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Burbank Among the Indians

By

Elbridge Ayer Burbank

As told to

Ernest Royce

Originally edited by

Frank J. Taylor

Illustrated by

Elbridge Ayer Burbank

Updated, edited, and formatted for the World-Wide-Web by

Mark L. Sadler

Support and permission to use images and other materials provided by:

The Art Institute of Chicago

The Butler Institute of American Art

The Harvard-Diggins Library

The Hubbard Trading Post

The Newberry Library

The National Gallery of Art

This web-based version of Burbank's book is not intended

to provide high-resolution images of his art. Most images

were scanned from M. Melissa Wolfe's wonderful

catalogue from her exhibit on Burbank's works:

American Indian Portraits -

Elbridge Ayer Burbank in the West (1897-1910)

Melissa was most gracious and accommodating in answering

all of my questions concerning her work. We found her notes

and references in American Indian Portraits to be most helpful.

Special thanks to

Margaret Kistler

for the inspiration provided by her

Harvard Historical Society presentation:

E. A. Burbank, Son of Harvard, Illinois

This book was originally dedicated by Burbank to:

his uncle

EDWARD E. AYER

and the

NORTH AMERICAN INDIAN

Contents

Contents. iii

Illustrations. v

Forward. vii

GERONIMO, THE APACHE. 1

THE NAVAJOS-AMERICA'S BEDOUINS. 15

THE FASCINATING PUEBLOS. 27

DANCING FOR THE GODS. 43

AMONG THE CALIFORNIA TRIBES. 61

THE MISSION INDIANS. 61

THE MOHAVES. 65

THE MODOCS. 69

THE ELUSIVE PANAMINTS. 73

THE WARRIOR SIOUX.. 75

THE WHITE MAN'S FRIENDS - THE CROWS. 93

MY CHEYENNE CHALLENGE. 105

MY GREATEST INDIAN.. 113

THE COMANCHES AND KIOWAS. 119

AMONG THE PAI-UTES. 127

THE RICH OSAGES. 131

CHILDREN OF THE SUN.. 135

PO-KA-GON, THE POTAWATAMI 139

APPENDIX.. 143

Index. 151

Illustrations

Figure 1 Chief Geronimo. i

Figure 2 Elbridge Ayer Burbank. i

Figure 3 Geronimo. 1

Figure 4 Geronimo. 1

Figure 5 E-wa. 7

Figure 6 E-wa. 7

Figure 7 Naiche. 10

Figure 8 Naiche. 10

Figure 9 Chief Santos. 11

Figure 10 Chief Santos. 11

Figure 11 Tal-kla. 13

Figure 12 E-Ney. 14

Figure 13 Siem-o-nad-o. 14

Figure 14 Hubbell Store Barn Sheep Corral and Residence. 15

Figure 15 Navajo Rug. 16

Figure 16 Navajo Rug. 16

Figure 17 Navajo Rug. 16

Figure 18 Navajo Rug. 16

Figure 19 Chief Many-Horses. 17

Figure 20 Chief Tja-yo-ni (Many-Horses) 17

Figure 21 Ganado Studio. 18

Figure 22 Navajo Sheep Corral 21

Figure 23 Navajo Mother and Child. 23

Figure 24 Si-we-ka. 27

Figure 25 Si-we-ka. 27

Figure 26 He-patina. 28

Figure 27 Ko-pe-ley. 44

Figure 28 Ko-pe-ley. 44

Figure 29 Walpi AZ. 45

Figure 30 Sah-o-lok-o. 46

Figure 31 Sah-ah-lock-o. 46

Figure 32 Shu-pe-la. 47

Figure 33 Shu-pe-la. 47

Figure 34 O-bah. 48

Figure 35 Ho-mo-vi 49

Figure 36 Ho-mo-vi 49

Figure 37 Ho-mo-vi 50

Figure 38 Ho-mo-vi 50

Figure 43 Kah-Kap-Tee. 55

Figure 44 Cremation Pit 66

Figure 45 Chief Yellow Hammer 69

Figure 46 Chief Red Cloud. 75

Figure 47 Chief Red Cloud. 75

Figure 48 Chief Spotted Elk. 76

Figure 49 Rain-in-the-Face. 78

Figure 50 Kicking Bear 79

Figure 51 Sitting Bull 81

Figure 52 Buffalo Bill Cody. 82

Figure 53 Iron Crow.. 85

Figure 54 Chief Flat Iron. 86

Figure 55 Chief Flat Iron. 86

Figure 56 No Flesh. 87

Figure 57 She-comes-out-first 88

Figure 58 Chief Blue Horse. 89

Figure 59 Chief Pretty Eagle. 94

Figure 60 Chief Pretty Eagle. 94

Figure 61 White Swan. 97

Figure 62 White Swan. 97

Figure 63 Chief Medicine Crow.. 98

Figure 64 Chief Plenty-Coups Store Account 101

Figure 65 Curley. 102

Figure 66 Gray Hair 103

Figure 67 Chief American Horse. 106

Figure 68 Chief Burnt-All-Over 108

Figure 69 Chief Burnt-All-Over 108

Figure 70 Chief Two-Moons. 110

Figure 71 Chief Moses. 111

Figure 72 Chief Moses. 111

Figure 73 Chief Joseph. 113

Figure 74 Chief Joseph. 113

Figure 76 Chief Joseph. 114

Figure 77 Memorial to Chief Joseph. 118

Figure 78 Bon-i-ta. 119

Figure 79 Haw-gone. 120

Figure 80 Hawgone. 120

Figure 81 Gi-aum-e Hon-o-me-tah. 122

Figure 82 Gi-aum-e Hon-o-me-tah. 122

Figure 83 Ton-had-ile I-c-o. 122

Figure 84 Ton-had-ile I-c-o. 123

Figure 85 Ton-had-ile I-c-o. 123

Figure 86 Ton-had-ile I-c-o. 124

Figure 87 Ton-had-ile I-c-o. 124

Figure 88 Chief Black Coyote. 132

Figure 89 Chief Black Coyote. 132

Figure 90 Chief Pokagon. 139

Forward

"Many-Brushes" - Indian Painter

Without the least disparagement to the art of Brush, Farny, Remington, and others, and not forgetting the powerful sculptures of Proctor, Kemeys, Boyle, Dallin and MacNeil, it is entirely within bounds to say that no one has at all rivaled Burbank as an historical painter of Indians. He has taken up, barely in time - for all the Indian-ness of the First Americans is disappearing wonderfully fast - one of the least hackneyed, most picturesque and most important fields possible to American art. And he has proved, very emphatically, his entire competence to dominate it.

Incidentally, one reason why Mr. Burbank can paint Indians lies back of his fingers, and was not learned in the art schools. He can not only see but understand. They are to him not merely line and color, but human character. More ignorant people, who fancy that aborigines are not quite men and women, might be enlightened - if anything can enlighten them - by talk with this unassuming painter. His ethnologic horizon is not scientifically exhaustive; but he has got far enough to understand the fact of human nature-and this is much deeper in wisdom than many who pass for scientists, and write monographs of large words, ever made. One could make a very interesting story of Burbank's experiences and impressions in this career of painting Indians; a superficial acquaintance, in one way, but enabled by unspoiled eyes to arrive at the foundations of comprehension.

Born in Harvard, Illinois, Mr. Burbank began his art training in the old Academy of Design, Chicago, in 1874. He studied in Munich from 1886 to 1892. He is a nephew of Edward E. Ayer of Chicago, first president of the Field Columbian Museum, a trustee of the Newberry Library, and a collector and owner of the finest private library of Indian Americana in this country.

Admirably grounded in character portraiture by his long and highly successful studies of Negro types, he was turned westward by Mr. Ayer and began on Indians in Oklahoma, thence working northwest into the Sioux, Cheyenne and Nez Perce country. Later he traveled much among the Southwestern Apaches, Navajos and Pueblo stocks - particularly the Hopis, Zunis and Queres - and again among the Southern Cheyennes, the Arapahoes, Osages, Ogallala Sioux, and so on. He has painted most of the more famous chiefs - Geronimo, the last Apache genius, many times-and a great store of typical men, women and children.

