The Visit of the Flathead Indian Chiefs to St. Louis. Was the Story Authentic? Incidents—the Banquet Speech—Sketches of Indian Life and Character. Hoo Goo Ahu and Sacajawea.

It was a beautiful morning in the closing days of October, 1831. The trees about St. Louis were robed in their gorgeous autumnal foliage. High above came the "honk, honk, honk" of the wild geese, as in long, straight lines or in letter V's, they winged their way southward, while the birds were gathering in groups, chattering and arranging for their winter outing in warmer lands. The residents of the city were just arousing from their sleep, smoke was beginning to curl above the chimneys, shutters and doors were being opened for business activities, when the strange scene was presented of four Flathead Indian Chiefs, marching solemnly single file down the middle of one of the principal streets. At that date the now prosperous and great city of St. Louis was but a "frontier town," mainly noted as a military station, and Indians were not uncommon, as all the great and fertile country north and west was occupied by them. But these were new and unusual in appearance, and attracted attention. Their bare heads in front were as flat as boards, and their long hair was interwoven with eagle quills; their dress and dignified bearing all indicated notable men from some far-distant tribe that the people had not before seen.

General George Rogers Clark, then in command of the department, was promptly notified of the visit of the strangers, and sent two of his aids to escort them to the barracks, where they could be comfortably lodged and fed. It is a singular historical fact that General Clark, in command at St. Louis in 1831 and 1832, was "the great red-head chief," as the Indians called him, who, with Captain Lewis, made the exploration of the Oregon country in 1804-1806, an exploration which for romance and completeness of its success has never been equaled in American history. General Clark in that expedition received marked kindness and aid from the Nez Perces and the Flathead Indians. He knew them in their homes, in eastern Oregon, and had a keen remembrance of their savage hospitality to him in his time of need. A band of the Flatheads also owned a large territory south of the Columbia and east from Astoria, and not far from the winter camp of the explorers. The author found them there, and spent a day with them in one of their villages in 1850.

General Clark had been in many hard Indian fights, and was of a family of famous Indian fighters, but he learned in that far western expedition to respect the hospitality, the courage, the heroism, and manliness of the Indian. He resolved to leave nothing undone to express his gratitude to his old Oregon friends, and he charged his young men to see to it personally that they had every comfort. He knew Indian character and stoicism, and when his aids told him they "could make nothing out of the Indians, or learn what they wanted," he replied, "Don't hurry them, give them time, and they will make known their mission to this far-away place." General Clark was an earnest and devoted Catholic, and he ordered that the Indians be taken to all the services in the cathedral, and also to all places of amusement likely to entertain them. Week after week passed, and the Indian stoicism continued; but finally in an audience with the General they told him all. The Indians all spoke "the Chinook," a pleasing word language invented by the Hudson Bay Company, and was to all the Indian tribes, from Hudson's Bay to the Columbia, what the classic languages are to the learned world. It was their trading language.

The General had a good interpreter, and knew something of the Chinook himself, so that he soon fully understood the meaning of their long journey, and wondered at it. They said, "Our people have heard of the white man's book of heaven, and we have been sent the long journey over mountains and wide rivers, and among strange people, to find it and carry it back with us."

In that far-away period there were few newspapers in the West, to print the news, and General Clark, with his many duties and cares, left no written account of these interviews or of his advice to the Indians, but we can rest assured that, as a soldier, a friend, and Christian gentleman, it was the most kindly he could give.

During the winter, as it was thought at the time, either from exposure in the long journey, or from the rich food to which they were not accustomed, two of the old chiefs died, and were given honored soldier burials. The first to die was the memorable "Black Eagle," recalled to-day by the Nez Perces as "Speaking Eagle." He was an aged man, greatly loved by his people. The records of the old St. Louis Cathedral have the account of Black Eagle's death and burial. The second death followed soon after. It proved latterly that this was the beginning of that terrible scourge, Asiatic cholera, which spread, in 1832, over a wide section. Mrs. Clark, who kindly ministered to the Indians with her own hands, was "stricken with a malady that no physician could master, and died." As the spring approached, the two surviving chiefs began preparation to return to their distant homes, and General Clark left nothing undone to outfit them with every comfort for the journey. The steamer Yellowstone was just then loading for her first trip up the Missouri River, and he engaged berths for the two chiefs—the boat was to run as far up the river as it could go with safety—and would save the Indians many long, weary marches.

In addition to their necessary outfit, they had received numerous presents for themselves and friends at home, they greatly prized, to which Chief Min refers in his banquet speech, in the words, "You make my feet heavy with gifts." The night before their departure General Clark gave them a banquet, to which all his officers and many leading citizens were invited. Upon that occasion Chief H. C. O. Hcotes Min (no horns on his head), at the request of the General, made a speech in the Chinook language.

