marked their final subjection to the white man.

‘If we lose our children, then surely we are doomed to extinction,” Tomacham said.

‘Let us fight!” cried fierce Unko. “What is the use of sitting here like chained wolves till we starve and die?”’ Let us go out against this white man and perish gloriously.” And a few applauded him.

But the graver men counseled patience and peace.

“We do not fear death—but we do not wish to be bound and sent away into the mysterious hot lands where our brethren languish.”

“Then let us go to the school and frighten ‘Johnny Smoker’ so that he will not dare to whip any child,” cried Unko.

To this Tomacham answered: “‘Johnny Smoker’ is my friend. I do not wish to harm him. Let us see him again and counsel with him.”

**No,” answered Unko. “Let us face him and command him to let our children alone. If he strikes my child he must die.”

And to this many of the women cried out in piercing nasal tones: “Ah, that is good—do that!”

But Wahiah, the mother of Atokan, looked at the ground and remained silent.

Til

When the pupils next assembled they were as demure as quails, and Seger knew that they had been warned by their parents not to incur their teacher’s displeasure; but Atokan looked aside, his proud head lifted. Beside him sat a fine boy, two years younger, son of Unko, and it was plain that they were both ready to rebel.

The master recognized the gravity of the moment. If he did not punish, according to his word, his pupils would despise him, his discipline was at an end; and to stripe the backs of these highspirited lads was to invite death—that he knew better than any white man could tell him. To provoke an outbreak would be a colossal crime, and yet he was a stubborn little man—persistent as a bulldog—capable of sacrificing himself in working out a theory. When a friendly half-breed came late that night and warned him that the camp was in debate whether to kill him or not he merely said: “You tell them I am doing the will of the Great Father at Washington and I am not afraid. What they do to me will fly to Washington as the light flies, and the soldiers will come back as swiftly.”

Immediately after school opened next morning several of the parents of the children came quickly in and took seats, as they were accustomed to do, along the back wall behind the pupils. They were graver than usual—but otherwise gave no sign of anger and remained decorously quiet. Among them was Wahiah.

The master went on with firm voice and ready smile with the morning’s work, well aware that the test of his authority would come after intermission, when he rang the bell to recall his little squad to their studies.

As the children ran out to play all the old people followed and took seats in the shade of the building, silent and watchful. The assistant teacher, a brave little woman, was white with excitement as Seger took the bell some ten minutes later and went to the door personally to give the signal for return. He rang as cheerily as if he were calling to a feast, but many of the employees shuddered as if it were their death knell.

The larger number of the children came scurrying, eager to show their obedience, but a squad of five or six of the boys remained where they were, as if the sound of the bell had not reached them. Seger rang again and called personally: ‘“‘Come, boys, time to work.”

At this three others broke away from the rebellious group and came slowly toward him, but Atokan and the son of Unko turned toward the river.

A Kiowa Maiden

That Indian parents are very proud of their children’s progress is evidenced by the eagerness with which they send their sons and daughters to the schools established by the Government on the different Indian reservations. The Kiowa maiden here pictured is one of the many Indian girls and boys who more and more are availing themselves of the opportunity to obtain an education and thus fit themselves to take their places in civilized society.

Illustration from THE WEST FROM A CAR WINDOW ,oy Richard Harding Davis

Originally published in Harprr’s WEEKLY, May 14, 1892

The Red Man’s Parcel Pot

Illustration from A PILGRIM ON THE GILA by Owen Wister

Originally published in Harper’s Macazine, November, 1895

Wahiah—A re Mother

Seger made a pleasant little speech to the obedient ones and ended: “I know we are to be good friends in the future as we have been in the past,”’ but a little shiver passed over the school as he went out, stern faced and resolute, to recall the truants.

The wife of Unko rose and scuttled away to give the alarm, but Wahiah stood with her robe drawn over her lips as if in struggle to repress a cry. Tomacham smoked on quietly, waiting the issue.

Meanwhile, Atokan strolled along the path, shooting his arrow at small objects on the ground, apparently oblivious of his teacher’s hastening footsteps.

When within hearing Seger called: “You know the rules, Atokan. Why do you not answer the bell?”

Atokan made no reply, and Seger was tempted to lay hands upon him; but to do this would involve a smart chase, and, besides, he was too wise to seem to be angry. He followed the boys, pleading with them, till Atokan turned and said: “You go away. Bimeby I come.”

“You must come now!”

“You going whip me?”

“Yes!”

“Then I don’t come.”