Mr. Burbank has in general selected very characteristic types; and his portraits are done with rigorous exactness. He nothing extenuates, nor sets down aught in malice. He neither idealizes nor blinks. From our personal point of view, his pictures are harsh - not "retouched" as we demand our artists to flatter us, but uncompromising as a photograph made in strong sunlight. Popularly, this may give a mistaken impression; for many will forget that one chief reason why an Indian is so much more furrowed and ugly than we are is because he has no retoucher to make him pretty. But scientifically this insistence upon the lines in which life indexes character, is very important.

Mr. Burbank preserves not only the facial type with extraordinary fidelity and sympathy; his portraits are as well a graphic and accurate record of the characteristic costumes, tribal and ceremonial. This is an uncommon service, not only to the future but to the present. The vast majority of our painters and illustrators seem to have neither sense nor conscience about this matter. They are as apt to dress a Pueblo in a Pawnee warrior's dress, or a Kiowa in ancient Aztec costume, as anything else; and still more certain to confound the faces. It would not be quite so ridiculous to portray Quakers in cowboy garb, or Yankees with the physiognomy of Italians. But they do it, right along, and never seem to feel that they are either stupid or mendacious.

It is a peculiar merit of Mr. Burbank's art and conscience that he sees these vital differentiations and regards them. He is by odds the most successful thus far of all who have attempted Indian portraiture. His work has historic truth and value for which we seek in vain, from Catlin down to date, for a parallel. As Lungren is doing the best and truest work yet done on the southwestern arid landscapes and atmospheres, so Burbank is easily master of Indian faces.

CHARLES F. LUMMIS, in The Land of Sunshine.

GERONIMO, THE APACHE

When an Indian accords you his friendship - or his hatred - he gives all without reserve. So it was with old Geronimo, * the Apache, the first Indian on my canvas. Before I learned whether I was "good medicine" or "bad" with Geronimo, I experienced some uneasy moments.

This wily, daring old Apache had won for himself a fearsome reputation throughout the country, when my uncle, Edward E. Ayer, president of the Field Museum in Chicago, commissioned me to go to Fort Sill in the old Indian Territory, and paint Geronimo's portrait.

For many years the Apaches had roamed like Arabs over the desert of southern Arizona and northern Mexico, defying the efforts of both the American and Mexican armies to subjugate them. The Apaches were fighters, feared by other Indian tribes and by white settlers. Under Geronimo's command, they had waged a fierce guerrilla warfare, leading first the American troops, then those of Mexico, a merry chase across mountains and deserts. But at last Geronimo's band was captured and he was held as prisoner of war at Fort Sill. It was there I journeyed in search of him on what was to be the first of twenty years of hunting the real Americans for my canvas.

Having heard of Geronimo only through the screaming newspaper headlines which exploited his daring raids and cruel massacres, I was prepared to meet a thoroughly bloodthirsty savage. I gave thanks that I did not have to encounter this crafty Apache at large, but instead could sketch him behind prison bars.

Imagine my great surprise, upon arriving at Fort Sill, to find that Geronimo was not in prison at all, but was allowed his freedom. He lived in a house the government had built for him - a one - story affair built around a patio. A small Indian boy helped me to locate it. He said Geronimo was taking a nap. After hesitating a bit, I decided to rap and take a chance on incurring the old warrior's wrath. There was no answer. Then the Indian boy came running back. "I forgot," he said. "He is out hunting horses."

I sat down upon the steps and waited. Presently an elderly Indian came riding up on a horse and dismounted. He was short, but well built and muscular. His keen, shrewd face was deeply furrowed with strong lines. His small black eyes were watery, but in them there burned a fierce light. It was a wonderful study - that face, so gnarled and furrowed. I studied it as he came over to me. "How do you do, Chief Geronimo?" I greeted him. He shook hands with me gravely. "How!" he said.

I learned later that it was fortunate for me that I had addressed him as "Chief." The soldiers at Fort Sill had nicknamed him "Gerry" - a name that annoyed him greatly.

Through the Indian boy, Geronimo asked me my reason for being there. "To see the Indians and the country," I told him. Geronimo asked where I came from. "Chicago," I said.

I offered him a cigarette and lighted one myself. We sat there and smoked for awhile without saying anything. All this time Geronimo was peering at my face. He knew I had some further object in being there. Finally he asked me to tell him about Chicago. I described the tall buildings, the lake, and elevated railroads. For perhaps ten minutes he allowed me to talk about the things in Chicago which I thought would interest him. Finally he rose and said, "Come."

I followed him into the house. He delved into an old trunk and brought forth a photograph of himself. As he handed it to me he said, "One dollar." I gave him the dollar. It occurred to me that this was the time to make my proposal for painting his portrait.

"I am an artist," I said. "I also came to Fort Sill to paint a picture of Big Chief Geronimo." The old Apache looked at me questioningly. "Are you a chief?" he asked. I gathered that he meant "Are you any good?" I assured him that I was. "All right," he said. "When will you come?" I told him I would be back next day, but upon my return to the fort I learned I would have to secure the permission of Captain H. L. Scott, the commanding officer. He happened to be in Texas looking for cattle for the Indians. But he was expected home soon. I waited.

Upon his return Captain Scott not only granted permission to paint the portrait of Geronimo, but he invited me to attend a powwow with the Indians that evening. At this council there were present the chiefs of several of the tribes on the reservation, notably the Kiowas, the Apaches, and the Comanches. An interpreter accompanied each chief except Geronimo, who did no talking.

Captain Scott's talk was entirely about the cattle he had been trying to get for the Indians. The chiefs hung on every word he said. How different this gathering from a meeting of white men! After each speech the speaker who followed would wait a full minute before saying anything to be sure. the other man had finished his remarks.

During the powwow Chief Looking Glass arose and said, "Captain Scott, I have never before shaken hands with a white man, but I would like to shake hands with you now." The incident showed how much Captain - later Brigadier General - Scott was loved by the Indians. To them he had become the Great White Father.

Next morning I was on hand bright and early at Geronimo's house to start work on his portrait. I found him ready and eager. to pose. But just after I had outlined the sketch in pencil he held up his hand. "Stop!" he commanded. Calling the little Apache girl who was playing near by, he asked her to interpret a message to me. "This man wants to know how much you are going to pay him," she said. "I was stumped for a minute, but finally said, "Ask him how much he wants." I learned then that Geronimo was something of a Scotsman. "You get much money for that picture," he said. "Maybe five dollars. I want half." I told her to tell Geronimo that if he would sit for two pictures he could have all of the five dollars. He agreed to do this.

I never had a finer sitter than Geronimo, although sometimes he became very nervous while posing. I would give him a few minutes' rest until he quieted down. Invariably upon hearing a horse or footsteps, he would rush to the door and see who was coming. He seemed to have a haunting fear of being pursued, even though he was at the time a prisoner. As we worked day after day, my idea of Geronimo, the Apache, changed. I became so attracted to the old Indian that eventually I painted seven portraits of him.

For that first portrait he sat on the bed and I on a box. There was not even a chair in his house at that time. Geronimo inveigled me into buying him one, which I did at the cost of five dollars. He was good at that game. One day while I was painting, a man came along with a sack of grain for sale. The old Apache worked me to buy that for him also.

I tried to get Geronimo's real character into the portrait I was making. I painted every wrinkle in his face and even a mole on his cheek. Being fearful that he might object, I would not let him see the picture at first. However, one day when I left my easel to get some water, I returned to find Geronimo intently studying the portrait. I waited on pins and needles for his verdict. Suddenly he turned, laughed, and slapped me on the back. "You heap big medicine man," he said. "You heap big chief. You heap savvy."

I remembered that remark and turned it on him one hot day when the temperature stood at 110 degrees in the shade and Geronimo complained that it was too hot for him to sit any longer. Filling his mouth with water, he squirted it into the air, calling out, "Rain. Rain." "Look here," I said, "didn't you tell me once that I was a medicine man?" He admitted that he had. "Medicine man must be obeyed," I said. "You sit." "All right," said Geronimo. "I will."

Geronimo's money making schemes were many and varied. Once he was permitted to make a trip to Omaha by train. At each station where the train stopped he got off, mingled with the people on the platform, let them know who he was, and then sold the buttons off his coat for twenty-five cents apiece. Between stations he sewed new buttons back on again. He also sold his hat for five dollars whenever he could find a buyer. He had a reserve supply of hats and buttons in his suitcase.

The soldiers at Fort Sill, knowing Geronimo, were kind to the old Apache and taught him to write his name. After that he charged a dollar for his autograph.

