--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Jakeman, Ellen L. collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 29 number: 9 published: 1926-07 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: "Jakeman, Ellen L., “Indian Joe,” *Improvement Era* 29, no. 9 (July 1926): 842–851." source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2909unse 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: improvementera2909unse start_page: 842 end_page: 851 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1926-07) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2909unse 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. --- # Indian Joe INDIAN JOE By Ellen L. Jakeman The strange energy that prompted Latter-day Saints to leave home and native lands, cross the untracked plains to form a new1 empire in the West, drove them to extend in every direction. Groups built towns, school houses, churches — and filled them; fenced the landscape and farmed it, as communities1. In two's and three's they built grist-mills, saw mills, and took up ranches and individual farms. Spread out! Spread out! "Give us room that we may dwell," lurked in every movement; and all was onward with a rush. Sometimes they sensed the mighty structure for which they were laying the foundation, but for the most part they were diverted and engrossed by the joys, sorrows and labors of the day in which they lived, "even as you and I." The flood-tide of that living stream of energy carried the pioneers beyond the barriers of safety, and often of succor. The Indians, always abused, robbed and sometimes murdered by those who came before, looked upon all white men as enemies, and grew resentful of their swift appropriation of trees for their saws, and streams of water and deer pastures for their farms. It is not to be' wondered at, nor held against them, that there were some tragedies enacted, on our frontiers in early days. Robert Stewart found a letter in his mail box one evening that had been there at least two days, the contents of which disturbed him very much. His mail box was a wooden starch box skilfully affixed to a stump; and long before free rural delivery had been established he and the obliging mail carrier enroute on horse back to the next town, had arranged between them for Mr. Stewart's mail to be placed in this box at the extreme western end of the farm, near the highway. The letter told him that his wife, who1 was ill and in town tc see a doctor, was worse, and would he come at once? Blsming himself severely for not visiting the box oftener, Mr. Stewart hurried to the house, tossed the letter to his/ sixteen-year-old daughter and called his son who was some two years younger to help him, making all possible speed in getting ready to drive the eight miles to town. "Dare you two youngsters stay alone?" their father asked, with a little wrinkle of anxiety for them, adding itself to the worry and self-reproach he felt on his wife's account. "We certainly dare!" said John. "I can take care of the stock INDIAN JOE 843 as well as you can, and sister, too, if she's! afraid, but I don't think she is." "Of course, I'm not afraid! There is nothing to be afraid of. When the stock is properly shut up nothing can get at them, and we will lock and bar the doors, and what could harm us?" "Well, several things could, so I want you to do just as I tell you, and listen carefully. John, you feed anl water the stock for night as soon ias I am gone, so as to get it done well' before dark. Shut all the animals up in their proper pens tonight, and as the horses will be gone, you'd better put the Jersey bull up in the stable. Remember the steel trap set outside the stable wall, and don't get into it yourself. Mary, you'd better do the milking, and see that plenty of water is in the house, and all the cut wood, so there will be nothing to open the door for, when it is once shut and barred, 'till tomorrow morning," said Mr. Stewart, while making his preparations almost on the run. "Now, I want to tell both of you: don't open the door at night for anyone unless it Us a stock man that you know. Should any stranger ask for shelter, which is not at all likely, send him to the cellar that we lived in the first year we were here; he will be fairly comfortable. Now don't forget anything, and if all is well I will be back with mother by noon tomorrow and have dinner with you," and with a hurried glance drove off. A hundred yards away he stopped and bade the children call the dog back and tie him up till the horses were out of sight, for he wanted to follow them and the beloved master, of course. "Shut him up in the house with you," was the father's parting injunction, and he was gone. There was a queer, lonely feeling as soon as father and the team disappeared over the rim of the valley, but neither Mary nor John would have owned to such a feeling. They went briskly to work to get the evening chores done, and were soon snugly shut into the house with window shutters hooked and doors locked and barred. Mary prepared rather an extra supper, and they enjoyed the thrill cf being alone and looking out for themselves. Mary planned what she would cook for dinner next day, hoping mother would be home with them to help eat it. They were very much awake, so John got out a book they were reading together, and by the light of a "fat" pine-fire and a tallow dip he read aloud, while Mary made nimble fingers fly, knitting socks, for which she herself had spun the