After half an hour of this humiliating parley Seger had the dubious satisfaction of seeing the truant set his face toward the schoolroom—for Atokan knew his father and mother were waiting,

‘and into his heart came the desire to test “Johnny Smoker’s” courage. With insolent slowness he led the way past the group of his elders, on into the schoolroom, followed by twenty-five or thirty Cheyennes and Arapahoes. Some of the men were armed and all were stern. The women’s faces were both sour and sad. It was plain that something beside brute force must be employed in dealing with the situation. Seger knew these people. Turning suddenly to Tomacham he asked:

**My friend, what do you send your children to school for?”

Taken by surprise, the chief hesitated. “To learn to read and write and speak like the white man.”

“What do you think I am here for?”

“To show our children the way,” he reluctantly answered. “But not to punish them.”

Seger was addressing the women through the chief. “Do you think I can teach your children if they are out shooting birds?”

**No, I do not think so.”

“Do you think it would be honest if I took pay for teaching your children and let them run to camp all the time?”

*‘No, I think it is necessary that the children be kept in school— but you must not whip them.”

Seger faced Unko. “What kind of a person do you want to have teach your children—a liar?”

**No, a liar is bad for them.”

Unko saw the drift of Seger’s remarks, and he moved about uneasily, the butt of his pistol showing from beneath his blanket.

Seger then said in a loud voice, “I am not a liar!’”’ and repeated this in signs. ‘“‘I told your children I would whip them if they did not obey me, and now I am going to doit! You know me; I do not say ‘I am your friend,’ and then work evil to your children. Jack, come here!” A little boy rose slowly and came and stood beside his teacher, who went on: “This is an orphan. He was dying in his grandmother’s tepee when I went to him. I took him—I nursed him—TI sat by his bed many nights when you were asleep. Jennie,” he called again, ““you come to me!” A shy little girl with scarred face tiptoed to her beloved teacher. ‘This one came to me so covered with sores that she was terrible to see. I washed her— ~ she was almost blind. I made her see. I have done these things many times. There is not a child here that has not been helped by me. I am not boasting—this is my duty, it is the work the Great Father has told me to do. It is my work also to make your children obey me. Iam the friend of allred men. I have eaten in your lodges.

I have been in council with you. Iam nota liar. It is my duty to whip disobedient children, and I will doit. Atokan, come up here!”

The boy rose and came forward, a smoldering fire in his black eyes. As Seger laid a hand on his shoulder and took up his whip Wahiah uttered a shuddering moan. A sinister stir went through the room. The white man’s dominion was about to be put to the final test. In Wahiah’s heart a mighty struggle was in progress. Love and pride in her son demanded that she put an end to the whipping, but her sense of justice, her love for Seger and her conviction that the boy was wrong kept her fixed and silent, though her lips quivered and the tears ran down her face. Tomacham’s broad breast heaved with passion, but he, too, remained silent.

“Will you obey me?” asked the master.

Receiving no answer, he took firm hold of Atokan’s collar and addressed the spectators. “Little Unko is younger than Atokan. He was led away by him. I will therefore give both whippings to Atokan,” and he brought the hissing withe down over the boy’s shoulders. Again a moan of involuntary protest went through the room. Never before had a white man struck a Cheyenne child and remained unpunished for his temerity—and no other man, not even the agent himself, could have struck that blow and survived the wrath of Tomacham.

Atokan seized the lapel of his coat in his teeth, and bit hard in order to stifle any moan of pain the sting of thewhip might wring from him. His was the heart of a warrior, for, though the whip fell hissing with speed he uttered no cry, and when the rod was worn to a fragment he remained silent as a statue, refusing to answer a single word.

Seger, convinced that the punishment was a failure unless it conquered the culprit, caught up another willow withe and wore it out upon him, to no effect—for, casting a glance at the pieces lying on the floor, the boy’s lips curled in a smile of disdain as if to say: “T am a warrior; I do not cry!”

Realizing his failure, Seger caught him with a wrestler’s twist, threw him across his knee, and beat him with the flat of his hand. The suddenness of this attack, the shame of the attitude, added to the pain he was already suffering, broke the boy’s proud spirit. He burst into loud lamentation, dropped to the floor, and lay in a heap, sobbing like a child.

Straightening up, the teacher looked about him, expecting to. meet a roused and ready group of warriors. Every woman and all the children were wildly moaning and sobbing. The men with stern and sorrowful faces were struggling in silence to keep back the tears. The resolute little white man had conquered by his logic, his justice, his bravery.

*Atokan, will you obey me?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” the boy answered—his spirit broken.

Turning to the mother, Seger very gently said: “TI do not like to do this, Wahiah; it hurts my heart as it does yours, but it was necessary. Tomacham, once I was a soldier—like you. I was taught to obey. You may kill me for this, but the Great Father at Washington will say, ‘Miokany died doing his duty.” I know how hard it is for you to plow and reap and do as the white man does, but it must be done or you will die. Your children can do nothing till they learn to speak the tongue. I am here to do that work. The children must stay in school. They must obey me. I do not whip good children who obey—only those who are bad. Now you old people go home and think over what I have said, and we will return to our lessons.”