The Speech

"I came to you over the trail of many moons, from the setting sun. You were the friends of my fathers, who have all gone the long way. I came with an eye partly open for my people who sit in darkness. I go back with both eyes closed. How can I go back blind to my blind people? I made my way to you with strong arms through many enemies and strange lands that I might carry back much to them. I go back with both arms broken and empty! Two fathers came with us; they were the braves of many winters and wars. We leave them asleep here by your great water and wigwams. They were tired in many moons, and their moccasins wore out.

"My people sent me to get the White Man's Book of Heaven. You took me to where you allow your women to dance, as we do not ours; and the book was not there! You took me to where they worship the Great Spirit with candles, and the Book was not there! You showed me images of the Great Spirit and pictures of the Good Land beyond, but the Book was not among them to tell me the way. I am going back the long trail to my people in the dark land. You make my feet heavy with gifts, and my moccasins will grow old in carrying them, and yet the Book is not among them! When I tell my poor blind people, after one more snow, in the big Council, that I did not bring the Book, no word will be spoken by our old men or by our young braves. One by one they will rise up and go out in silence. My people will die in darkness, and they will go on a long path to other hunting-grounds. No white man will go with them, and no White Man's Book to make the way plain. I have no more words."

Translated into English, doubtless the charm of the speech has been marred, and loses much of its terse and simple beauty. Those who doubt and sneer about a savage making such a speech do not know Indians. I have listened to Indian orators, and been charmed by their ease, eloquence, and wonderfully electrifying power, amid rugged surroundings. Indians have their orators and storytellers, and are as proud of them as ever cultivated people are of their Beechers, Phillipses, Douglases, and Depews; and their animal stories far excel those of "Uncle Remus." In long evenings under the summer skies, or winters by the wigwam fire, they gather, and listen spellbound to the weird stories—wild, visionary, and superstitious—of the present life, and of the happy hunting-ground to which all are urged to aspire.

The Indian is a spiritualist, not an idolater. The medicine man is the great man of the tribe. When an Indian feels the call of the Spirit to become a medicine man, he goes off alone to the forest or to the mountains, or to some noted healing spring, fasts, prays, and seeks there for his power, through all the agencies of nature that surround him. Like Joan of Arc, he "hears voices" in the trees and from the rocks, the winds, the waters, the animals, and the birds. When he returns to his tribe and convinces the braves that he has received the Spirit, from that day he is entirely trusted. The greatest chief must consult him concerning every movement; whether it be the distant chase, change of location, or of war. He is Sir Oracle.

The writer does not speak at random or by hearsay of Indian life. He saw and studied something of it, more than half a century ago, before civilization had wrought the changes now seen. Indians are profound believers in the immortality of the soul. Some suspend their dead in the leafy treetops, that they may the more easily ascend to "the happy hunting-grounds." The custom of many is to kill the favorite horse and bury it with all accoutrements and implements of war, as well as their finest garments, believing the spirit will need them and receive greater honor. The leading thought of the Indian seems to be that all material things have a spirit that is immortal. The Indian burying-grounds are sacred spots and seldom if ever are desecrated in savage life, even by their worst enemies. Some of the beautiful little islands in the rivers of the Far West have thus been used, as the many ruins testify. It has long been noted that Indians in war will risk their own lives to carry off and bury their dead and prevent mutilation of bodies.

Is the Story of the Flathead Chiefs of 1831-32 Authentic?

So strange and so without precedent in savage life was the mission of the Indians to St. Louis, that many have doubted the truthfulness of the report, and have called it "visionary." Fortunately the reader need not be in doubt in regard to the entire truthfulness of the event as reported. The Christian people of that time believed and acted upon it in a way to convince every honest mind of their earnestness. It may be said the incident made a profound impression in the religious world, and the history we are to recite of the after-results mark it as one of the providential events guiding the nation by unseen hands to its destiny.

Had such a notable event occurred in modern days, it would have entered at once into current literature. That it did not at the time is no disparagement of its truthfulness. There is one strong chain of evidence regarding the mission of the Nez Perces chiefs, not easily broken; that is, the written evidence of George Catlin. Aboard the steamer Yellowstone, upon which General Clark sent his savage friends, there happened to be a celebrated artist, George Catlin, then on one of his visits to the West to paint Indian pictures and study Indian life. These Nez Perces chiefs at once attracted him, and they became intimate friends—during the long journey he made pictures of them. Indians are not great talkers, and he did not learn much from them as to the object of their long journey. From others afterward he heard of their strange mission to St. Louis, and believing he had secured two historic pictures, he first wrote General Clark, and afterward met him, and was assured by him that such was the mission of the four Flathead chiefs. Catlin, in his Smithsonian report for eight years, in 1885, says:

"These two men, when I painted them, were in beautiful Sioux dresses, which had been presented them in a talk with the Sioux, who treated them very kindly, while passing through the Sioux country. These two were part of a delegation that came across the Rocky Mountains to St. Louis a few years ago to inquire for the truth of a representation which they said some white man had made among them, that the white man's religion was better than theirs, and that they would all be lost if they did not embrace it. Two of the old and venerable men of the party died in St. Louis, and I traveled two thousand miles, companions with those two fellows, toward their own country, and became much pleased with their manners and dispositions. When I first heard the report of the object of their mission, I could scarcely believe it, but upon conversing with General Clark, on a future occasion, I was fully convinced of the fact."

