--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Bowers, Wreno collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 29 number: 8 published: 1926-06 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: "Bowers, Wreno, “Chief Robinson’s Dream,” *Improvement Era* 29, no. 8 (June 1926): 720–722." source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2908unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera2908unse start_page: 720 end_page: 722 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1926-06) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2908unse publication_year: 1926 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1926, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # Chief Robinson’s Dream CHIEF ROBINSON'S DREAM By Wreno Bowers This is a true story of an Indian Chief. Sam Robinson, and his daughter, Jennie Robinson. The story was told to me one day by my uncle, William Gines, who for eighteen years lived among the Indians and became a mutual friend of Chief Robinson. The story was not only very interesting, but it taught me many of the Indian's customs, their ways of living, their superstitions and beliefs. So I have written it down for you, friend readers, in the same way that it was told to me as nearly as I could remember it. It was a rainy afternoon in early August. A heavy rain poured down from a leaden sky and the wind drove it in sheets along the ground. The hills, trees and meadows were drenching wet and the water stood in pools and puddles along the roadside and in the barn- yard. Every few moments a flash of lightning came and a deep peal of thunder went rolling down the heavens and lost itself in the distance. I was sitting by the window watching the storm and wondering if my cattle would break the pasture fence and do damage to my neighbor's grain-field in an attempt to reach shelter. My pasture was located by the river a quarter of a mile down the valley. On the opposite side of the river, in an adjoining field, Chief Sam Robinson and his band of Indians were camped. Presently the rain ceased and I mounted my saddle-horse and galloped down to the pasture. I found the cattle in good keeping and was riding along inspecting the fence when a faint moan came sighing through the branches of the trees that grew along the river's bank. Then I felt the spattering of a few big raindrops that fell upon my hat and shoulders. Spurring my horse to a gallop I started back toward the house. Then a sudden flash, followed by a furious blast, keen and sharp, sang through the trees. When the thunder rolled away and lost itself in sullen rumblings in the distance the cries of Indians came to my ears. Reining my horse toward the Indian camp I spurred him to a quick run. We had to swim the river in order to reach the camp, but the horse was a good swimmer and only checked himself to a gallop before plunging into the water. We were only half way across when Chief Robinson appeared on the opposite shore. "It's Jennie — my Jennie!" he cried. Directly the horse reached the bank and I dismounted. The Chief led me toward a tent, sitting under a large cottonwood tree, some dis- tance from where the other Indians had assembled and were talking in their own language. CHIEF ROBINSON'S DREAM 721 "Jennie — in there — dead," said the Chief, pointing toward the tent. Jennie, who had just passed her eighteenth birthday, had been sitting in her tent when the lightning struck the big tree right over her head and killed her almost instantly. But neither Chief Robinson nor any of the other Indians would go into the tent. They are very superstitious and for no consideration whatever will they enter a tent where a dead Indian is lying. If the body is left for them to remove they will pull the tent down and shake the corpse out. I went to the tent and raised the flap while the Chief stood at a distance and looked on. The girl was lying on her bed as natural as if sleeping. (The bed consisted of three bright-colored blankets spread upon the ground.) I rolled her up in the blankets and pegged the tent down to prevent the coyotes and wild cats from getting at the body. Then the Indians moved their camp a few miles up the river, leaving the girl alone. It continued to rain the remainder of the evening and far into the night. But when the dawn came the storm was gone. A few gray clouds floated lazily across the sky, but the sun shone bright and warm. A little after sun up the. Chief came to my house. For a long time he would not talk; just sat on his horse with his head drooped. Then, finally, he spoke: "I like my girl buried like white girl," he said. "What you think?" "Alright, Sam," I told him, "I'll make all arrangements." The Indian grunted, which meant, "Alright," and rode away. Now the regular custom of Indian burial is very different from that of the white people. To| get a clear conception of the Indian's funeral ceremonies we should know something about their belief on eternal life. Without reasoning or arguing or even thinking about it, the Indian accepts personal survival after death as a fact as simply obvious as the fact of life itself. When he d,ies he goes, or rather his spirit goes, to The Happy Hunting Ground — the Indian's Paradise. He knows it as well as any person can know anything. That is why they kill his best horse to go with him, and put his weapons and some food and blankets in his grave for him. These are to supply his needs until he reaches his friends in The Happy Hunting Grounds. They always dig their graves beneath a large cedar or other tree; never in the open. The tree affords shelter for the grave and is used in the killing of the dead Indian's horse. No coffin is used; the body is wrapped in blankets and placed in the grave which is usually four or five feet deep. Then the Indian's saddle, weapons, some fish or venison and usually a bag of Indian corn isi placed beside the body. The grave is then covered with cedar1 poles placed compactly together and the cracks stuffed with cedar bark. No dirt is used in covering the grave. Then the horse that is to go to his master in The Happy 722 IMPROVEMENT ERA Hunting Grounds is led to the grave. One end of a long rope is tied about his neck and a slip-knot placed around his jaws, just above th-i nostrils. The other end is run through the forks of a high branch in the cedar and tied to the saddle horn of another horse. This leaves forty or fifty feet of slack rope between the two horses'. When all is ready the saddle horse is put to a quick run and when the rope suddenly becomes tight the deceased Indian's horse is» jerked from his feet and his neck broken. This is done to prevent the horse from bleeding. If any method of killing were used that would cause a loss of blood, the Indians believe that the horse would be weak and worthless in The Happy Hunting Grounds. But Chief Robinson had decided to abandon the old Indian custom and have his daughter buried like a white woman. A rough coffin was made for her and a grave dug in the cemetery. After she had been taken from her tent and laid in her coffin the Indians kindled a big fire beneath the tree where she had been killed. Then her clothes, blankets, beads, everything that belonged to her, except her horse, was brought to the fire. One piece after another was cast into the flames and destroyed. She had all kinds of beautiful bead work, blankets, robes and moccasins. The last to come were three little kittens — Jennie's favorite pets. One by one the Chief threw them into the fire. A sharp cry of pain as they entered the crackling blaze and that was all! Nothing escaped the fire except her horse, which the Chief kept for himself. So Jennie was buried in a coffin, in the cemetery, under six feet of dirt. A profusion of flowers were strewn upon her grave and the Chief looked on and smiled. After the funeral everything went along as usual for about a week, then one day the Chief came to me. His face was sad and I could see that he was worried. "What's the matter, Sam?" I asked him. For a moment he sat upon his horse, motionless, his head drooped. Then he spoke: "Las' night," he said, "I have dream. I see my Jennie. She long, long wav behind. She sit on big rock — she tired — ■ her feet bleed — she cry. I go to her. She say to me, 'Pa, you stole my horse'." The old man's head was still drooped and a tear rolled down his dusky cheek. "What I do?" he asked, presently. "Give Jennie her horse," I told him. And the following morning three poles were raised over Jennie's grave and her horse was killed — the same way that all deceased Indian's horses are killed — and sent to her in The Happy Hunting Grounds. Again Chief Robinson looked on the scene and smiled: "My Jennie — she don' have walk any more — she got her horse now." Park City, Utah.