Then a wonderful, an incredible, thing happened! Tomacham rose and took Seger’s hand and shook it silently in token of conviction. But Wahiah, the mother of Atokan, with tears still streaming down her cheeks, pressed the teacher’s hand in both of hers and looked into his face as if to speak, but could not; then snatching her son’s symbols of freedom, his bow and arrows, she broke them over her knee and stamped on the fragments in the face of all the school. “Obey Miokany,” she commanded, with Spartan vigor, and, turning swiftly, went out, followed by the sad and silent chieftain.

for the white soldiers had taken away the guns of Hawk’s

young warriors, and now they were to be sent away into lands of captivity. Huddled in big wagons, the young men sat, downcast and sullen, ashamed to weep, yet choking with grief and despair.

‘‘Had I known this,” said Hawk to the captain of the escort, “T would have died fighting,” and this defiant word he uttered in the harsh, booming tone of a village crier. It was heard by everyone in the camp, and the old women broke forth into wailing war songs, which made the fingers of sedate old sages clinch.

But the blue-coated soldiers, ranked and ready, stood with loaded guns in their hands, calmly observant, and the colonel sat his horse, not far away, ready to give the signal for departure.

Hawk, young, handsome, and reckless, for some ruffianism put upon him by a band of cattlemen, had organized a raid of retaliation, and for this outbreak the government was sending him and his band to Florida—a hot, strange land, far in the South. He, as its unconquered leader, sat bound and helpless in one of the head wagons, his feet chained to a rod, his hands ironed, and working like the talons of an eagle.

It was hard to sit thus in the face of his father and mother, but it was harder yet to know that Nistina, the daughter of Sunmaker, with her blanket over her face, sat weeping at the door of her father’s lodge. All the girls were moaning, and no one knew that Nistina loved Hawk—no one but her inseparable friend, Macosa, the daughter of Crane.

Hawk knew it, for they had often met at the river’s edge of a morning, when she came for water.

[ero was lamentation in the lodges of Sunmaker’s people,

Now they were to part without one word of love, with no touch of hands, never to see each other again, for it was well known that those who went into that far country never returned—the breath of the great salt water poisoned them.

At last the colonel uttered a word of command. A bugle rang out. The piercing cries of the bereaved women broke forth again, wild and heart-breaking: the whips cracked like pistol shots, the mules set their shoulders to the collars, and the blue chariots and their hopeless captives moved slowly out across the prairie.

Hawk turned his head and caught one last glance from Nistina as she lifted her face to him, flung her robe over her head, and fell face downward on the earth, crushed, broken, and despairing.

With teeth set like those of a grizzly bear, the young chief strained at his cords, eager to fight and die in the face of his tribe, but the white man’s cruel chains were too strong. He fell back exhausted, too numb with despair to heed the taunt of the white soldier riding beside the wheel, cynical, profane, and derisive.

And while the young prisoner sat thus, with bowed head and low-hanging, lax hands, the little village of his people was lost to view—hidden by the willows on the river’s bank.

In the months which followed, the camp of Sunmaker resumed its accustomed round of duties and pleasure. The babes rollicked on the grass, the old men smoked placidly in their council lodges, and planned their next buffalo hunt; the children went reluctantly to the agency school of a morning, and came home with flying feet at night. All seemed as placid as a pool into which a suicide has sunk; but no word came to Nistina, from whose face the shadow never lifted. She had never been a merry girl like Macosa. She had been shy and silent and wistful even as a child, and as the months passed without a message from Hawk, she moved to her duties as silent as a shadow. Macosa, when the spring came again, took another lover, and laughed and said, “They have forgotten us, that Elk and Hawk.”

Nistina had many suitors, for was she not Sunmaker’s daughter, and tall and handsome besides? Mischievous Macosa, even after her marriage, kept her friend’s secret, but she .could not forbear to tease her when they were alone together. “ Hawk is a bad young man,” she said. ‘‘He has found another girl by this time. Why don’t you listen to Kias?” ‘To such questions Nistina made no answer.

At the end of a year even Sunmaker, introspective as he was, could not fail to remark upon her loneliness. “My daughter, why do you seem so sad? There are many young men singing sweet songs for you to hear, yet you will not listen. It is time you took thought of these things.”