One day Geronimo asked me if I had a gun. I told him I had a small .22 caliber rifle and he asked me to bring it over the next time I came to his house. I did so. Geronimo looked at the rifle, took a piece of paper about the size of a quarter, and pinned it to a tree several yards distant. Then he proposed that we fire at the piece of paper in turn. Every time he hit the target I would give him ten dollars and every time I hit the target he was to give me ten dollars. I looked at his small, bleary eyes and seriously considered taking him up. But he seemed overly anxious, so I said, "No, we'll shoot for fun." It was lucky for me that I did that, for he hit the paper every shot, and once hit the pin that held it. I never made a hit. In spite of his watery eyes, Geronimo's sight was remarkable for a man of seventy.

He was a great gambler and was ready to bet on any event that offered him a chance of adding to his bank account. Incidentally, at the time of his death he left more than ten thousand dollars in the bank.

One day Geronimo invited me to go with him to a sports meet of the soldiers, Comanches, and Kiowas. He said he would be the only Apache there, with the exception of some boys who were going over to play ball. He wanted me to stand back of him when he played cards, claiming that I brought him good luck.

The popular game was monte. Geronimo was always in the game up to his neck. It was fun to watch him handle the cards. He was as expert as the best of them. At times he would get excited and yell at the top of his voice. The betting was always on the turn of a card. And when Geronimo was dealing he would cover the money each time. No one could bluff him.

Once the bets piled up to something like one hundred dollars on a turn of the card, while Geronimo was dealing. He reached into his pocket, but found no more money there. He looked up at me and I thought he was going to strike me for a loan. But instead, he delved into another pocket and pulled out a reserve roll of bills as big as his hand. When the card was turned, Geronimo won. He gave a war whoop that could have been heard for a mile as he hauled in the stakes.

As we were leaving for home, a white man approached Geronimo and proposed that they race horses. He offered to bet ten dollars that his horse could beat Geronimo's. We walked over to look at the white man's horse, and Geronimo decided to take the bet. Ordinarily Geronimo, in spite of his age, rode his own pony. But this time he thought he was too heavy. He looked around for an Apache boy to ride his horse. The boy he wanted was playing baseball, and was at bat when Geronimo went after him. The Indian boy swung at the ball, narrowly missing the old chief, hit the ball into the outfield, and then started running the bases. Geronimo tore after him, all the way around the diamond, and chased the boy across the home plate before he caught him. That horse race demonstrated the old Apache's sporting instincts. He was ready to bet on anything. They marked off the distance, placed the stakes in a handkerchief at the end of the course where the winner could grab it, and the horses were off. It was a close race, which Geronimo's horse won. The old Indian went home as happy as a small boy after the circus.

Once while I was painting him Geronimo asked me what I did with my old clothes. I told him I gave them away. "Send them to me," he said. I agreed to do so, but on second thought told him that we had better find out if they would fit him. He stood about five feet four inches, but had very broad shoulders. I took off my coat for him to try on. It was much too small for him and he nearly ripped it to pieces trying to get it on. So I told him that there was no object in sending my old clothes to him if they would not fit him. This seemed to satisfy him.

A few days later I left Fort Sill and did not return for a year. Upon my return I set out to call upon Geronimo. On my way to his house I met him coming along on horseback. As soon as he recognized me he pointed his finger at me angrily. "You lie!" he said. We had become close friends and the accusation came like a bolt out of the blue. I could think of nothing that I had told the old Indian that he could have construed as a lie. Since Geronimo's pidgin English was insufficient to make clear to me what was wrong, I grabbed his horse by the bit and led him all the way back to his home to find an interpreter. Geronimo claimed I had promised to send him my old clothes, but I had failed to do so. I reminded him that he had tried on my coat and that it was too small for him and that we had agreed there was no use sending my old clothes to him. This seemed to stir his recollection. He dismounted, apologized, and shook hands.

Though Geronimo was willing to pose for me for a price, he objected strenuously when a famous eastern museum asked the officers at Fort Sill to make a plaster cast of his hand. "Toda, toda," he repeated. "Toda" is Apache for "no." Finally the officers asked me to help persuade him. I explained that the cast could do no harm to him, but the answer was still "toda." Seeing the wet plaster lying there on the table, I seized his hand and pressed it in, making a fine cast, which has been much studied by palmists.

In the rest periods Geronimo would lie on his back on the bed and sing Apache songs to me. He had a deep, rich voice and these songs, sung in the Apache dialect, were of great beauty. One of them, translated, ran as follows:

0, ha le

0, ha le

Through the air

I fly upon a cloud

Toward the sky, far, far, far,

0, ha le

0, ha le

There to find the holy place

Ah, now the change comes o'er me!

0, ha le

0, ha le

One day Geronimo initiated me into the art of massaging as it is practiced by the Apaches. Following his directions, I bared my back and lay flat on my face on the bed. Doubling up both fists he rubbed and massaged my back like a woman kneading bread. It was strenuous treatment, but the aftereffect was a grand and glorious feeling. I think the old Apache did this for ulterior motives, because after he had shown me how it should be done, he frequently would lie face down and ask me to massage his back, which I did.

When I worked out at Geronimo's house I always brought my lunch. I usually brought extra food so that I could offer some to him. He seemed to enjoy white men's food, but for some reason he was cautious and sniffed each morsel carefully before he would take a bite.

One day he invited me to take dinner with him. The meal, while clean and good, was served very crudely. It consisted of meat, bread, and coffee, cooked by his wife and served on a plain board which she placed on the ground before us. There were no knives, forks, or spoons. We had to eat with our fingers. Two years later Geronimo again invited me to dinner. What a difference between the two meals! This time I sat at the table with Geronimo, his wife, and daughter. The table was covered with a linen cloth. There were knives, forks, and spoons. They served a splendid dinner complete with a dessert. This is typical of the readiness with which the Apaches adapted themselves to the white man's way of living.

Geronimo's wife, a very small woman, was in poor health. So the old war chief did all the housework, washing the dishes and sweeping the floor. He was an immaculate housekeeper.

One day I carelessly tracked some mud into the house. Geronimo got the broom and swept it out, giving me a look which plainly said, "Don't do that again." Thereafter I was one white man who was very careful not to track any mud into an Indian's house.

Geronimo had a little daughter about six years old, named E-wa, of whom he was very fond. No man could be kinder to a child than Geronimo was to little E-wa. In spite of his parsimonious attitude towards outsiders, he was so indulgent with E-wa he would give her anything she wanted, and nothing in the trading post was too good for her.

Indians are notably fond of children. And nothing pleases them more than to have a white person show their children attention and kindness. An Indian himself will be as kind to a white child as to one of his own race.

When I was at Fort Sill, a little boy living in Chicago came to Fort Sill to visit his brother who was a lieutenant stationed there. One day the lad was missing, but the lieutenant did not worry, as he had heard the child had gone with some Kiowa Indians, and so knew he was all right. It was amusing to hear the boy talk when he came back. He said he had had the time of his life, had slept in the tepee with the Indians, and had eaten with them. They had made bows and arrows for him, had given him a pony to ride while he was with them, and taught him Indian words and songs.

One of Geronimo's hobbies was writing letters to his friends, especially the Apaches in San Carlos, Arizona. Several times he asked me to write these letters for him. They were fine epistles, well composed, and almost always he asked them to send him a certain medicine which the San Carlos Apaches prepared.

Geronimo was a medicine man among his people. Invariably his letters ended with this line: "If you are in need, let me know and I will send you money."

The old warrior never left his house without putting out a saucer of milk for his cat, whose whiskers he had kept closely clipped. Why he used the scissors on tabby I never did learn.

Geronimo's small nephew was invariably about the house. One day Geronimo excused himself for a short time, saying he had to go to the store. He told his nephew to entertain me. The little boy gravely invited me to sit on the floor. Then he sat opposite me about ten feet away and rolled a stone to me. We spent the hour until Geronimo returned rolling the stone back and forth between us.

For one of my portraits of Geronimo I wanted him to pose as a savage warrior on the warpath. I would hate to have him on my trail looking as he did that day with his war paint on, holding a large six-shooter in his hand.