yarn. It was late Autumn and there had been a very heavy fall of snow in the upper mountain ranges, comparatively little in the lower foot hills, and only a skiff during the past week at the ranch; but night came early and the nights were crisp and cold. About nine o'clock, in the midst of a particularly thrilling passage 844 IMPROVEMENT ERA in the book, they heard the even beat of a horse's hoofs, and both tensed to listen. "Indian pony," whispered John, "no shoes." The dog, Bruno, who had been sleeping quietly, rose silently with neck hair bristling and came over and stood expectantly by the door. Indian depredations were considered a thing of the past, and yet the two children thrilled with something like fear as they heard the hoof beats slow up, and then cease. For five of the longest minutes they had ever known there was silence; then a rain of heavy blows fell with startling clatter on the door. The dog barked furiously, but the young folks said (never a word, just clung to each other's hands and stared into each other's faces. Then a voice, unmistakably Indian, but speaking English, said: "Open door. Me hungry. Want to warm by fire," and turning the knob, the Indian tried by lunging against the door to force it open. But lock, hinges and bars held, and would hold for a much greater assult than that. Mary had somehow recovered herself by this time, and spoke as calmly as she could: "No; we can't open the door for you, but you will find something you can eat in the cellar out there, and there is a small stove, you can build a fire and sleep down there." The Indian laughed. That classified him as raised by white people, for the Indian grunts, rather than laughs when pleased. "I see your old man go town. You pretty quick better open door, or I shoot you!" Mary grabbed her brother and they flattened themselves against a wall out of range of the door just as a bullet, aimed where he heard the voice denying him, came through the upper panel and buried itself in the adobe wall opposite. Knowing that Indians usually carried muzzle loading guns, and feeling that it was time he asserted himself, John dashed to the deer horns over the fire place and got his father's gun, and balancing it across a chair, sent a bullet through the door himself. Mary had dragged to shelter the unwilling Bruno, who was- barking savagely and though border-bred they listened aghast to the profanity the shot from the house elicited from the surprised Indian. "Pretty quick, I kill you for that," and they heard his taking his spite and easing his temper on his horse vigorously, and as the noise receded from the house the children hoped with almost breathless intensity that he was going. But no! He was only leading his horse out of range of another bullet which the besieged children might decide to let fly. Indians raised by white people were generally spoken of as "tame" Indians. But if they reverted to the wild again were more to be INDIAN JOE 845 dreaded than the most ferocious of all Indians-. Of necessity they learned much it was not well for an enemy to know. "We need not be too much afraid of him," whispered John, who was helping Mary keep the dog against the wall, "he is alone." But Mary was unconvinced. "If it's that Smith Indian — Joe, he's bad. You know father said he shot all the Smith pigs and cows full of arrows and took the family's horses when he decided to go back to his own people, and the Smiths had always been very good to him. If it's he, he will stop at nothing. There! He's coming back again!" The Indian now flattened himself against the wall by the door, and with the butt of his whip, beat a tatto on the panels for half an hour. Getting no reply, he said: "I goin' get brush. Burn house. Then kill an' scalp," and he laughed in gloating anticipation. He certainly was enjoying himself scaring two white children, and was perfectly capable of carrying out his threat. There is something in the thought of death by fire to appall the strongest heart. The children were dumb with horror. They heard him cross the yard, go out at the gate, and then, — all was silent. All the cut wood had been brought into the house, and only a few heavy logs that would require sawing remained of the home supply, so the Indian, the children knew, would have to go some little distance for material to carry out his threat. The dog seemed to sense a new trouble, for he barked and snarled and begged to be let out. At this juncture they heard the fine, imported Jersey bull, which their father was so proud of, snorting and bellowing, and thrashing around like mad. "Oh, Mary!" John exlaimed in consternation. "I forgot to shut Jersey in the stable as father told me, and that devil is killing him. What wilt father think of me?" and John sank to the floor, in abject misery. "I guess father won't say much about the bull, if he finds us two alive," Mary whispered back, as another roar of battle came from the stockade, followed by sundry sounds that proclaimed that the Jersey was defending himself vigorously from some enemy. "That isn't the Indian," said John wisely. "Any Indian, and more especially one raised by the whites, would know better than to get into a pen with a Jersey bull," and they were puzzled. For some minutes the battle raged; then, save for an occasional deep-toned, menacing roar from the bull, quiet was restored to the stock yards and animal enclosures; for, of course, all the farm animals had added their special vocal outcry to the din of battle. While