I Made my first official visit to this agency in the latter part of September, 1869. Captain Charles La Follette was then acting agent.

The road from Salem was over a beautiful country, settled by white men, who had transformed this once wild region into a paradise. The first view of the agency proper was from a high ridge several miles distant. On the right and left were clustered the houses of the several tribes, each one having been assigned a location. Their houses were built of logs or boards, and rudely put together. Every board had cost these poor people an acre of land; every log counted for so much money given in compensation for their birthrights to the soil of the matchless valley of the Willamette.

As we stood on the dividing ridge separating this agency from the great valley I have mentioned, looking toward the west, we beheld, nearest on the left, old Fort Yamhill, with its snowy cottages, built for the accommodation of the officers of the army in the days when the gallant Sheridan was a lieutenant, and walked its parade-grounds with a simple sword dangling by his side and bars on his shoulder, holding beneath his military cap a brain power waiting for the sound of clanking chains and thundering cannon to call him hence to deeds of valor that should compel the laurel wreath of fame to seek his brow, little thinking then, while guarding savages, that, away off in the future, his charger would impatiently call him from repose, and bear him into the face of a victorious enemy with so much gallantry that he would turn an apparent defeat into a glorious victory.

Immediately on our right were the huts of the people for whose especial intimidation the costly palaces and beautiful cottages had been built. The huts or houses were built on the hillside sloping toward the valley. They presented the appearance of a small, dilapidated inland town that had been “cut off” by a railroad; but they were peopled with Indians who were trying to imitate their masters.

Farther away on the left was another little group of houses, occupied by the chief of the Santiams and his people. The sight of this man’s home recalled a part of his own history, suggestive of romance, wild, it is true, but real, nevertheless.

Many years ago, this chief was a young warrior, and his people were at peace with the white race, and were not then “wards of the Government,” but were living on their native hills, in the vicinity of Mount Jefferson, standing sentinel over the snowy peaks of the Cascade mountains, on whose sides were sitting, like great urns, clear, cold lakes, sending forth little streamlets, murmuring and whispering, and sometimes leaping, like boys going home from play, joining other merry, laughing streamlets, rushing madly along through forests of firs and sugar-pines, whose dropping cones startled the wild game from their repose.

’Twas here this young warrior’s home was nestled, beneath the outstretched arms of giant cedars, or sheltered by some quiet nook or cove. Here he had learned the arts of his own people, and passed the winters by, until alone he could chase the fawns or climb the mountain-peak, and gather trophies with which to ornament his neck or fill his quiver.

A pale-face man from distant Missouri had come to this far country to escape the familiar sounds of civilization, where he might imitate the Indian in his freedom and his pleasures. He brought with him his family, and built his cabin near a fountain, to which medicine men would sometimes come or send their patients for recovery.

This white man had a son, with down just cropping on his chin, who, “chip of the old block,” as he was, seemed half Indian already, and, fond of wild sports, soon made the acquaintance of young Santiam. The friendship grew, and the rivalry of archer and gunner often drew them into dispute. Still they were friends.

The archer claimed that he could creep, and noiselessly shoot from cover, without giving alarm, until his quiver should be empty, and thus bring down the chary buck or spotted fawn. The gunner would aver that he could do better execution at greater distance. These trials of skill were often made, and each time the difference ’twixt white and red skin seemed to diminish. The young pale-face would sling his gun and straightway bend his steps toward the camp of Santiam. By signs that he had learned, he took the young chief’s trail, and followed through wooded plains, or up the mountain side, until they would hail each other, and then, by agreement, would separate to meet again at some appointed place, laying a wager who would be most successful in the chase of black-tailed deer or mountain sheep.

The hill-sides had put on autumn hues, and the loftier hills were dressed in winter’s garb, and gave warning to the denizens who spent their summers near their peaks, that cold weather would soon drive them to the hills beneath for refuge from the blasts that howl above the roar of mountain lion or jumping torrents.

The keeper of the fleecy clouds had given sign of readiness, and, in fact, had begun to spread the winter’s carpet down, to preserve the tender grasses for the antlered herd, which would return in open spring to train their limbs for daring feats, in defiance of the feathered arrow, or his neighbor, the loud-talking gun.