Geronimo had not painted his face for the warpath for a long time. The correct Apache way was to paint a white stripe about a half inch wide from ear to ear across his cheeks and nose. Instead of painting one stripe Geronimo painted two. He would never have noticed the error had not his wife laughed at him. When she explained the cause of her merriment he hastily changed it to one stripe.

One day he came into my quarters at Fort Sill in a most peculiar mood. He told me no one could kill him, nor me either, if he willed it so. Then he bared himself to the waist. I was dumfounded to see the number of bullet holes in his body. I knew he had been in many battles and had been fired on dozens of times, but I had never heard of anyone living with at least fifty bullet wounds on his body. Geronimo had that many scars.

Some of these bullet holes were large enough to hold small pebbles that Geronimo picked up and placed in them. Putting a pebble in a bullet wound he would make a noise like a gun, then take the pebble out and throw it on the ground. Jokingly I told him he was probably so far away that the bullets didn't penetrate him, but that if he had been nearer they probably would have killed him. "No, no," he shouted. "Bullets cannot kill me!" As I knew Geronimo, I find it hard to picture him as the leader of a band of ravaging savages. To me he was a kind old man. To be sure, he had is peculiarities, and his outlook on life was not the same as a white man's, but he was certainly not as cruel as he had been pictured. Geronimo and the Apaches had been much misunderstood. Geronimo was not the chief but the medicine man of the Chiricahua Apaches. He usurped the leadership of the tribe under the stress of unusual circumstances.

While I was at Fort Sill an editor of a magazine offered me a considerable sum of money if I would get the story of Geronimo's life. I talked with Geronimo about this and he, with his usual Scotch acumen, agreed to tell me his life story in return for half of the proceeds. So, accompanied by a good interpreter, I went to Geronimo's house one Sunday morning to get the story. He lay on his bed with his hands folded behind him and began to talk. "The first thing I remember," Geronimo said, "was noticing what a large number of Indians there were."

He said that when he was a young man the Apaches, after a long council, decided to be friendly with the white men. To celebrate this momentous decision they gathered together with their families and were having a great feast. While they were in the midst of this feast, a company of Mexicans rode up on horseback. The Mexicans were soldiers, he said, and they brought with them much whiskey which they gave free to the Apaches, but refrained from drinking themselves. When the Apaches had become helplessly intoxicated, the Mexicans shot into them, killing forty-six Indians and wounding many more.

As Geronimo came to this point in his story he became intensely excited. He rose from his bed, his dark face almost white with anger as he shook his fist in my face, fairly hissing, as he declared, "After that I killed every white man I saw."

The Indian boy who was acting as interpreter became greatly excited too. "He is telling you the truth," he said, "for my father tells me the same story."

Geronimo said that this was the first time he had ever told anyone that part of his story. He begged me to go and return later. He was too excited to continue his story that day. Later on he told me that he himself had missed the massacre because he was in town on an errand, but that on his return he had found his father, his mother, his wife and children all dead, lying in a pool of blood on the ground.

If this story is true, and I have no reason to question it, it was not surprising that Geronimo waged war on the whites with bitterness and skill both in Mexico and in the United States.

By nature the Apache is industrious, honest, and loyal to his friends. At Fort Sill the Apache homes and gardens were the neatest on the reservation. Fences that surrounded their yards were well kept up. Every man took his turn at riding the fence. None of the other tribes were as devoted to duty as the Apache.

The third time I returned to Fort Sill I met Geronimo riding horseback through the woods. On his horse he had with him both his daughter E-wa and his little nephew. He assumed I had returned to paint more pictures of him. He pointed his finger at me. "You make heap money painting my picture," he said. "You pay me so much." He held up both hands twice and one hand once, indicating that I must pay him twenty-five dollars to paint him again. "You are wrong," I said. "I did not come to paint your picture this time. There are other chiefs I want to paint."

On this trip I persuaded Chiefs Naiche, Mangus, Chato, Chewawa, Loco, and Geronimo's little daughter, E-wa, to pose for me. All of the chiefs wore their scout costumes, which were very picturesque and colorful.

Naiche was the head chief of that branch of the Apaches. I had been anxious to meet him, but had not encountered him. One day I was sketching a wickiup when I noticed a tall, fine-looking Indian watching me. I spoke to him and asked him if he knew where I could find Naiche. He laughed. "I am Naiche," he said.

Naiche had the reputation of being the finest Indian artist of that period. He painted his pictures on deer skin in color. His subjects were flowers, deer, other wild animals, turkey, and various objects of nature, as he saw them. He also carved canes from wood and painted them in different colors. I asked Naiche how much he would charge for a painting on a deer skin. His price was three dollars and fifty cents. I discovered that the deer skin had cost him three dollars. So I raised his price to ten dollars when I bought one of his pictures.

Naiche told me that in one of the fights between the American soldiers and the Apaches he had received a bullet which passed completely through his chest. He fell and the soldiers cheered, thinking they had killed him, but before they could reach him he recovered enough so that he could mount his horse and escape.

After I had painted the Apache chiefs at Fort Sill, I journeyed to San Carlos, Arizona, to make the pictures of Chief Santos, Chief Chil-chu-ana, and Chief Bi-lish. I also persuaded several women to pose for me.

While one of these women was posing for me one day, the army officer in charge of the reservation dropped in. After the woman left, he told me this story about her.

This Indian girl was married and had one child, he said. There were still some Indians hiding away in the mountains. They had never been rounded up by the soldiers. One of these renegades wanted a wife and set about to capture one. He mounted his pony, rode two hundred miles, and arrived at San Carlos Reservation at night. Scouting around, he found this girl alone with her mother and her baby. He killed the mother, tied the baby and girl on his horse and took them to his camp in the mountains.

He watched her closely for many days. She acted as though she were satisfied with her fate. Eventually he became careless, sometimes leaving her for half a day at a time while he was hunting. Finally he left for a trip that would take two days. As soon as he was out 'of sight she snatched up her baby, caught a horse, and was soon galloping down the mountainside. She covered the two hundred miles to San Carlos with hardly a stop, arriving there safely.

The army officers contended that the Apaches were the best scouts in the world. They told me several stories to prove their claim.

Once when the soldiers sought to capture a band of Indians who had committed several crimes, several friendly Apaches were delegated to help bring these renegades in. For some distance the trail was plain. Then it faded out at a spring where cattle herds came from all directions to drink. Here the trail was hopelessly lost to the ordinary person, but not to the Apaches, although it proved quite a problem even to them. They dismounted and on their hands and knees studied the ground. The officer in charge finally asked them what they had found. Pointing to a small twig on the ground, one of them said: "That has been pushed aside by a moccasin." After a powwow they separated into two parties, to come together at a point twenty miles distant, where they found their quarry and captured them.

Another story is that of the Apache Kid. He was a boy distinguished for his great industry. Another Indian killed his father. The Apache Kid went to the officers and asked them why they did not capture and punish the slayer. The officers replied that they could not find him. The young Apache asked permission to go after his father's slayer himself. In a joking mood they told him to go ahead. Two days later, while the officers were eating their supper, the Apache Kid appeared. "I have killed the man who killed my father and here is the proof," he said.

With that, he reached into a sack and brought out an Indian's head which he threw on the table. They placed him under arrest. Later on, with two other Indians he was started off to prison at Yuma. The Apache Kid was shackled by one leg to the seat of the wagon. Coming to a steep hill, the driver asked the two deputies and the two other Indians to get out and walk to lighten the load. The day was hot and the deputies grew careless. The two Indians afoot crept up behind the two deputies and knocked them insensible. Securing the keys, they overcame the driver, released the Apache Kid and were on their way. The other Indians were soon recaptured, but not the Apache Kid.

One day while I was talking to an old Indian I mentioned the Apache Kid. He said that the Kid was still alive, though an old man, and that he knew where he lived. He had changed his name and called himself Is-niz-zi.

Original image from book

Figure 11 Tal-kla

At the San Carlos Reservation I painted the portrait of Tal-kla, a courteous, kind-hearted Apache chief; and also Chil-chu-ana, a big fat jolly chief who, with his red blanket draped over his shoulders, would have passed well as a monk.

Chil-chu-ana and Geronimo were boys together. He was delighted when I told him I had painted Geronimo. Chil-chu-ana was distinguished by being the last of his tribe to surrender to the United States Army.