The two pictures are now numbered 207 and 208 in the Smithsonian Institution, and highly prized. H. H. Hcotes Min (no horns on his head), who made the notable banquet speech, died near the Yellowstone River on the journey home, and but one, the youngest of the four, Hee-Ah-K. S. Te Kin (the rabbit skin leggins), lived to reach his tribe beyond the Rockies. As was customary with the Indians, a large band was sent along the trail far away to the Rocky Mountains to meet the expected delegation of chiefs with "the book of heaven." Their legends say, "Rabbit Skin Leggins shouted when far off, 'A man will be sent with the book.'" The world of to-day may well give thanks, that both Christian men and women were "sent with the Book" at that earnest and honest appeal. Christianity is broad, and its command is to "preach the Gospel to every creature." The Nez Perces Indians, who, in blind faith, sent for teachers, were blessed in the act above all Indian tribes in the land, and the blessing has followed them from that day to this. In another connection in a later chapter will be read facts in proof of their condition, and showing the effect of the Gospel verses upon Indians. Indian men, like the whites, are made up of good and bad. The missionaries were bright, shrewd men and women, and they easily saw that so fair a land could not much longer be held by savages in its unfruitful condition. They bent themselves to the heavy tasks laid upon them, to do the best they could for their savage wards. The true story for our pages, however, does not take us into any large study of missionary work, but mainly along the lines of Christian patriotism.

The author in answer to any critics of the missionaries to the Indians will relate a simple incident in his own experience, which dates fourteen years after their advent in Oregon. It shows how the seeds of Christianity they planted made of savages unselfish and humane men. It was on a Saturday, after days of weary traveling, we came to a little valley where we at once resolved to rest for a couple of days. It was such a little paradise that we named it "The Valley of Blessing." On Sunday morning, with a single companion, the writer wandered for miles up the narrow valley, enjoying its luxurious surroundings. To the right was a mountain whose rugged sides were covered with dwarf firs and cedars; while rocks were piled on rocks looking like ancient castles in ruins. Flowering vines climbed to the tops of the trees, and their fragrance filled the air. A clear stream divided the valley where flocked myriads of birds from the mountain, as they drank and bathed, whistled cheerily to their fellows in the mountain home. As we were admiring all this wilderness of beauty, on rising a little eminence, we came suddenly in view of four Indians, digging at a short distance away. We immediately dropped behind the hill, but not before we had been observed by the Indians. We were watchful and well armed, but the old Indian gave us a peace signal, and we approached the spot. The company was made up of an aged Indian, eighty or more, his grandson, and two half-breeds. They were digging a grave and were silent as we stood until its completion. The old Indian then invited us to look at the corpse under the shade of a near-by tree. We were astonished to find it the emaciated body of a white man. It was wrapped in a well-tanned buffalo skin, white and clean. The four Indians took the body and placed it in the grave, and the old man, removing his cap, to our astonishment, said, "Now, maybe some white man who knows religion will make a little prayer over the poor fellow!" The half-breeds, perhaps not understanding the English the old chief spoke, began pushing in the sand with their moccasined feet. Thus the Argonaut of 1850 was laid to his final rest, with only the wild birds to sing his requiem. The old Indian had brought along a smooth board to place at the head of the grave, and at his request, I wrote:

John Wilson, St. Louis, Mo., 1850.
Left by his company and nursed by Hoo Goo Chee.

He told us Wilson had traveled as long as he was able, and begged his companions to leave him there alone to die. He told the chief he had no complaint to make of his fellows. We mention the incident to show that the beautiful trait of unselfishness has a place even among Indians. The old chief could easily have buried the body near his mountain home without bearing it the long distance to be near the road, where the grave could be seen by his friends. He might have used an old blanket instead of the costly dressed robe the Indian prized so highly. Here we found a savage who, like the Flatheads, had heard of "the white man's book of heaven," had practically caught its unselfishness and humanity, and its spirit of love.

It is well to remember that the Indian has no literature, and has ever been dependent upon his enemies to write his history and his achievements. They have chosen to write only of his savagery. This is not fair treatment by the United States government, incited by justice, and the wholesome Christian sentiments of the land has during the past thirty years done much to correct all abuses of its savage wards.