**T do not wish to marry,” she replied.

Then the old father became sorrowful, for he feared his loved one had placed her heart on some white soldier, and one day he called her to him and said: “‘My daughter, the Great Spirit decreed that there should be people of many colors on the earth. He called each good in his place, but it is not good that they mate one with the other. If a white man comes to speak soft words into your ears, turn away. He will work evil, and not good. Why do you not take a husband among your own people, as others do, and be content? You are of the age when girls marry.”

_ To this she replied: “My heart is not set on any white man, and I do not wish to marry. Let me stay with you and help to keep your lodge.”’

The old man’s voice trembled as he said: “‘My daughter, since my son is gone, you are my staff. It is good to see you in our lodge, but I do not like to see you sad.”

Then she pretended to laugh, and said, “I am not sad,” and ran away.

When she was gone Sunmaker called Vetcora and told her what had happened. She smoked the pipe he handed to her and listened patiently. When he had finished speaking, she said:

“She will come round all right. All girls are not alike. By and by the true one will come, and then you'll see her change her song. She will be keeping her own lodge soon.”

But Sunmaker was troubled by his daughter’s frequent visits to the agency across the river, and by her intimacy with Neeta, the daughter of Hahko, who had been away to school, and who had returned much changed, being neither white woman nor red.

She was living alone in a small hut on the river bank, and was not a good woman for Nistina to visit.

He could not know that his daughter went there because Neeta could read the white man’s papers, and would know if anything had happened to Hawk. No one knew, either, that Nistina slyly asked about learning to read. She laughed when she asked these questions, as though the matter were of no consequence. “‘ How long did it take you to learn to read? Is it very hard to learn to write?”

“Oh no; it is very easy,” Neeta replied, boastingly, and when Nistina went away her eyes were very thoughtful.

Again and again she called before she could bring herself to the point of asking Neeta to go with her to the head of the school.

Neeta laughed. “Ho! Are you going to school? You will need to hump low over your toes, for you will go among the smallest girls.”

Nistina did not waver. “Come, go with me.”

With a smile on her face Neeta led the way to the office of the superintendent. ‘Professor Morten, I bring you a new scholar.”

Morten, a tall, grave-faced man, looked up from his desk, and said: “‘Why, it’s Nistina! Good morning, Nistina.”

**Mornin’,”’ said she, as well as she could.

**She wants to go to school, eh? ‘Well, better late than never,” he added, with a smile.

“Tell him I want to work and earn money,” said Nistina.

When Neeta interpreted this, the teacher exclaimed: ‘Well, well! This is most astonishing! Why, I thought she hated the white man’s ways!”

**T think she want to marry white man,” remarked Neeta.

Mr. Morten looked at her coldly. “I hope not. You’re a mighty smart girl, Neeta, but I don’t like the way you carry on.”

Neeta smiled broadly, quite unabashed. “I’m all settled down now—no more skylarking round. I’m keeping house.”

‘*Well, see that you keep settled. I don’t understand this change in Nistina, but you tell her I'll put her in charge of Mrs. Morten, and we’ll do the best we can for her. But tell her to send all these white men away; tell her not to listen to them.”

To Nistina Neeta said, “‘He says he will let you help his squaw, and she will teach you how to read and write.”

Nistina’s heart failed her when she heard this, for she had seen Mrs. Morten many times, and had heard many disturbing stories of her harshness. She was a tall, broad-shouldered woman, with keen gray eyes and a loud voice.

At last Mr. Morten turned, and said: “Nistina, you may come this afternoon after four o’clock, and we will arrange the whole matter. I am glad you are going to forsake Indian ways, which are very bad. Be a good girl, and you will be happy.”

When Neeta had explained what he said Nistina burst into a low cry, and, covering her face with her blanket, rushed away.

“That’s the last you'll see of her,” said Neeta, maliciously. ‘She likes the Indian ways best.”

But Nistina was moved by a deeper impulse than fickle-hearted Neeta could comprehend. A sick boy had returned from Florida a few days before—a poor dyin g lad—and to Nistina he had brought word from young Hawk. “I am studying so that I can send words on paper, like the white man,” the message ran. “By and by I will send a white word to you.”

This message instantly sank deep, although Nistina gave no sign. She had more than the usual shyness of the maidens of her tribe, and it was painful to her to have even this vague message transmitted by another.

The girl thought long. She wished to send a message to her lover, but for some days could not bring herself to confide in Neeta. Days went by, and her resolution remained unformed. Nearly every evening she had been going to see Neeta, but always her courage had failed her, and then came the thought: “I, too, will learn to write and to read, and then I can tell him how much I love - him, and that I will wait till I am old and I will love no one else.”

There was a great deal of gossip among the red women. “She is going to marry a white soldier, that Nistina,”’ they said. “She is working for money to buy fine beads and cloth.”