As I painted Indian chiefs, my portraits were reproduced in magazines and newspapers, and I collected these into a scrapbook which soon became for me a pass into any Indian home or gathering place. It was astonishing to see how interested each Indian was in these pictures of other Indians. They would sit and examine the pictures by the hour and criticize the detail of the costumes. I soon learned to be very careful of details so that the Indians would know that my pictures were faithful reproductions.

The Indian girls were especially interested in the costumes worn by the other girls. They would point to each one and ask about the other girl and how she made her costume. Some they would criticize, saying they did not like the clothes.

Often the Indians would come to me and ask if they could borrow the scrapbook. Many times I have gone into Indian quarters to find the room full of natives turning the leaves of the scrapbook and looking at the pictures. They would do this so often that I had to paste and re-paste five different scrapbooks. Geronimo kept my scrapbook for several days, delighted with the pictures I had painted of some of his boyhood friends. Some of them he had not seen for many years.

My last parting with Geronimo was quite sad. I think the old man realized that we would not meet again. As I bade him good-by for the last time he told the interpreter to say to me: "I like Burbank better than any white man I have I ever known. He has never lied to me and has always been kind to me and my family."

Geronimo's death occurred at Lawton, Oklahoma. His daughter E-wa had died a few years before. Riding home on horseback through a storm, in his seventies, he got wet and chilled and contracted pneumonia. While still conscious, he called for his horse. He asked to have him bridled and saddled and the reins placed in his hands.

When the old warrior died, the horse was shot so that Geronimo, the Apache, would have a mount to ride to the Happy Hunting Grounds.

THE NAVAJOS-AMERICA'S BEDOUINS

It is an odd trick of fate that the Navajos, who of all Indians have developed the keenest commercial sense, should be the least affected by the white man's ways. They roam the great open spaces south of Grand Canyon and live like Bedouins, following their flocks of sheep and goats across the desert just as their forebears did.

The Navajos are first cousins of the Apaches. A Navajo and Apache can understand each other if both speak slowly. But where the Apaches were warriors, the Navajos became artisans and traders, skilled as rug weavers, silversmiths, and at barter.

Although the Navajos and the Apaches spring from the same racial stock, it was the custom of the former to make raids upon the surrounding tribes, notably the Hopi, the Shoshones, the Zuni, and the Pueblos, and to carry off their women. Thus the Navajos assimilated the blood of several Indian nations, and there is consequently no true type among them. Some are short and stout like the Pueblos. Others have the tall and slender build of the Plains Indians. These American Bedouins do not call themselves Navajos, which is a Spanish term, but "Dene" which means "the people." The Navajos feel quite superior to the surrounding Indian tribes. They conduct themselves with lofty independence, and when the occasion demands it a Navajo can look straight through another Indian or white man without seeing him, as if the latter were too inferior to be noticed.

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Figure 14 Hubbell Store Barn Sheep Corral and Residence

To me no picture of a Navajo scene is complete without that of J. L. Hubbell, the generous, hearty Indian trader who operated the trading post at Ganado, Arizona; the man whom the Navajos called "the old Mexican," and who - as Stewart Edward White said in a description in one of his books - "is afraid of neither God, man, nor the devil."

I first heard of Mr. Hubbell when I arrived at Gallup, New Mexico, looking for Navajos to paint. Clint Cotton, the old Santa Fe telegraph operator who ran the trading post in Gallup, took me in hand. "Go down to Ganado and see Hubbell," he said. "When you get there give this to him and tell him to shave himself." He handed me a safety razor. Arriving at Ganado, I found Hubbell looking like a wild man with a beard hanging to his belt. He welcomed me heartily and invited me to occupy a room in his house. But he refused to shave.

"How much is it going to cost to live here?" I asked. "It will not cost you anything," he replied. "Then I won't stay," I said. "I will have to find quarters where I can pay for them." The old Indian trader looked genuinely hurt. "I have been here for thirty years," he said, "and I have never yet charged anybody anything for either food or lodging. Are you going to make me break my rule now?" I stayed, but eased my conscience by presenting him with pictures, and by copying rug designs for him.

Mr. Hubbell was a friend of every Indian in the Navajo nation. He was born and reared in the Navajo country. His mother was a Spanish woman. His father an American. He used to be sheriff of Apache County. Once when he was arresting a horse thief, the bad man turned and drew a bead on him. Many-Horses, chief of the Navajos, took the situation in at a glance and shot the thief, saving Hubbell's life. That was the beginning of one of the finest friendships I ever encountered between a white man and an Indian.

Original image from book

Figure 21 Ganado Studio

Mr. Hubbell turned over his office to me for a studio. Because of his influence upon the Indians, I had no trouble in getting the Navajos to pose for me. My first sitter was his good friend Many-Horses. He posed wearing his colorful Navajo costume of head chief. The old Indian liked the portrait so much that he asked if he might pose for another picture. I told him to come back on the following day.

Imagine my consternation when Many-Horses appeared again in his Navajo costume, but in addition he was wearing a tall stovepipe hat which had been presented to him by a tourist. I urged him to take the hat off, explaining that no one would want a picture of an Indian in such a garb. Many-Horses was terribly disappointed. He left the studio completely crushed. In a short time he was back. This time he had the plug hat decorated with eagle feathers. I decided that such perseverance should be rewarded. So I painted him, plug hat and all. Much to my surprise, Mr. Hubbell was delighted with the portrait, and bought it. He had a cut made of the picture and used it on his stationery.

Many-Horses and Mr. Hubbell used to joke with each other about the Happy Hunting Ground. "If you die before I do," the trader told the old chief, "I will put a rope around your neck and drag you to the top of the hill. I will put the largest stone I can find on top of you so that you can never go to the Happy Hunting Ground." Many-Horses would laugh. "You die first, and I do that to you," he would say.

While I was at the trading post Many-Horses did die. I helped Mr. Hubbell bury him on top of the hill. True to his promise, the Indian trader put the largest stone he could find at the head of the Indian's grave, crying like a baby while he was doing so. Later on, both he and Mrs. Hubbell were buried beside Many-Horses.

The Hubbell trading post was not only the general store, but it was likewise the bank and everything else for the Navajos. Mr. Hubbell ran a pawn shop where the Indians would bring their valuables and pawn them when they needed money. Sometimes articles were left for years. When the Indians returned with the money, Mr. Hubbell would return the articles deposited. He never charged interest. The tags in the pawn shop were records of each Navajo's financial state over a long period of years.

The trader made money, but he seldom received it from the Indians. They almost always paid for food or clothing in baskets, blankets, and jewelry. Many times I have seen Navajo women come in and say that they needed flour, sugar, and coffee, but had no money. "Give this woman what she wants," Mr. Hubbell invariably called to a clerk.

Several times Mr. Hubbell said to me, "I am going to quit being so softhearted." But he never did. One day a party of men came on horseback. Each man was armed with a six-shooter. "What will you charge us for meals and lodging and food for our horses?" the leader asked. "Nothing," said Hubbell. "Put your horses in. the stable." The men came in. "You'll have to take those guns off," said Mr. Hubbell. "Put them on the table. What do you think this is, the wild and woolly West?" They did as he told them. Next morning before they left they picked up the guns from the table. The party continued to Gallup, New Mexico, where they robbed a gambling house, staging one of the biggest holdups in that part of the country!

All who came were welcome to the Indian trader's hospitality. One day a boy showed up and asked if he could stay overnight, explaining that he had no money. "Sure you can stay," said Mr. Hubbell. "Where are you going?" The boy was going to Chin-Lee, thirty-five miles away, where he had been promised a job. He was going to walk across the desert. "You are not going to do anything of the kind," said the Indian trader. He provided not only a horse, but an Indian to accompany the boy to Chin-Lee.

One of the Indian trader's good friends was Man-u-let-o, a head chief of the Navajos. He once was a powerful man among the Navajos. While Man-u-let-o was in Gallup, New Mexico, the noted sculptor, Herman McNeil, made a life-size statue of him. Clint Cotton, who ran the Gallup trading post, bought the statue and placed it above the main entrance to his store.

Shortly thereafter a road show came to town. One of the attractions was a ventriloquist. He came into the trading post and asked Cotton to teach him a few Navajo words. Then, taking a position near the door, he threw his voice so that the words seemed to come from the mouth of the statue. The Indians gathered there were so alarmed that they fell all over each other getting out of the trading post. They refused to come near the store, even though Cotton explained to them over and over again that it was just a trick. He lost, that group of cus-tomers for good.

