The Reservation furnishes abundance of real romance, mixed with tragedy, sufficient to make up a volume. The Indians tell, and white men confirm, the story of an officer of the fort, who loved an Indian’s wife, and how he sought to win her from home by presents; and, failing in this, came with armed soldiers, and, with threats of death to the husband, compelled him to give her up. This officer took this woman to the fort, dressed her in styles common among white women, and refused to return her to her husband. When the officer was “ordered away” to some other duty the squaw went home, bearing in her arms an infant not more than half Indian. Her husband refused to receive her. She was turned away from his lodge, and became a vagabond of the worst class. Fortunately for father, mother, and infant, too, the latter died a few months thereafter.

Another young officer of the United States army, who was stationed at Fort Klamath, was a party to an elopement in high life,—as all life is high at an altitude of forty-five hundred feet above the sea level; the other party being the wife of a handsome young Indian living on Klamath Reservation. However, they had but a few miles to travel, in order to reach a “Chicago” for divorces. All people without law are a law unto themselves.

The Indian husband appealed for redress, but found no one to listen to his appeals. His wife returned to him when the regiment to which the officer belonged was ordered away, bringing with her many fine clothes; her feet clad in good American gaiters, and with an armful of childhood, in which the Indian husband claimed no interest. The mother was turned away from what was once a happy home; and to-day, with her little girl, wanders from lodge to lodge, seeking shelter where she may. This woman was really good-looking, and had proved herself an apt scholar in learning the civilized arts of house-keeping and dress-making; she also learned something of our language, in which she tells the story of her own shame and the fatherhood of her child.

I am giving these statements as made to me by white men, who are responsible, and will answer, when called upon, for their authenticity. In respect to the families of these United States officers, not through fear of the men themselves, I withhold their names. In this connection I remember a conversation with a sub-chief of the Klamaths, who could speak “Boston” quite well. His name was “Blo.” He said, “Meacham, I talk to you. S’pose an Injun man, he see a white man’s wife. He like her. He give presents; he win her heart; he talk to her sometime. He tell her, “Come go with me.” She come. He take her away. White man come home. He no see his wife. He see him children cry. He get mad. He take a gun. He hunt ’em. He find em. He ‘shoot ’em, one Injun man. What you think? You think white man law hang him?” We were travelling horseback, and “Blo” came up close to me, leaning from his saddle, and, peering into my eyes, continued, “What you think?” I looked into his face, and read murder very plainly. Had he been a white man I might have given him a negative answer. Half savage as he was, he was seeking for encouragement to commit a bloody deed in vindication of his honor. I replied that “the law would punish the Indians for stealing the white man’s wife. But if the white man was wise he would not kill the Indian, because the laws would take hold of him.” I felt that I was concealing a part of the truth, but I dared not do otherwise.

“Blo” was not so easily put off. He replied with a question that intensified my perplexity, “S’pose white man steal Injun’s wife, s’pose law catch him?” Harder to answer than the first one. If I said “Yes,” he would have demanded that the law be enforced in his case, that had come under my own observation; and that, I knew, was impossible, with public sentiment so strongly against the Indians that white men would have laughed at the absurdity of calling one of their race to account for so trifling a thing as breaking up an Indian’s family, and leaving his children worse than orphans; yet knowing full well that the whole power of the United States would have been evoked to punish an Indian for a like offence. If I said “No,” I stultified myself and my Government. I could only reply, “Suppose a woman run away,—let her go. Get a divorce, and then another wife.”

“Now-wit-ka, Ni-kanan-itch.” “Yes, I see. Law not all the time same. Made crooked. Made for white man. Aha, me see ’em now.”

During the seven days’ council, “Little Sallie” came into the office, and in plain “Boston” said, “I want divorce; my man, Cho-kus, he buy another woman. I no like him have two wife. I want divorce.”

We had just completed the organization of a court, composed of the head chief and his eight subordinates. This was the first case on the docket, and the beginning of a new history with this people,—a new way of settling difficulties. The agent provided a book for making record of all proceedings. A sheriff was appointed from among the Indians. Each sub-chief was entitled to a constable, but, in all matters pertaining to their respective bands, as between themselves and others, neither sub-chief nor constable was permitted to take any part in the proceedings of the court.