the children listened with strained nerves for the Indian to return with his fuel, they heard a stealthy step. At first they thought it was Mr. Indian sneaking up to surprise them, but a few 846 IMPROVEMENT ERA moments made it plain that the steps were on the roof! What new danger menaced them they could not conjecture, for at that moment the Indian returned and threw an arm load of combustible material noisily down in the yard, swearing vilely. "You open door now, or me burn?" he inquired, but neither Mary nor John answered him. "He must have other Indians with him," whispered Mary to her brother, who was holding the dog and leaning a listening ear toward the footsteps on the roof. "No," said John, whispering. "The Indian don't even know it's there. Look at Bruno, and listen to him. He didn't talk the same language to the Indian when he wanted to go out and fight him. This is the way he "talks when there are wolves about. He don't bark, -just growls and shows his teeth." "But wolves would not be on top of the house!" "No," said John, still whispering, "but I think whatever was fighting the Jersey is now on the roof. Father set a steel trap for some animal that had been prowling 'round the place and left its tracks in the light fall of snow that came last week, and I remember he said it had been on top of the shed, and it could easily get from there into the stockade. From the way Jersey is still muttering to himself and challenging the whole world to mortal combat, I guess the thing was pretty glad .to get out alive, whatever it was." The Indian really did not want to burn the house, he wanted to rob it; so, just for luck, and to prolong the torture of the children he intended to kill, he fired another shot through the door. Of course, he did not hit anybody,, as the children had not moved from safety against the wall. While their tormentor was in leisurely fashion ramming home a wad, preparatory to loading his gun, something happened. A scratching on the roof, a soft, firm impact, and a blood-curd- ling screech from the Indian, and then pandemonium broke loose. Everything in the yard that was movable seemed to be performing a satanic dance. Empty buckets, tin milk-pans, boxes, a churn and the faggots which the Indian had brought to burn the house, all joined in a wild melee; and through it all were the unmistakable sounds of human agony and animal ferocity. The startled children, too weak to stand, slipped to the floor and sat with their backs against the wall, John's face buried in his sister's lap; and the dog, tearing himself loose from the limp hands that sought to restrain him, simply went mad with savage excitement and desire to join the fight. It was only a few minutes till quiet gradually settled down again save for a few feeble whines. This fight had started the voices of the animals again, but that also quieted down after a bit, and the young ranchers, still not daring INDIAN JOE 847 to move from the wall, allowed themselves the luxury of breathing freely again, and to speculate in whispers as to what had probably happened. The dog reluctantly gave up his demands to be let out, and lay with his nose pointed toward the door, keenly alert. "I think something has happened to that Indian," whispered Mary. "I do hope so," her brother replied, "and oh, Mary! don't ever tell anyone that I hid my face in your lap when the worst of the fight was going on, will you?" "Shucks!" said Mary, "that's nothing. I'm lots the older, and, anyhow, I know you are lots the braver if it came to a real fight for us" right here in the house!" And, soothed and assured, John walked deliberately over to the fireplace, past the dangerous door and put another log of wood on the fire. The scream of a horse in mortal agony and crazed with fear rent the stillness of the night! John hopped to the protection of the wall instinctively, and Mary, with all her border training, could not suppress a shuddering cry of fright, and the wrenching sobjs that followed it. Now it was John's turn to be comforter. He took his sister in his arms and said: "There, there, Mary; that was only a horse. The Indian's horse I think. Something has killed it. I don't blame you for crying after all we've been through tonight, and it is a heart- breaking sound; especially to those who love horses as we do. Don't cry. I think something has happened to Mr. Indian and his horse, too. ; We must look out that it don't get us or the dog, or father and mother when they come. Brace up now! I feel that the worst is over." i ; Silence once more settled down through a moonless night, saved from utter darkness by the brilliancy of the stars. With wooden shutters closely drawn and hooked over the windows and the doors closed, only a faint glimmer of the star-light came in through the high and narrow transoms. The brother and sister conversed in whispers, ears strained for a renewal of the night's dire happenings. Suddenly John rose to his feet and said: "I hear another horse coming!" "But father will not come on horseback!" "It's only eleven o'clock, not near time for father to start for home, and besides, the horse is coming from the other way!" Both listened intently for some minutes when John remarked: "Whoever is coming, is coming slow, and the horse is shod." The latter fact gave the frightened children some small room for hope. At a respectful distance, which was border etiquette, the horse stopped and a voice, unmistakably American, hailed the house. "Hallo, house! Hallo, Mr. Stewart!" John climbed on a table and answered through the transom. 