Santiam, to anticipate their coming, had started in the early morn, while yet the sun was climbing the eastern slope of Jefferson, and, leaving a sign imprinted in the snow, for his friend to read, hurried on, hoping that from ambush he might send his arrow home to the panting heart of the bounding deer. His friend, anticipating the coming of his rival, had already gone by another route to the trysting place; while waiting there for valley-going game, he spied a grizzly bear, and, without knowing the habits of the monster, he took deliberate aim and fired, but failed to bring his bearship to the ground.

These fellows, when undisturbed, are sure to run; but when the leaden ball had pierced this one’s pelt, he exhibited the usual bearish indications of resentment for insult offered. The pale-face hunter stood his ground, and sent another ball, merely to persuade his enemy to desist. To those accustomed to this kind of fight, I need not say that every shot made the matter worse. These kings of the Cascades yield not to showers of leaden hail or flocks of flying arrows until the life of their enemy or their own gives victory. With lumbering gait and open mouth, he closed upon the hapless hunter, and had borne him to the ground, when Santiam reached the scene. He hesitated not on which side he would volunteer. Snatching from his belt a hatchet, and a well-tried knife, he, too, closed on the grizzly, and drew his attention from his friend, who, in turn, would attack the wounded monster, and thus alternating between two enemies, he grew more furious and regardless of consequences.

Rallying again to renew the desperate struggle, though his life was ebbing fast, he threw his great body on the pale-faced hunter, when Santiam, with well-aimed steel at his heart, closed the battle. His friend had been severely wounded, and lay prostrate on the ground; his torn garments dripping in blood, his own, and that of his dread enemy, mingled. The young chief soon had a blazing fire, and then tying up the wounds of his friend, to stop the flow of blood, he hastened to his home for aid.

Returning with a cluchman of his tribe, he found his friend sinking fast. Making a hasty litter of pine limbs, they bore the wounded hunter to his home. The mother, at the sight of her son so mangled, like a true heroine, overcame her fear, and made preparation for his comfort. The sister, in her quiet way, brought refreshment for her brother, and while the father and his comrade, the “medicine man,” were joining their skill to provide remedies for the wounded one, young Santiam, acting from the precepts of his people, had hurried back to the battle-ground, and, with his cluchman’s help, soon stripped the pelt from the dead beast, and brought it to the home of his white rival, and then the “medicine man,” with faith based on tradition’s usage, bound up the wounds therewith.

The days went slowly by, until the danger was passed. Santiam went not to the chase, unless for choicest food for his friend, but waited beside the couch of his comrade for his recovery; sometimes joining with the sick man’s sister in watching his slumbers, or, may be, touching hands in ministering to his wants.

She, with missionary spirit, sought to teach Santiam words, and the history, too, of her people, their ways, and higher life than he had known. He was apt at learning, as my reader may discover by his speech, recited in this book, made in council years after. His dark eye kindled as some new knowledge found way to his understanding, and his heart grew warmer at the sound of voice from pale-faced cluchman. If history be true, her eye kindled too, at the coming of the quiet step of the young comrade of her brother, and her heart felt a new, strange fire, that sent its flame to her cheeks in tell-tale roses.

Novice though he was in civilized ways, he was a man, and with quick perception made the discovery that he now cared more for his comrade’s sister than for him; and that even the sister thought of her brother in the third person.

This Missouri man had not yet recognized the growing love between his daughter and young Santiam; and the mother, too, without recalling the youthful days of her own wooing,—perhaps she had none, but years before, in obedience to a custom of her own people, had listened to a proposal, and accepted, because she might “do no better,”—did not recognize the signs of coming trouble to her household, in the rustic courtship going on. Why do parents so soon forget their wooing days, and hide the history from their children, when so nearly all that human nature endures of woes, or enjoys of bliss, comes through the agency of the emotions and affections of the heart?

This guileless girl, cut off from association with her own people by action of her father, and in gratitude for the young chief’s kindness to her brother, had, under the prompting of the richest emotions that God had given, opened her heart in friendship first and invited the visitor to share so much; little dreaming that, when once the guest was there, he would become a constant tenant, against whose expulsion she would herself rebel.