Novel scenes indeed!—Indians holding court after the fashion of white men. The chief made a short speech on taking the middle seat on “The Bench.” He removed his hat, saying “that he knew but little about the new law, but he would endeavor to make it run straight, and not run around his own people,” referring to those of his band. The sub-chiefs took their places on either side, and we gave instructions to the sheriff to open court, ordering a white man to show him through, saying, “Oh-yes! Oh-yes! The Klamath Court is now open.”—“Now-witka, Now-witka, Muck-u-lux, Klamath, Mam-ook, Bos-ti-na Law, O-ko-ke, Sun,” rang out the Indian sheriff.

“Little Sallie” was the first to appear before the bar of justice, and, without an attorney, she filed a complaint against her husband, the substance of which was to the effect, that “Cho-kus”—her master—had made arrangements to buy another wife, paying two horses; and that these horses belonged to her individually, and she was not willing to furnish horses to buy another woman, because it would leave but one horse in the family, and that Cho-kus and the new wife would claim that one, and she would be compelled to go on foot. If Cho-kus had plenty of horses she might not object; but she thought that she could dig roots, and gather “wokus”—wild rice—enough for the family, and Cho-kus did not need another “nohow.” But, if he persisted, then she wanted a Boston divorce, otherwise she did not.

Cho-kus was required to show cause why “Sallie” should not be made free. He appeared in person, and expressed willingness for the separation, but asked to know who would be awarded the baby,—a little fellow twelve months old. The court decided that “Sallie” should have possession of the child. Cho-kus took it from its mother’s arms, and, holding it in his own, looked very earnestly and silently into its face for a moment. His speech ran in something like the following words: “Now half this baby’s heart is mine, half its heart belongs to ‘Sallie.’” Then slowly drawing the little finger of one hand from its forehead down its face and body, he went on to say, “I want this child’s heart, and ‘Sallie’ wants it; if we cut into it it will die; I can’t give up my part of it.” Sallie attempted to snatch it away, saying, “I won’t give up my part of the baby.” This brought the husband to terms. He said he would give up taking another wife. Sallie agreed, and the court proposed that, instead of being divorced, they should be married over by “Boston law.” They consented. The ceremony was deferred in order to make preparation for the approaching nuptials, under the auspices of the new law.

The white ladies of the agency, some of whom were unmarried, proposed to adorn the bride, while the employÉs furnished enough Sunday clothes to dress the husband in good style. EmployÉs and Indians were notified of the important affair, and the court adjourned to the big camp-fire, in order to perform the marriage ceremony in the presence of all the people. The presiding judge pro tem. ordered the parties to appear.

The groom, dressed in a borrowed suit, was the first to stand up. Sallie hesitated; the husband insisted. The bride was reluctant, saying she wanted to know how long the new law would hold “Cho-kus.”—“Is it a strong law? Won’t he buy another wife some time?” When all the questions were answered to her satisfaction, she passed her child over to another woman, and stood beside her lover. Yes, her lover; for he then discovered that he really loved her, just as many a white-faced man has in similar cases, when he realized the danger of losing her.

The official reporter, on this occasion, did not furnish an account of the bride’s dress, but for the satisfaction, it may be, to my young lady readers, I will say that the toilet was elaborately gotten up a-la-mode, consisting of immense tilting hoops, bright-hued goods for dress, paint in profusion on her cheeks, necklace of beads, and shells, and tresses of dark hair, “all her own,” ornamented with cheap jewelry. This being the first marriage under the new law, the chief remarked that be wished them “tied very strong, so they could not get away from each other.”

We extemporized the ceremony as follows: “Cho-kus, do you agree to live forever with Sallie, and not buy another squaw? To do the hunting and fishing, cut wood and haul it up, like white man? Never to get drunk, or talk bad to other women, and to be a good, faithful husband?” When the ceremony was interpreted, he answered, “Now-wit-ka ni-hi;” yes, I do. Sallie said, “Hold on,—I want him married to me so he won’t whip me any more.” We adopted the supplement suggested, and Cho-kus again said, “Now-wit-ka.” The bride said, “All right,” and promised to be a good wife, to take care of the lodge and the baby, to dress the deer-skins, and dry the roots.

Cho-kus also suggested a supplement, which was, that Sallie must not “go to the fort” any more without him. She assented, with a proviso that he would not go to see “old Mose-en-kos-ket’s” daughter any more.