848 IMPROVEMENT ERA "Who are you and what do you want?" John asked, trying to make his quavering young voice sound bold and grown up. Is that you, John? I am Tracy. I guess you remember me? I have been at your house before. Where is your father?" "Oh, Mr. Tracy, he's gone to town, and sister and I are here alone, and we are so glad you have come! Don't go to the, front door, there is something fearful out there, we don't know what, and at the barn, too. Lead your horse into the summer kitchen, and I v/ill get him some oats." "All right, John," said Tracy, dismounting and approaching cautiously, his pistol in his hand, prepared for eventualities. But the horse was led into the shelter, and the outside door fastened again without incident. Mary replenished the fire, and left to John the honor of telling Mr. Tracy of the evening's doings. "Well, it seems that I would have been here just about in time to stop that Indian myself, if my horse had not gone lame," Mr. Tracy remarked. "But I think you've acted wisely so far. Now, it's my opinion that the fight in the yard was between the Indian and a mountain lion, and it's my duty to find out and to give what help I can if the fellow is still alive. Tracy began to undo, the fastenings of the substantial door. "Go into the other room and shut yourselves in," he told the young folks, "for we don't know what horror or hazard might lie on the other side of the door, and } think you've had about enough excitement for one night." Mary picked up the lighted lantern and did as directed; but John seized his gun and advanced resolutely to the side of their; guest, his soul suddenly lifted above personal fear by the example of bravery and humanity so clearly set; before him. Tracy looked the boy over for a moment, then shook hands with him as with a friend and comrade. Stepping to the fireplace, he seized a blazing brand, and whirling it swiftly 'round his head to make the flames bite more fiercely into the wood, threw open the door and flung it into the yard, where it served as a search light and revealed the actors in the recent catastrophy. An Indian and a mountain lion lay on the ground, the Indian almost on his face, his right hand grasping the sinew-wrapped hilt of a hunting knife, the broad blade of which was buried into the body of the lion. But that was not its only wound. The muscular body was red with crimson smears where the Indian had driven the keen blade in, again and again, in his desperate fight for life. "Both dead," said John with regret, as Mr. Tracy turned the Indian over; his rigid features appeared the only part of his person that the lion had not marked with teeth and claws. His scanty clothing hung in shreds. Experience in the army had taught Tracy how to detect a linger- INDIAN JOE 849 ing spark of life in the wounded. "The Indian is still alive, John," he replied. "Let's take him into the house and see what we can do for him." "Right in here," said Mary, dragging an old-fashioned couch in front of the fire; for she had not been able to remain in the place of safety assigned her. "I'm so glad he's not dead. What can I do to help?" "Roll bandages, if you know how, Miss Mary," answered Tracy, "and you'd better do it in the next room. And, John, you get me a pan of warm water, some salt and a large, clean, soft cloth. There is great danger of blood poisoning from the bites and scratches of wild animals and salt is a severe but very effectual antiseptic." Tracy cut away the rags of clothing and burned them. The wounds were cleansed; stitches, by means of common sewing needle and white silk thread, were put in some of the lacerations, and bandages applied where they were required. He regained consciousness long before his impromptu doctors had finished their work, but he said nothing, uttered no groan or protest, only watched them with inscrutable eyes and impassive face. Mary found an old shirt of her father's which Tracy slipped onto his patient, and when he had drunk a bowl of milk, John spread a quilt over him, and Tracy said: "Sleep, now, Joe," for he had recognized the Indian as a sullen, cunning brute who had given the white settlers a great deal of trouble. Tracy persuaded the young folks to go to bed, while he kept watch over his patient in the double capacity of nurse and guard till morning. As he sat in front of the fire and watched the Indian sleep in spite of his wounds, he began to wonder about the other party to this fight in which Joe had almost paid the final debt. "Why had not the male lion come to the assistance of his mate when she' was getting the worst of it?" he mused. At the earliest peep of day, Tracy noiselessly unbarred the door, and, pistol in hand, stepped out into the crisp morning air. The dog went with him, and together they cautiously looked about. First, they visited the corral. The Jersey was battle-scarred with torn hide; but horns red with blood, showing that the honors had not all been on one side. "So, old fellow, you had a fight, too, and won out?" said Tracy aopreciatingly. Man and dog then passed around the corner of the barn. A dead horse lay on the ground, still saddled and bridled; and within a yard of his victim a strong steel trap held fast the fore paws of a male mountain lion. The creature still showed fight, but a pistol ball at close range ended his part in the night's tragedy. "So you're the fellow who fought the Jersey," said