The young chief himself did not realize that the finest, warmest feelings of the human heart are supposed by greater men to be confined to the same race or color. Perhaps he thought the Great Spirit had made all alike, not fixed the difference in the hue of the skin. He was a free man; did not know that civilization had raised a barrier between the races. He had, without knowing what he did, found the barrier down, and passed beyond in natural freedom, and, without thought of wrong, had given full freedom to his heart.

The winter passed, and spring had sprinkled the hill-side with flowers. The wilder herds had fled from the huntsman’s horn, and climbed again to pleasure-grounds, where the tender grasses cropped out from retreating snow-fields. The rival hunters had again resumed the chase, and spent whole days in telling stories of the past, or living over the battle of the preceding autumn. Each rehearsal made them better friends, and confidence grew mutual. Santiam, with freedom, spoke to his white brother of the “fire in his heart,”—so these people speak of love,—of the sister whom he loved. Who ever told a fellow that he loved his sister without making friendship tremble for the result?

The pale-face boy of whom I am writing still lives, though grown into gray manhood, to verify this story. When Santiam had told his story, her brother was quiet and thought in silence, while the warrior talked on, of how he would be a “white man” and put away his wild habits, and be his brother. The other promised that he would consult his family, and thus they parted for the night.

The morning found Santiam at the cabin of the “settler,” little dreaming that the friendship they had shown him was so soon to be withdrawn. He saw the ominous word refusal in the cold reception that he met. One pair of eyes alone talked in sympathetic glances. He waited to hear no more.

I would like to accommodate my youthful readers with what would make this romantic story run on until some happy denouement had been found, and then resume my work; but I dare not be false to history. The white man moved away. The Indian remained until, through misunderstanding between his people and the white race, war ensued; the frontier rang out the fearful challenge of battle, and victims of both races were offered up to appease insult and thirst for vengeance. The white hunter and his father united with others in a war of extermination against the Indians, while they left a home defenceless.

Young Santiam refused to war against the white man. He gave protection to the cabin that sheltered his love of other days. The maiden is maiden yet; and, though gray hair crowns her head, she is still faithful to the vows made to her Indian lover in her girlhood. Whether she condemns the usage of society that forbade her marriage, or blesses it because it saved her from a savage life, we know not. She may blame her parents for their short-sighted action in isolating her from those congenial to her heart, by locating on the frontier where she met Santiam; surely, not for prohibiting her marriage to him.

Santiam, at the close of the war, removed with his people to Grand Round Agency, where he has lived since. Hear him talk in the Salem council of 1871, and judge him by his speeches. Faithful to his compacts, he remains on his home. Few of those who meet him when he visits Salem know of this romance of his life, but hundreds give him the hand of friendship.

To resume, Grand Round valley, the name of which suggests its size and shape, lay stretched out before us, a beautiful picture from Nature’s gallery, embellished by the touches that Uncle Sam’s greenbacks had given to this agency in building churches, halls, and Indian houses, together with a large farm for general use, and small ones for individuals.

At every change of Government officers, Reservation Indians show the liveliest interest, and have great curiosity to see the new man. My arrival was known to all the people very soon. The Indians of this agency were more advanced in civilization than those of any other in Oregon. They had been located by the Government, fifteen years previously. Many of them were prisoners of war, in chains and under guard, and had been subjugated, through sheer exhaustion; others were under treaty. Their very poverty and the scanty subsistence the Government gave, was to them a blessing. Permitted to labor for persons who lived “outside,” passes were given each for a specified time. Thus their employers became each a civilizer.

At the time of my first official visit, they had abandoned Indian costume, and were dressed in the usual garb of white men; many of them had learned to talk our language. At my request, messengers were sent out, and the people were invited to come in at an early hour the following day. Before the time appointed they began to arrive. A few were on foot, the remainder in wagons, or on horseback; the younger men and women coming in pairs, after the fashion of white people around them, all arrayed in best attire, for it was a gala day to them. I noticed that in some instances the women were riding side-saddles, instead of the old Indian way, astride.

The children were not left at home, neither were they bound in thongs to boards, or swinging in pappoose baskets; but some, at least, were carried on the pummel of the father’s saddle. They were clothed like other children. Strange and encouraging spectacle, to witness Indian men, who were born savages, conforming to usages of civil life. When once an Indian abandons the habits and customs of his fathers, and has tasted the air which his more enlightened brother breathes, be never goes back so long as he associates with good men.