The covenant was now completed, to the satisfaction of bride and bridegroom, and the Great Spirit was invoked to witness the pledges made; their hands were joined, and they were pronounced husband and wife. A waggish white man whispered to Allen David, the chief, that the bride must be saluted. The chief inquired whether that was the way of the new law, saying he wanted “a real Boston wedding.” We said to Cho-kus, “Salute your bride.” He replied he thought the ceremony was over; but, when made to understand what the salute meant, replied that it was not modest; that no Indian man ever kissed a woman in public. We urged that it was right under the new law. He remarked that somebody else must kiss her; he didn’t intend to. Our waggish friend again whispered in the ear of the chief, telling him that the officiating clergyman must perform the duty to make the marriage legal. With solemn face, the chief insisted that the whole law must be met.

The parties remained standing while this controversy was going on. The bride was willing to be saluted, but the question was, who was to perform that part of the closing ceremony. The record don’t mention the name of the individual, and it is perhaps as well. The bride, however, was saluted.

No, I didn’t, indeed; I—don’t press the question—but I di—. No, no, it was not m—, indeed it wasn’t; but I won’t tell anything about it. As a faithful reporter, I will only add that the happy couple received the congratulations of friends. They are still married, and Cho-kus hasn’t bought another wife yet.

The next case called was a young man who had stolen the daughter of a sub-chief. He was arraigned, “plead guilty,” and by the court sentenced to wear six feet of log-chain on his leg for nine months, to have his hair cut short, and to chop wood for the chiefs, who were to board and clothe him in the mean time. Care was taken to protect the convict’s right, in that he should not work in bad weather or on Sundays, or more than six hours each day. He objected to having his hair cut short, but otherwise seemed indifferent to the sentence.

The chiefs were satisfied, because they saw large piles of wood in prospect. However, long before the expiration of the term of sentence they united in a petition for his pardon.

Cases of various kinds came into court and were disposed of, the chief exhibiting more judgment than is sometimes found in more pretentious courts of justice.

They were instructed, in regard to law, that it was supposed to be common sense and equal justice, and that any law which did not recognize these principles was not a good law.

This court is still doing business under the direction of a Government agent. The wedding of Cho-kus and Sallie was celebrated with a grand dance. Who shall say these people do not civilize rapidly? The occasion furnished an opportunity for the Indian boys to air their paints, feathers, and fine clothes; also for Indian maidens and women to dress in holiday attire.

Chief Allen David had given orders that this “social hop,” commemorating the first marriage in civil life, should be conducted in civil form. The white boys were willing to teach the red ones and their partners the steps of the new dance.

The ballroom was lighted up with great pine wood fires, whose light shone on the green leaves of the sugar pines and on the tan-colored faces of the lookers-on. Singular spectacle!—children of a high civilization leading those of wilder life into the mazes of this giddy pastime; and they were apt scholars, especially the maidens. The music was tame; too tame for a people who are educated to a love of exciting sports.

The chiefs stood looking on, and, when occasion required, enforcing the orders of the floor-managers, who were our teamsters, turned, for the nonce, to dancing masters. I doubt if they would have been half as zealous in a Sabbath school. But since dancing is a part of American civilization, acknowledged as such by good authority, and since Indians have a natural fondness for amusements, and cannot be made to abandon such recreation, perhaps it was well that our teamster boys were qualified to teach them in this, though they were not for teaching higher lessons. At our request we were entertained with an Indian play. No phase of civilized life exists that has not its rude counterpart in Indian life. This entertainment of which I am writing was given by professional players, who evinced real talent. All the people took great interest in the preparations, inasmuch as we had honored them by making the request. The theatre was large and commodious, well lighted with huge log fires. The foot-lights were of pitch wood. The boards were sanded years before, and had been often carpeted with velvet green or snowy white. The “Green-rooms” were of white tent cloths, fashioned for the purpose by brown hands, and were in close proximity to the scene. The front seats were “reserved” for invited guests. The rest was “standing room.” Circling round in dusky rows stood the patient throng. Nor stamps, nor whistles, nor other hideous noises gave evidence of bad-breeding or undue impatience. No police force was necessary there to compel the audience to respect the players or each other’s rights.