Tracy, noting his huge frame, "and getting the worst of it, you proceeded to kill that poor old 'Injin' pony that was tied up, and got yourself into 850 IMPROVEMENT ERA a trap. Well, Joe was certainly out of luck last night," he continued to muse, "and if he really meant to do those children harm, his punishment was swift and severe. And, thinking on the infinite variety of events that are used in the working out of God's plans and providence, he returned to the house. When the Stewarts returned they were surprised to find the best room in the house converted into a temporary hospital, and Mr. Stewart's affairs in charge of a trusted friend. Mr. Tracy recounted the happenings of the night of his arrival, and told them they had children of which to be proud. He accepted Mr. Stewart's thanks with calm indifference and went his way. The patient got well so fast that it was almost impossible to believe he had ever been so seriously wounded. Humane and wise, Mr. Stewart decided to do what he could to finish the work Tracy had begun in winning the friendship of this Indian for the white settlers. The skins had been taken from the lions and tacked on the side of the granary to dry. Saddle and bridle were stripped from the dead horse, but the carcass was allowed tc remain where the horse fell till Joe was able to see it for- himself. When he looked at the dead horse, the trap, the Jersey, and the two hon hides, he needed no spoken word to complete the story. When Indian Joe announced that he was going, Mr. Stewart conducted him to the corral, led out a strong, serviceable range pony, and proceeded to put the Indian's saddle and accouterments on the animal. Indian Joe stood by in silence. John brought the lion skins, and Mary handed him his hunting knife. Mr. Stewart held up the skin pierced with the knife thrusts, and said: "My. red brother is a brave chief and shall not walk back to his people." Joe seemed overcome with strong and unaccustomed emotions — such feelings as his education, and th2t of his ancestors for a thousand years had taught his heart to suppress, and his features to conceal, as weak and contemptible. He looked at Mr. Stewart and the two chil- dren, and then off across the bleak hills and mild, desolate canyons, where the remnant of his people dwelt. He stroked the glossy neck of the pony, gently took the lion hides from his host and tied them (o his pack, accepted the tendered knife, and swung himself into his saddle — still without speaking. Poor Indian Joe was fighting another battle between all there was in him and these newly planted feelings. "When a soul £rms for battle, it goes out alone," as Owen Meredith so aptly puts it, and th? group were silent and motionless, as Indian etiquette would demand, until Joe suddenly bent and swayed toward them, and with a gesture graceful and friendly, solemnly said: "Me came to do bad; me get good. Indian's blood soaked earth, but white chief, heap medicine man, saved life. Wounds full of white man's medicine; body packed with his grub, warmed with his clothes; mc ride horse, his gift; me go INDIAN JOE 851 not weary and ashamed back to my own people. Me talk in their ears." With an air of royal condescension that a prince might have envied, he offered his hand to Mr. Stewart, who shook it warmly. "Indian now friend of the whites," said Joe; then rode away as one who had exhausted both vocabulary and subject. Why We Forget By Don P. Skousen "We all forget what we do not use. What a blessing forgetfulness is! What would life be, if we; could not forget anything?" When I was a boy I learned several boyish recitations, but with the lapse of time I have forgotten these through non-use. I once knew several mathematical formulas by which I could solve certain intricate problems, but today I can't recall these formulas. The paths I followed when a boy are not as distinct as they were a few years ago. Why? Non-use or failure to retravel them in my memory has obliterated the ups and downs, the curves and corners, the gulleys and the bumps, so that today I remember only the places of beginning and ending. Life is made up of a great many emotions, thoughts and acts each day, some of which are to be forgotten as well as remembered. The things, however, that we remember are the factors of character. Why do most missionaries bare such a forceful, fervent, and inspiring testimony when they return home, then in a year or so some of them lose their zeal, their fervor is flat, and their once inspiration is melancholy? There is but one answer. The truths they learned are fresh in their memory; these truths had become a dynamic factor in their lives; in the diversion of their energies they have forgotten those truths. To remember any truth one must occasionally review the paths leading thereto, not passively but by effort and exercise. A testimony is based on knowledge and when the facts which are crystalized into that knowledge are forgotten that testimony is bound to wane. What, then, must I dp to retain and strengthen my testimony? There is but one answer. My testimony becomes stronger with exercise and expression, by consciously seeking more truths leading to tha. knowledge. The only way I can keep and build a stronger testimony of the gospel is periodically to review the truths' which give life, inspiration, and aspira- tion to my thoughts and acts, thereby making this testimony a dynamic, vitalizing, life-giving force therein and keeping me attuned to the radio of God. Phoenix, Ariz.