In the 1870s Indians had not yet been put on reservations, a “Subjugated People.” They were still free to roam over meadows which had been their home for centuries. Utes, with a few of the Sioux Tribe, were living in Brown’s Park when the white settlers came. Their rights were unquestioned by the colonists, who “tendered unto Indians the thinks that belonged to Indians,” thus avoiding racial disagreement. When whites were being massacred sixty miles to the Eastward (a tragedy brought about largely by their bigotry and hypocritical fanaticism) the Brown’s Parkers felt no uneasiness. Chief Maracisco had assured them they would not be molested, and they were not. They did not practice intolerance, nor belittle the cleverness and knowledge of a people who had survived for generations while wresting their living from the natural resources of that country. From our Indian friends we learned many helpful lessons. They taught us the use of medicinal herbs, the art of lying on game trails to select the fat, desirable meat. And, most important, how to make “jerkey.” Another valuable lesson was in the use of marrow in tanning skins, to make them soft and unshrinkable. We learned how to insure comfort when sleeping on the ground, by making a slight depression in the earth and covering this with leaves and bits of bark.
One, of the Ute,s said of mother : “Bassett’s'squaw all-time talk, maybe so Magpie.” I am glad to remember that “Magpie” whom they regarded as their “Great White Squaw and heap good friend,” never let them down. Never did she fail to respect their dignity and human rights.
How wonderful if one could wipe out the false recording of “clatter-boned, goose-quill wranglers,” disguised as honest historians, who have too often taken over a subject wholly unfamiliar to them, setting in motion waves of misrepresentation regarding the American Indian.
How many of these tales depict the trials and tribulations endured by the Utes when subjected to the dominion of the Government Agent, Meeker? His plowing up of the race track which the Indians had made? This man, supposed to be representing a free government, where personal liberty is placed high, was determined to force these hunters of deer and tanners of buckskin to raise “tame” hay for their ponies, when the hills were covered with a rich growth of bluestem. The Indians well knew that was better feed for horses than any tame hay ever produced. Meeker’s coercion appeared senseless.
In later years when agents were sent out fromWashingtonto take charge of the wild game and police the Indians, they seemed like foreigners. Their ways were strange, not only to the Indians, but to the whites who were living in neighborly fashion with the red people. The restrictions that were imposed appeared totally uncalled for. Wild game was plentiful. We took only what we needed and used that without wastefulness. To the eastward, on the more accessible ranges, it is true that game was lavishly slaughtered by white-faced “market” hunters, to be sold in great quantities, without regard to the preservation of our game species. That was not true in the region of Brown’s Park.
When the game wardens came to take the Indians from their hunting grounds, as they did on Little Snake River, about forty miles distant, word was sent among the Utes to “get rid of the meat” if they had any.
This message was darned by white folks, the friends of the Indians. And when the game-smellers came, there was no meat to be found. The wardens were disappointed and angered at the failure of their mission. They scattered the equipment and supplies belonging to the Indians. They were arrogant and overbearing. Many times have I wondered, would the wardens have been so bold had the Indian men been in camp ?
But, of course, they were brave men, these whites, backed by the strong arm of the Law, shaking a threatening fist instead of extending a hand from the Great White Father in Washington. A Ute squaw subjected to the rough treatment attempted to defend her family and personal property. When she protested a brutal attack on a young boy, these brave Americans shot and killed her. After shooting the woman, they hung the boy by- his hands and emptied their guns into his body. Through such representatives was the Law sent to the Indians of Western Colorado.
The eloquent evidence of the manner through which this arm of the law operated, was not a true representation of our form of Government. It was the act of crackpots, moving in the shelter of misplaced power. Perhaps they had listened to the tales of other uninformed persons and were too stupid or too lazy to obtain factual information for themselves. They certainly had no comprehension of the words fairness and justice.
Recalling those childhood days, my memory lingers with nostalgic affection around Pablo Springs. There a scraggy cedar tree grew in a Crevice of a high rock about a hundred feet up from the ease of Cold Springs Mountain. Where the mountain cut off abruptly, as if it had been brought to a sudden stop, a number of house-size boulders had tumbled into the meadow below.
Judge Conway noticed tiny moccasin tracks chipped into the surface of these slanting boulders and pointing in the direction of a cedar. He traced the babyish footprints, and discovered that a small scaffold had been built securely in the top branches of the tree. This was made of willow switches bound firmly with sinew. The top was sort of a blanket made from cedar bark carefully picked to threads that were woven with strands of plaited rabbit fur. Wrapped closely within these folds was the skeleton body of a small baby, supposedly an Indian papoose. It was known that the tribe of Utes then living in that part of the country buried their dead in trees.
When my brother Sam and I were old enough to climb over the rocks, Judge Conway took us to see this burial cradle, and explained the probable circumstances of its being there. We were tremendously impressed and regarded the spot as a sacred place. We loved to keep its secret, of which we spoke only to each other, and with great caution never to be overheard. We would not have dreamed of touching even the covering of that baby skeleton. But knowing it was there added a mysterious interest to our hours of play in that part of the ranch.
My father owned the Pablo Springs and permitted white travelers to camp there. Some wickedly unscrupulous vandal must have discovered our little treasure and carried it away. When we learned of its disappearance, we mourned the loss as only children could. Our happy hours there were shadowed, and we found but one consolation, those little footprints chipped so deeply into the stone that not even time removed them.