As the time to begin comes round a silence pervades the assembly. No huge bill-posters, or “flyers,” or other programme had given even an inkling of the play. This was as it should be everywhere, for then no promises were made to be broken, and no fault could be found, whether the play was good or bad. The knowing ones, aware, by signs we did not see, that soon the performance would commence, by motion of hand or eye would say, “Be still.”

Now we hear a female voice, soft and low, singing, and coming from some unseen lodge. It grows more distinct each moment and more plaintive, and finally the singer comes into the circle with a half dance, the music of her voice broken by occasional sobs, makes the circuit of the stage, growing weary and sobbing oftener; she at last drops down in weary, careless abandonment. This maiden was attired in showy dress, of wild Indian costume, ornamented with beads and tinsel. Her cheeks and hair were painted with vermilion. The frock she wore was short, reaching only to the knee. Close-fitting garments of scarlet cloth, richly trimmed with beads, and fringe of deer-skin she wore upon her ankles, with feet encased in dainty moccasins. When she sat down, the picture was that of one tasting the bitter with the sweets of life, in which joy and sorrow in alternate promptings came and went. The sobbing would cease while she gathered flowers that grew within her reach, arranging them in bunches, seemingly absorbed in other thoughts, occasionally giving vent in half-stifled, child-like sobs, or muttering in broken sentences, with parting lips, complaints against her cruel father, giving emphasis with her head to her half-uttered speech.

Following the eyes of our Indian interpreter, whose quick ear had caught the sound of coming steps, we saw a fine-looking young brave enter the ring, crouching and silent as a panther’s tread, and, scanning the surroundings, he espies the maiden. We hear a sound so low that we imagine it is but the chirping of a tiny bird; but it catches the maiden’s ear, who raises her head and listens, waiting for the sound, and then relapses into half-subdued silence. Meanwhile the young brave gazes, with bright eyes and parted lips, on the maiden. Again he chirps. Now she looks around and catches his eye, but does not scream, or make other noises, until, by pantomimic words, they understand they are alone.

The warrior breaks out in a wild song of love, and, keeping time with his voice, with short, soft, dancing step, he passes round the maiden, who plays coquette, and seems to be fully on her ground. He grows more earnest, and raises his voice, quickens his steps, and, passing close before her, offers his love, and proposes marriage, speaks her name, and, turning quickly again, passes back and forth, each time pleading his case more earnestly, until the maiden, woman-like, feigns resentment, and he, poor fellow, thinks she means what she does not, and slowly and sadly, in apparent despair, retreats to the farther side of the stage. When he came upon the scene, clad in his dress of deer-skins, hunting-shirt and leggings, with moccasins trimmed with beads and scarlet cloth, his long hair ornamented with eagle feathers, and neck encircled with the claws of wild cayotes, his arms with a score of rings, his scarlet blanket girded round his waist, and reaching nearly to the ground,—swinging to his back, his quiver full of painted arrows, whose feathered ends shone above his shoulder; his left hand clasping an Indian bow, while his right held his blanket in rude drapery around him,—he was the very image of the real live young Indian brave. But now, with blanket drawn over his shoulder, covering his arms, while the feathers in his hair and the arrows were held tightly to his head and neck, he seemed the neglected lover he thought himself:

Poor Ke-how-la, you do not appear to know that Ganweta is playing prude with you. Ke-how-la breaks out afresh, in song and dance, and, circling around the maiden, gives vent to his wounded pride, declares that he will wed another, and, as if to retire, he turns from her. Ganweta, as all her sex will do, discovers that she has carried the joke too far, springs up, and, throwing a bunch of flowers over his head, begins to tell, in song, that she dare not listen to his words, because her father demands a price for her that Ke-how-la cannot pay, since he is poor in horses; but that, if left to choice, she would be his wife, and gather roots, and dress deer-skins, and be his slave.

Ke-how-la listens with head half turned, and then replies that he will carry her away until her father’s anger shall be passed.

Ganweta tells how brave and strong her father is, and that he intends to sell her to another.

Ke-how-la boasts of his skill in archery, and, dropping his blanket from his shoulder and stringing his bow, quickly snatches an arrow from his fawn-skin quiver, and sends it into a target centre, and then another by its side, and still another, until he makes a real bouquet of feathered arrows stand out on the target’s face, in proof of his ability to defend her from her father’s wrath.