Once while he was in Gallup, Man-u-let-o attended a rousing revival meeting. He became so interested in temperance that he took the pledge to abstain from liquor. He returned to Ganado wearing his blue ribbon and vowing he would never touch a drop of whiskey again. This was the old chief's one weak-ness, and Mr. Hubbell encouraged him in his good intentions. A few days later Man-u-let-o invited Mr. Hubbell to come to a temperance meeting the Navajos would hold. They were going to combine it with a cere-monial dance. Man-u-let-o said he was going to give a lecture on temperance. The old chief gave an eloquent talk on the evils of drink to the group of Indians gathered in a corral. There was one Indian in the crowd who was already under the influence of liquor. Acting on drunken impulse, this Indian made his way up to the speaker and produced a bottle of whiskey. He invited Man-u-let-o to have a drink. The old chief resisted for a while, but eventually the fumes were too much for him. He accepted the bottle and took a long drink, continuing his lecture with the half empty bottle in hand. As he waxed more eloquent, he would pause occa-sionally to refresh himself. Finally the words became all mixed up and Man-u-let-o wandered over to the side of the corral where he went sound asleep. The rest of the Indians went on with the dance with-out paying any attention to him. The fallen temperance lecturer lay there on the ground all night, con-tracting a chill which turned to pneumonia. Shortly Man-u-let-o died.

Never have I seen a man more understanding of Indian psychology than Mr. Hubbell. No problem of any Indian was too large or too small to merit his wholehearted, sympathetic attention. Once, while I was staying with him, his branch trading post at Cornfields, Arizona, was struck by lightning. No Navajo will subscribe to the theory that lightning never strikes twice in the same place. They refused to trade at the store struck by lightning and would not touch the goods that had been in it. Mr. Hubbell solved their boycott by loading his stock in a big wagon one evening and hauling it off before the Indians' eyes. Driving out into the desert, he rearranged the load under cover of darkness, and drove back next day with his "new stock." The Navajos were satisfied and business was carried on as usual.

One day a Navajo boy herding a flock of sheep unintentionally let them stray on a white man's land. The man angrily. ordered the boy to get them off quickly. The young shepherd was doing so as fast as he could, but the man impatiently drew a gun and shot one of the sheep. With a show of spirit characteristic of his race, the Indian boy shot one of the white man's cows. The man shot another sheep, and the boy shot another cow. After which the white man fired at the boy, barely missing him. The youngster then took aim at the man and killed him with a single shot. This young Navajo was tried for murder and sentenced to Yuma Prison for life. Believing that the boy had received a raw deal, Mr. Hubbell turned heaven and earth in his behalf and finally succeeded in having him pardoned.

The Navajos raise some corn for food, but their wealth is principally in their flocks of sheep, goats, and ponies. They are among the wealthiest Indian tribes in the country.

Chief Dodge, a very wealthy Navajo who made his money dealing in sheep, is typical. Because his name was Dodge, he purchased a Dodge car, and had a white man drive it for him. He lived in a fine residence on the Navajo reservation, and sent his chil-dren to an eastern college to be educated.

Original image from book

Figure 22 Navajo Sheep Corral

Wherever the Navajo builds his campfire is home. Usually he builds two campfires one for the animals to gather around, and the other for his family. The Navajo's house is a round log hut with one door in it always facing east. This is known as a hogan. It resembles a huge beehive. In the center of the roof is a hole a yard or so across, opening to the stars above. Below this hole he builds his fire so that the heat will warm all parts of the hogan, but the smoke will escape through the hole. In the summertime while he is on the move, the hogan is usually made of brush plastered with mud. While they are on the move these nomads of the Painted Desert build their campfires in the shelter of a ravine or a cliff.

According to legends passed on by word of mouth from one generation to another, the Navajos first secured sheep and goats from the early Spanish settlers in Mexico, probably in the sixteenth century. Prior to that time the tribes lived by hunting and by raiding their agricultural neighbors, the Pueblos.

Among the Navajos there is a curious division of property. The hogan, the sheep, and the goats belong to the women. The horse saddles and jewelry belong to the men. If a Navajo woman tires of her husband, she can divorce him by merely placing his saddle out-side the door of the hogan. This, I might add, is seldom done. The Navajo family ties are close. They are particularly devoted to their children, who learn to ride ponies before they can walk, so that they can follow the flocks along with their elders. The children help their parents in herding sheep, and sometimes they do all the work themselves. They are good herders.

The little girls dress exactly like their mothers, and comb their hair the same way. I have seen them weaving blankets, and have seen the little Indian girl in the hogan cooking meals for her younger brothers and sisters when their parents were away.

The Navajo children, especially the little girls, are more superstitious about posing for their portraits than the children of other tribes. One little girl, for instance, refused to sit for me because she had had a bad dream about posing for me. The boys are shy of strangers.

At one time a Navajo chief had the right to as many wives as he could purchase and support. But this custom has disappeared, although wives are still obtained by purchase, the transaction being carried on entirely between the prospective groom and his I chosen mother-in-law. The girl has nothing to say I about it. After he is married, a Navajo will not look at his mother-in-law for fear of going blind. I have seen a Navajo start into a store, then beat a hasty retreat because his mother-in-law was doing some shopping.

One old Navajo chief living in a remote part of the extensive reservation was discovered with several wives. The Indian agent told him to pick out the one he wanted to keep and send the others back to their mothers. The old Indian listened to the instructions carefully. After some thought he spoke for the first time. "You tell 'em", he said.

The Navajos have a dance which they call the Ya-be-chey. It lasts all night and is an interesting ceremony. Unlike most Indians, the Navajos sing and dance at the same time. They are quite willing to hold their dances in public and visitors are almost always invited. Usually these dances are held in a corral.

The Navajos are particularly devoted to their medicine men who give no medicine whatsoever. It is strange that a people so intelligent in other ways should believe so devoutly in the power of incanta-tions to cure their illnesses. The medicine men place all of the patients in a tribe in a single hogan. The "doctor" who undertakes the cure sings and yells at the top of his voice, dances and jumps about, and waves his hands to-ward the hole in the top of the hut. The Navajo idea is that illness is caused by the presence of devils in the body. The "Doctor" is supposed to drive the devils out of the body and up through the hole in the top of the hut.

So great is the influence of the Navajo "doctors" that they are frequently called in by the surrounding Indian tribes. The Hopi women especially have great faith in Navajo medicine men for their children. I have seen as many as twelve Hopi mothers sitting on the floor each holding a sick child while a huge Navajo shouted, yelled, and waved for the devils to leave the children and go out through the hole in the roof.

Original image from book

Figure 23 Navajo Mother and Child

One day I was painting a Navajo woman and her child. This mother had been to school and was fairly well educated. I noticed that the little girl's body was covered with sores. Earlier that morning I had also observed that she had called in a Navajo "doctor" to hold. his incantations, trying to heal the child. My sympathies for the youngster overcame me and I could not resist speaking to the mother. "You are an educated woman," I said. "You know that Navajo medicine men cannot cure your child. Why don't you take her to the government doctor?" My words were all that she needed to swing the balance between her superstitions and her better judgment. She took my advice and the youngster was soon cured.

Often these "sings," as the Navajo medicine men's ceremony is called, are abetted by sand pictures as a medium of curing illness. The relatives of the sick person gather around while the medicine man, using different colored sands, makes a picture on the floor. These sand pictures are supposed to have a mysterious power for good. If for any reason the sand pictures and the "sing" fail to free the Navajos of the microbes, and the ill person dies, his body and his effects are burned With the hogan, and no healthy Navajo would think of entering a house in which anyone had died.

Another strong superstition among the Navajos is that having to do with the coyote. They will not kill the coyote, though they know it kills their sheep. For they believe the coyote takes their soul to the next world.

A surprising custom among the Navajos is that of having the women do all of the butchering. They are very skillful butchers, as was demonstrated one day when a Navajo woman whose picture I had painted came to me on a rainy day and asked if she might butcher a sheep in my studio. This seemed an unusual request, but inasmuch as she promised not to do any damage, I consented. She performed the operation without getting a single drop of blood on the floor.

The Navajos are excellent cooks. Their favorite way of cooking meat is to broil it on sticks held over an open fire. They also cook a sheep's head without removing the brains from the skull. After the cooking they break open the skull and eat out the brains.