These people, in less than twenty years, under the management of the several agents, had been transformed, from “Darwin’s” wild beasts, almost to civilized manhood, notwithstanding the croaking of soulless men who constantly accuse United States agents of all kinds of misdemeanors and crimes.

When they were first located, they numbered about twenty-one hundred souls. At the time of which I write, they had dwindled away to about half that number.

When the hour for the talk arrived the people filled the council house, and crowded the doors and windows, so that we found it necessary to adjourn to the open air for room and comfort. The agent, La Follette, went through the form of introducing me to his people, calling each one by name.

This ceremony is always conducted with solemnity; each Indian, as he extends the hand, gazing steadfastly into the eye of the person introduced. They seem to read character rapidly, and with correctness equal to, and sometimes excelling, more enlightened people.

First, a short speech by Agent La Follette, followed by the “Salem tyee,”—superintendent. I said that “I was pleased to find them so far advanced in civilization; that I was now the ‘Salem tyee.’ You are my children. I came to show you my heart, to see your hearts, to talk with you about your affairs.”

Jo Hutchins—chief of Santiams—was first to speak. He said: “You see our people are not rich; they are poor. We are glad to shake hands with you and show our hearts. You look like a good man, but I will not give you my heart until I know you better.” Louis Neposa said: “I have been here fifteen years. I have seen all the country from here to the Rocky Mountains. I had a home on Rogue river; I had a house and barn; I gave them up to come here. That house on that hill is mine;” pointing towards the house in question.

Indian speeches are remarkable for pertinency and for forcible expression, many of them abounding in flights of imagination and bursts of oratory. Much of the original beauty is lost in the translation, as few of them speak in the English language when delivering a speech. Interpreters are often illiterate men, and cannot render the subject-matter with the full force and beauty of the original, much less imitate the gesture and voice.

During my residence in the far West, and especially while in Government employ, I have taken notes, and in many instances, kept verbatim reports, the work being done by clerks of the several agencies. I have selected, from several hundred pages, a few speeches, made by these people, for use in making up my book. It will be observed that the sentences are short, and repetitions sometimes occur. In fact, these orators of nature follow nature, and repeat themselves, as our greatest orators do, and their skill in the art of repetition is something marvellous. This is peculiar to all Indian councils, though not always recorded. The following are word for word, especially Wapto Dave and Jo Hutchins’ speeches:—

Black Tom said: “I am a wild Injun. I don’t know much. I have not much sense. I cannot talk well. I feel like a man going through the bushes, when he is going to fight; like he was thinking some man was behind a bush, going to shoot him. I have been fooled many times. I don’t know much. Some tyees talk well when they first come. I have seen their children wearing shirts like those they gave me; may be it was all right. I don’t know much.”

Solomon Riggs—chief of the Umpyuas—said: “I am not a wild man. I have sense. I know some things. I have learned to work. I was born wild, but I am not wild now. I live in a house. I have a wagon and horses that I worked for. They are mine. The Government did not give them to me. That woman is my wife, and that is my baby. He will have some sense. I show you my heart. I want you to give me your heart. I don’t want to be a wild Injun.” See speech of Solomon Riggs in Salem Council.

All the “head men” made short speeches, after which we came to business talk. Superintendent Meacham said: “I see before me the remnants of a great people. Your fathers are buried in a far country. I will show you my heart now. You are not wild men. You are not savages. You are men and women. You have sense and hearts to feel. I did not come here to dig up anything that is buried. I have nothing to say about the men who have gone before me. That is past. We drop that. We cannot dig it up now. We have enough to think about. I do not promise what I will do, except I will do right as I see what is right. I may make some mistakes. I want to talk with you about your agent. I think he will do right. He is a good man. I will help him. He will help me. You will help us. You are not fools. You are men. You have a right to be heard. You shall be heard. We are paid to take care of you. Our time belongs to the Indians in Oregon. The Government has bought our sense; that belongs to you. The money in our hands is not ours, it is yours. We cannot pay you the money. The law says we must not; still it is yours. You have been here long enough to have sense. You know what you want. You can tell us. We will hear you.