Snatching his arrows, and putting them in place among their fellows, save one he holds in his hand, he motions her to come, and, bounding away like an antlered deer, he runs around the circle with Ganweta following like a frightened fawn. They pass off the scene. The braves sent by the father come on stealthily, scanning the ground to detect any sign that would be evidence that the lovers had been there. Stooping low and pointing with his finger to the tracks left, a warrior gives signal that he has found the trail, and then the party starts in quick pursuit, following round where Ke-how-la and Ganweta had passed, who, still fleeing, come in on the opposite side, and, walking slowly backward, he, stepping in her tracks, intending thus to mislead the pursuers, then, anon, throwing his arm around her, would carry her a few steps, and, dropping her on the ground, they would resume the flight.

The pursuers appear baffled; but with cunning ways they find the trail, and resume with quickened steps the chase.

Suddenly Ke-how-la stops and listens. His face declares that he has knowledge of the coming struggle,—that he must fight. Bidding Ganweta haste away, he takes a station near a tree, and awaits the pursuers. They seem to be aware that he is there, and, drawing their bows, prepare to fight. See Ke-how-la expose his blanket, the pursuers letting two arrows fly, one of them striking it, the other the tree. A twang from Ke-how-la’s bow, and a howl of pain, and a red-skinned pursuer in agony has an arrow in his heart, and then the arrows fly in quick succession, until the hero sends his antagonists to the happy hunting-ground of their fathers, and with apparent earnestness he scalps his foes.

With his trophies hanging to his belt, he calls, “Ganweta, Kaitch Kona Ganweta!”—Beautiful Ganweta; but he calls in vain. While Ke-how-la was fighting, a brave of another tribe carries off the shrinking maiden, and escapes to his people.

Ke-how-la takes the trail, and follows by the signs Ganweta had left on her involuntary flight, and discovers her surrounded by his enemies. He returns to his own people for assistance. He finds friends willing to follow him. Ganweta’s father is reconciled with him, and gives his consent to his marriage when he shall have brought Ganweta home. A party is formed, and after the war-dance and other savage ceremonies, they go on the warpath. Then we see the warriors fight a sham battle with real war-whoops and scalping ceremonies. The arrows fly, and the wounded fall, and the victors secure the scalps and also the captive maiden, and, with wild sports, return to the lodge of Ganweta’s father.

This performance lasted about three hours, and from the beginning to the end the interest increased, winding up with a scalp-dance.

I have never witnessed a play better performed, and certainly never with imitation so close to reality. It demonstrated that talent does not belong to any privileged race; that Indians are endowed with love for amusements, and that they possess ability to create and perform.

If it is urged that such plays foster savage habits among the Indians, the excuse must be that they were true to the scenes of their own lives and in conformity with the tastes of the people, as all theatricals are supposed to be.

It had one merit that many plays lack. Its actors were natural, and no unseemly struts and false steps, or rude and uncouth exhibitions of dexterity or unseemly attitudes, that make modest people hide their eyes in very shame, were indulged in by the players.

The Indians of Oregon and of the Pacific coast wear long hair; at least, until they change their mode of life, they have a great aversion to cutting it, and, in fact, it is almost the last personal habit they give up. Before leaving this agency, I proposed to give a new hat to each man who would consent to have his hair cut short. The proposition was not well received at first, because of their old-time religious faith, which in some way connected long hair with religious ceremony. It is safe to assert, that, whenever an Oregon Indian is seen without long hair, he has abandoned his savage religion. Before leaving, however, I was assured that I might send out the hat for over one hundred.

The following summer, when making an official visit, I took with me four hundred hats. When the question was brought up, and the hats were in sight, a flurry was visible among the men. The chief, Allen David, led the way, begging for a long cut. A compromise was made, and it was agreed that the hair should be cut just half-way down. With this understanding, the barber’s shop was instituted, and long black hair enough to make a Boston hair merchant rich was cut off and burned up.

The metamorphosis was very noticeable. Many ludicrous scenes were presented in connection with, and grew out of, this episode. A great step forward had been made, and one, too, that will not “slip back.”

When O-che-o came out of the room, after his head had been for the first time in his life under a barber’s hands, he presented a comical spectacle. His children did not know him; some of his older friends did not recognize in him the chief of other days.