The Navajos are most devoted shepherds for the thousands of sheep which they herd across the desert with the aid of sheep dogs, in search of grass. The Navajo boys are trained to do this work as soon as they can ride. Every boy has an empty bag tied to his saddle. Any stray lambs which are deserted by their mothers are carried to the hogan in this bag, to be raised by hand.

All Navajos are industrious and as soon as they pause in their never-ending trek across the desert, the women resume work on their rugs and the men take up their silver work. The Navajo jewelry is artistic and is made entirely by the men from Mexican dollars which they melt down and pour into moulds. From this they make buttons for their clothes, bracelets, and hammered silver belts.

However accomplished the Navajo men might be as silversmiths, it is the Navajo women who have made the nation famed the world over with their blankets and rugs.

to the coming of the white man these blankets were made in only three colors: white, gray, and black. The designs were worked out by mixing the wool of white and black sheep. When the American traders arrived in the Navajo country they brought with them yarns which gave the Navajos a wider range of colors. Reds and greens blended well in the Navajo designs.

The first red that the Navajos used came from a finely woven cloth traded to the Indians by a party of English travelers and traders. This was known as Bietta cloth. The Navajos patiently unraveled this cloth and added these yarns to their blankets. These blankets are now very rare and even a small one will bring a good price.

Later the traders who bought the rugs insisted upon the use of purple and yellow which brought about a clash of colors. Then the commercial spirit of the Navajos worked to the disadvantage of their artistry and soon the rugs and blankets lost much of their original beauty of design. I have often seen the traders instructing squaws how to make blankets, telling them to work in more colors, to use pinks and purples and to leave less "bare space."

The beauty of a genuine Navajo blanket is its simplicity of design and harmony of color. Like most children, the Indians are close copyists and their eagerness to give the traders what they want accounts for the loss of artistry in weaving as well as color blending. The finest Navajo blanket I ever saw was one at Mr. Hubbell's, measuring twenty-five feet square. It was an inch thick and had been sold to a New York club for several hundred dollars.

The Navajos are supposed to have learned the art of weaving from the neighboring Hopis. Tradition I has it that the Hopis taught the Navajos to weave in exchange for assurance that the Navajos would cease their raids on the Hopi villages. Curiously, among the Hopis the men are the weavers, whereas among the Navajos the women do all the rug making.

In olden times the Navajos and Hopis were bitter enemies and waged constant warfare. The Navajos were the aggressors. The Hopis, being a peace loving people, lived largely by peaceful pursuits. Many and bitter were the wars between these two peoples.

The Navajos and the Hopis are still whole-hearted rivals in a more peaceful way. They are keen traders, but the Navajos invariably have the advantage. Whenever groups from the two nations get together they indulge in horse racing and other sports, with many side bets on the results. The Navajos invariably win the horse racing because they Breed and raise better horses. However, the Hopis make it up in foot races, since they are able to outrun any Navajo or any other Indian.

One of the outstanding memories of my happy days among the Navajos was the Christmas I was invited by Mr. and Mrs. Charles Bierkemper, missionaries at Ganado, to help them in a feast they were giving for the Navajos at their little church. They had a Christmas tree laden with presents for the Indians, and after a fine address by the missionary, I was appointed Santa Claus to help pass out the food and presents among the Indians.

The guests had not been limited in the number of dogs they could bring. Consequently each family had from one to a dozen dogs there. After all the! men, women, and children had been fed, I told them that Santa Claus Many-Brushes was going to see that all the dogs had a Christmas dinner. I fed the dogs with the remains of the feast. This pleased the Navajos so much that they burst out in a cry of "Yachte, yachte." This means "good," and established my standing permanently among these American Bedouins.

THE FASCINATING PUEBLOS

Of all the one hundred and twenty-eight Indian tribes among whom I have lived and worked, the most fascinating were those of the Pueblo group the Hopi, Zuni, Acoma, Laguna, Zia, San Ultel Fonso, Namba, Jamez; Isleta, Santo Domingo, and Tewa tribes. Among some of them I was welcomed; among others I painted at the risk of my life.

To this day it astonishes me to think of a people as intelligent and skillful as the Pueblos living shackled by superstition and witchcraft. The Pueblos have been more or less under the white man's domination since 1540, when the Spanish explorers first found them. Yet four centuries of contact with the white man find the Pueblos still living primitively in isolated tenements constructed of clay in the characteristic architecture which has so greatly influenced our own throughout the southwestern states.

Long before the white men came, these town dwelling natives of the desert had developed a considerable civilization of their own. Surrounding them on all sides were ruins of cliff dwellings pointing to an even greater Indian culture. The Pueblos spoke four distinct languages. They are related more closely to the Indians of central Mexico than those that live near them, and it is believed that their culture was an offshoot of the ancient Mayan civilization which preceded that of the Aztecs. All the Pueblos were remarkable Indians in that they had learned how to till the soil, raise their own food, and store it against droughts. They had also become skillful artisans at pottery, basket making, and weaving.

They usually built their homes on mesas. Often their pueblos were reached only by ladders which could be drawn up when enemies threatened them. Because of this aloofness, I found portrait painting among the different Pueblo tribes an exciting adventure. Certain tribes, notably the Hopi, made me welcome. Others, such as the Zunis and Santo Domingos, bade me be gone. Invariably I ran headlong against traditions and superstitions which made the life of an artist difficult.

Original image from book

Figure 26 He-patina

The Zunis believed that anyone who made a line of another person was a witch. As soon as I arrived among this isolated people they nicknamed me "Witch Man." Inadvertently I chose as one of my first subjects an old woman who had recently been accused of witchery. This old squaw lived near a Zuni family, one of whose children had died suddenly. The Zuni medicine men concluded that she had bewitched the child and caused its death. After a powwow they seized her one night, rushed her to a church, and hanged her to a rafter.

Other Zunis, more sensible, arrived in time to cut her down before she died. She was revived and lived to have her portrait painted by the "Witch Man," an act which did not improve the reputation of either of us. In fact, shortly after she sat for me I was earnestly advised by friendly Zunis to leave their village, which I did.

It was eight years before I returned to their pueblo. When I came back they recognized me immediately, but were more friendly. I asked them if they still considered me a witch. "No," said one of their chief medicine men, "we do not, believe in witches any more. We have learned better." After that I was permitted to paint portraits among them without serious objection.

Not so with the Santo Domingos. My first contact with these aloof Indians was at another pueblo where two Santo Domingos were visiting. Wishing to meet some of the tribe, I went over to them and extended my hand to one of them. Since he could not avoid it, he shook hands, but he was anything but enthusiastic about doing so. I told them I wanted to come to their village to paint the portraits 'of some of their chiefs, and had arranged with the government Indian agent to visit them. The agent had provided me with a letter to the "governor," as the head man in any Pueblo tribe is known.

In spite of these preliminary arrangements I learned when I set out for the village of Santo Domingo that the Indians had put two guards on the trail to head me off before I entered their village. So I took a roundabout trail and reached the village by the back door, so to speak, before they were aware of it.

At the first house I asked where I could find the governor. I thought at first that the big six-foot Indian who came to the door was going to attack me. But instead he rushed past me, motioning me to follow him. He led me to a dim council chamber where I found several Indians holding a powwow. The upshot of their discussion was that the interpreter advised me to leave at once. I pled with them to let me return on the following day and show them my portfolio. After some hesitation they agreed.

The next day I found the same group assembled. They immediately became very much interested in my paintings and examined them carefully. I thought that I had overcome their hostility. Imagine my astonishment when, after a brief discussion, the interpreter turned to me and said, "We have seen your pictures, now get out."

I told the interpreter I had heard a good deal about the Santo Domingo Indians, and asked him if he would care to hear what was told me. He replied, "Yes. Tell us." "I was told you treated the school teacher, who was a woman, so badly that she left. This morning I looked in the schoolhouse and discovered that you are using it as a stable for horses.

"The government wanted to build you a good flume, costing twenty-five thousand dollars, to take the place of the old one which leaked and caused you a lot of trouble. But you would not allow it to be built.

"The government, in order to have a good well dug for you, had to have soldiers with Winchester rifles to keep you Indians off until the well was dug. It was a good well. But as soon as the well was finished, you Indians killed a burro and threw it into the well to spoil the water.