“If you want what is right we will get it for you. You need not be afraid to speak out. The time has come when a man is judged by his sense, not his skin. In a few years more the treaty will be dead. Then you must be ready to take care of yourselves. You need not fear to speak. Nobody will stop your mouth. We are ready now to hear you talk. We have shown our heart. Now talk like men. I have spoken.”

A silence of some moments followed. The chiefs and head men seemed taken by surprise. They could not comprehend or believe that the declarations made were real; that they were to be allowed to give an opinion in matters pertaining to their own interests. I would not convey the idea that my predecessors had been bad men. They were not; but they had, some of them, and perhaps all of them, looked on these Indians as wards, or orphan children. They had not recognized the fact that these people had come up, from a low, degraded condition of captive savages, to a status of intelligence that entitled them to consideration. The people themselves had not dared to demand a hearing. They were subjugated, and felt it too; but I know in their hearts they often longed for the boon that was offered to them.

It is due to the citizens who occupy the country adjoining this agency, in whose employ the Indians had spent much time in labor on farm, wood-yards, and various other kinds of business, that they had, by easy lessons, and, with commendable patience, taught these down-trodden people that they had a right to look up. “Honor to whom honor is due.”

Wapto Dave, a chief of a small band of Waptos, was the first to speak. He delivered his speech in my own language: “The boys all wait for me to speak first; because me understand some things. We hear you talk. We don’t know whether you mean it. Maybe you are smart. We have been fooled a heap. We don’t want no lies. We don’t talk lies. S’pose you talk straight. All right. Me tell you some things. All our people very poor; they got no good houses; no good mills. No wagons; got no harness; no ploughs. They get some, they work heap. They buy them. Government no give em. We want these things. Maybe you don’t like my talk. I am done.”

Jo Hutchins—Chief of Santiams—said, “I am watching your eye. I am watching your tongue. I am thinking all the time. Perhaps you are making fools of us. We don’t want to be made fools. I have heard tyees talk like you do now. They go back home and send us something a white man don’t want. We are not dogs. We have hearts. We may be blind. We do not see the things the treaty promised. Maybe they got lost on the way. The President is a long way off. He can’t hear us. Our words get lost in the wind before they get there. Maybe his ear is small. Maybe your ears are small. They look big. Our ears are large. We hear everything. Some things we don’t like. We have been a long time in the mud. Sometimes we sink down. Some white men help us up. Some white men stand on our heads. We want a school-house built on the ground of the Santiam people. Then our children can have some sense. We want an Indian to work in the blacksmith shop. We don’t like half-breeds. They are not Injuns. They are not white men. Their hearts are divided. We want some harness. We want some ploughs. We want a saw-mill. What is a mill good for that has no dam? That old mill is not good; it won’t saw boards. We want a church. Some of these people are Catholics. Some of them are like Mr. Parish, a Methodist. Some got no religion. Maybe they don’t need religion. Some people think Indians got no sense. We don’t want any blankets. We have had a heap of blankets. Some of them have been like sail-cloth muslin. The old people have got no sense; they want blankets. The treaty said we, every man, have his land. He have a paper for his land. We don’t see the paper. We see the land. We want it divided. When we have land all in one place, some Injun put his horses in the field; another Injun turn them out. Then they go to law. One man says another man got the best ground. They go to law about that. We want the land marked out. Every man builds his own house. We want some apples. Mark out the land, then we plant some trees, by-and-by we have some apples.

“Maybe you don’t like my talk. I talk straight. I am not a coward. I am chief of the Santiams. You hear me now. We see your eyes; look straight. Maybe you are a good man. We will find out. So-chala-tyee,—God sees you. He sees us. All these people hear me talk. Some of them are scared. I am not afraid. Alta-kup-et,—I am done.”

Here was a man talking to the point. He dodged nothing. He spoke the hearts of the people. They supported him with frequent applause. Other speeches were made, all touching practical points. The abstract of issues following that council exhibit the distribution of hardware, axes, saws, hatchets, mauls, iron wedges; also, harness, ploughs, hoes, scythes, and various farming implements. The reasonable and numerous points involved many questions of importance, which were submitted to the Hon. Commissioner of Indian Affairs, Washington city.[2]