"A lady took some photographs of your village. You took her camera and broke it, then gave it to her and ordered her away. "Is all this that I have told you true?" I asked the interpreter. "Yes," he answered. "But why do you do such things?" I asked. He did not answer. "Do you want me to tell you what I think about it?" "Yes," he replied again. "I think you Indians do not use good judgment." But by no amount of pleading could I change their decision. The most I could wheedle out of them was permission to paint portraits of any Santo Domingo who happened to be in the nearby town where I was stopping. The curious aftermath of this experience was that several of the Santo Domingos who participated in the decision against me came secretly to pose for me, each insisting that I never tell any other Santo Domingo that he had posed for his picture.

After leaving there I went on to Santa Fe, New Mexico, to the Indian School. There the Santo Domingo Indian girls, very fine subjects, posed for me.

The dances of the Pueblo Indians' ceremonies are of great significance to them, and they object to having strangers witness them. For example, I arrived at the pueblo of Jemez while the Indians were holding one of their important ceremonial dances in an open court. They immediately escorted me into a small dark room and insisted that I stay there until the dance was over.

Shortly before, just as the ceremonial dance was beginning, the United States mail stagecoach had arrived at the village. The Indians held up the coach, delaying it for four hours so that the driver could not see the dance while he was driving through the village. This act almost provoked war between the United States government and the Jemez pueblo. When the postmaster complained about the holding up of the mail, the Indians were warned that it must not happen again. They solved the problem by ingeniously rigging up a huge sheet between two poles. When during the next dance the mail coach arrived, two Indians walked alongside the stagecoach, carrying the sheet between the driver and the dancers, so that he could not see what was going on.

So far as I know there was only one white man permitted to witness a Jemez Indian ceremony. He had been made a medicine man for a most unusual reason. The Indians were digging an irrigation ditch when they encountered a boulder so large they could not remove it. This white man happened along about that time and obligingly blew the rock out of the way with dynamite. The white man's dynamite impressed them as being very potent medicine indeed, and they accepted him as one of their own people.

To me the most interesting of all the Pueblo Indians were the Hopis. They were known as the "peaceful people," and it was their proud boast that they had never waged an offensive war against their neighbors. Originally the Hopis were called "the Moqui Tribe." However, Moqui means "death" in their language, and the tribe changed its name to "Hopi" which means "life."

The Hopis still live in their compact villages built on three mesas or tablelands in eastern Arizona and western New Mexico, just as they did when the Spaniards first discovered them in 1540. At that time the gold hungry conquistadores thought they had found in the Hopi villages the fabulously rich seven cities of Cibola. Finding no gold among the Hopis, they returned to Mexico leaving these industrious natives to their quaint ways.

On the easternmost, or first mesa are the villages of Hano, Sichomovi, and Walapi. The people of the first mesa are the pottery makers. On the second mesa are the Mishnonghovi, Shipaulovi, and Shumopavi. On the westernmost, or third mesa are the villages of Orabi, Hotemvilla, and Bacabi. Forty miles farther west is the village of Moenkopi which is the farming center for Oraibi. On the second and third mesas live the basket makers and rug weavers of Hopiland.

All of the Hopis except the residents of Hano, speak one language. Tradition has it that the people of Hano are Tewas. Originally they lived farther to the south in New Mexico, and were famed as warriors. A century ago when the Hopis were being continuously robbed by the marauding Navajos and Apaches, the Tewas were invited to come there and live among them to act as guards against invasion. Since that time the Hopis have lived in peace. Being skillful pottery makers, the Tewas brought their art with them and are still the leaders in this craft.

I lived among the Hopis for many months. Never have I known a more charming, hospitable, and peace-loving people. Several years prior to my arrival, the government, in the interest of good health, offered to build the stone walls of some new homes if the Hopis would agree to move down from the mesas to the lowlands. The Great White Father even agreed to put on tin roofs, to build floors and doors and windows in the new pueblos, and to furnish them with beds, stoves, chairs, and tables. Many of the Indians accepted his offer of furnished homes, and a number of them were built at Polacca, Arizona. But few of the Hopis lived in the new houses. Instead they rented them to tourists and lived on the proceeds. I rented one of these houses for five dollars a month, and converted it into a comfortable studio. The house was just as the government had built it, except that the springs to the beds were gone. When I complained about this, the Hopi owner naively explained that he needed the bed springs to dry peaches in the sun.

Hopi life is typical of the best Pueblo traditions. Since I spent more time among the Hopis than among the other Pueblo tribes, I will try to give a word picture of it in detail, but living conditions in the other Pueblo villages are almost identical.

Life is hard, wrested from the barren soils of the southwestern deserts. It is a strange enigma indeed that the greatest advance towards civilization made by any primitive American people was achieved by the Pueblos. And of all the Pueblo peoples, the Hopis were the most advanced and prosperous.

As the result of repeated droughts, the Hopis had learned, like the ancient Egyptians, to store their grain against the dry years. They had no buffalo herds, fish-bearing streams, nor food-yielding wilderness in which to forage. Theirs was a harsh, unfriendly land which produced only when the weather conditions were exceptionally good. Usually the Hopis stored enough grain to last at least two years, in case of emergency.

Their lands for growing crops had been handed down from generation to generation for hundreds of years. Their farms were the joint property of the people of the village. Each village had its own farm lands, some of them quite distant. I was told that the men who farmed the lands belonging to the village of Moenkopi sometimes ran forty miles to their work in the morning, worked all day in the burning sun, then ran forty miles back home at night. This gives but an idea of the difficulties under which this amazing people carried on their agriculture.

Their principal crop was corn. Because of the frequent sandstorms, Hopis had to be very careful about the planting of their corn. First they would dig a hole in the sand, place a few grains in the hole, then build a fortification of dirt around the hill on the side from which the prevailing winds blew. This protected the young shoots from the sandstorms and by the time the corn grew above the fortification sandstorm time had passed.

That did not end the Hopi's worries over his cornfield. Crows and ground rats and other wild life hovered about waiting for a chance to eat the corn stalks. At the edge of each field a hut was built and there a Hopi stayed all day long watching for invaders. If bird or beast entered his field or that of his neighbors he stood sentinel to drive them away.

Corn was raised in three colors: red, yellow, and blue. They also grew many squashes and melons, and raised the finest peaches I ever ate. It was a custom among these people to allot each peach tree to a girl whose duty it was to care for the tree from childhood on as long as she lived.

Each Hopi village had its flock of turkeys. Curiously these were not raised for food, but for their feathers which were highly prized in ceremonial rites. Just before the big dances these turkeys presented an odd appearance strutting around with their tail feathers plucked. Many Hopi villages had their flocks of eagles which were captured young and raised in cages. They, too, were prized for their feathers.

In many ways the Hopi villages, like those of the other Pueblo Indians, were women's worlds. The weaker sex seemed to dominate the affairs of each pueblo. The women owned the property, including the pueblo itself. The family line was traced through the women. They had the final say so in most village affairs. Those who know the Pueblos say that it is the conservatism of the women of these tribes that is largely responsible for the lack of change in the four centuries that the Pueblos have been exposed to the white man's civilization.

The men were the farmers in each Hopi village. They were the warriors if the village was attacked. They conducted the ceremonial dances by which the Hopis propitiated their gods. The women, on the other hand, took charge of the food when it was produced, and stored it. They were the cooks, the pottery and basket makers, and the rug weavers. It always seemed to me that in spite of the fact that they were the bosses of the pueblo, the Hopi women took on much more of the work than did the men.

The most important job was that of grinding the corn into fine meal. This was done by pulverizing the grain between two stones. It was a tedious operation and it required a long time to get a little meal. The little Hopi girls were started at this job as soon as they were old enough to hold a grinding stone in their hands. When they were grinding corn they would sing, and all had sweet voices.

As soon as they were in their teens they learned to make a bread called "pike." Many times I have watched them at this fascinating operation. Their stove consisted of a flat stone two feet long and one foot wide. It was propped up at each corner with smaller stones. Underneath it a fire was built. The corn meal was mixed with water and lye, to make a batter. When the stone was heated just right they spread this batter over it with their hands. It cooked very quickly and when it was done it was removed from the hot stone in sheets as thin as paper. It ranged in color from bluish black to pink. I found pike very nourishing and healthful. When rolled up it was most convenient to dunk into coffee or soup. I bec