Ranch Child in Indian Country

Ranch Child in Indian Country TEXT BY EVA ANTONIA WILBUR-CRUCE PAINTINGS BY BILL AHRENDT

Eva Antonia Wilbur-Cruce was born in 1904 on a ranch in the Arivaca Valley her Harvard-educated physician grandfather had founded in 1865. Her father, Agustín R. Wilbur, was also born on the ranch; and when Eva was growing up, her maternal grandparents, Francisco and Margarita Vilducea, lived there as well. “Much of my life,” says Mrs. Cruce, “was spent out of doors. I rode long hours with a dry mouth and parched lips at my father’s side, day in and day out, year after year.... It was beautiful landcoveys ofquail everywhere and grass as bigh as the cattle’s backs.” The ranch is still in family hands, but the world Mrs. Cruce describes in the following essay has largely vanished, and her words are as close to that time as we are likely to get. -Charles Bowden, author of Blue Desert This essay is derived from A Cruel and Beautiful Land, by Eva Antonia Wilbur-Cruce. The book will be published by the University of Arizona Press in October.

El Cerro sat directly south of our house. Some called it El Wilbeño after my Grandfather Wilbur, who homesteaded here and was so dominant a personality in his time. Many called it El Pápago, because our Arivaca Valley teemed with Indians, some who lived there more or less permanently, and hordes of others who came and went like ants. We called it El Cerro, “the mountain,” as if it were the only one in the world.

El Cerro is not a giant mountain, but it is a rugged one, and it dominated our thoughts in many ways, just as it dominated our landscape.

Our valley was littered with small ranchitos. Homesteaders were entitled to a parcel of 160 acres, and nearly everyone took advantage of the opportunity. The rancheros rode the range every day, seeing to their cattle. We saw them often along the creek and on the hills nearby, but sometimes they also rode far afield, and El Cerro guided them back to their families, who stayed home to do the unbelievable volume of work that needed to be done on a small ranch in those days.

While the families of the rancheros stayed home, the Indians, men and women together, were constantly on the move. Despite the flow of ranchers to the valley at the turn of the century, the Indian population was much the larger. The Indians milled in and out of the valley, occupied in traveling and newsbringing, in their “industrial” or “factory” activities, and in other impenetrable, contemplative, “Indian” things, in addition to battling constantly against starvation.

Our creek-dwellers moved slowly, almost aimlessly. Others, large groups, came footing it up the creek in a businesslike manner, just passing through. They were our newsbringers. The people who were not accustomed to Indian ways could seldom tell the difference, for nothing the natives did made any sense to them. (The Indians did not like to be called “Papagos,” a name foisted on them by the “Europeans” - Americans, Mexicans, and others who trickled into Indian country. They never used the name; instead they referred to themselves and all other Indians as parientes, which meant “kinsmen.”) Our means of transportation then were slow and cumbersome. People who were settled, with work to do, were not constantly on the go. Trips were made only when absolute necessity called for them. But most of the parientes were not “settled.” Their centuries-old way of life was disrupted gradually, as European descendants settled the Southwest; and most of them owned no land and had no recognizable way of making a living. So they traveled constantly. When desert fruit was ripe in one place or another, they went to pick it. When news came of work they

could do, they went away to do it. When someone heard of trade possibilities, they loaded their wares and departed. They would disappear suddenly with no word and would be gone for months, even years at a time. Then, suddenly, they would reappear with news from the places they visited. Of course, we had no telephones, radios, or television sets, and letters and newspapers were slow to reach us. So when the Indians arrived with their news, we welcomed them and listened eagerly to their stories.

One day an Indian woman, who had been gone for a long time, slowly approached the kitchen door, as the Indians always did, and said, "Comadre, Gondina no come back." Then extending her arm to the east, she added, "New Mexico Lakes Apache killed Gondina." The news saddened us. Gondina was a pesky old Mexican man who came up from Mexico early in the spring every year, just ahead of the swallows, which was why we called him "Golondrina," the swallow. The Indians had shortened the word to make it easier to say. We never saw Golondrina return to Mexico, but he must have gone, for the next spring he would come again from the south, just before the swallows arrived from the same direction. The Indians all knew he always stopped at our house to rest and eat before resuming the journey north; so the Indian woman was eager to break the news of his death to us.

But she had visited other places, too, since we last saw her. "Comadre," she went on, "I come from Yuma, from Finacas (Phoenix), from Tucson-me and the other parientes and all places we hear Chale Day, June 24, Charles Poston, El Cadi, died. Azul walked all the way to bring Grandfather the message, and it took him the entire three months. Now, however, we all looked at one another-and as quickly looked away. No one wanted to shut off the flow of news from the Indian woman; so we did not enlighten her just then about Charles Poston's fate so many years ago. She continued to tell us of the people she saw. My grandmother's brother, Don Ramón López, was now living in Yuma, she reported, and Grandmother was so excited to hear this she jumped up and threw her arms around the visitor. "And did you talk to Ramón, comadre?" she cried.

"I talk to him. And he tells me to tell Margarita he will see her." Such news called for food, or even a drink of tesguin (a beer made from corn), in celebration. My grandparents were always delighted to share their beans and corn tortillas with travelers who broke our long, isolated months of boredom by bringing news. We listened avidly to the Indian wanderers when they came and asked questions.

Clouds of smoke often rose above the hill slopes around our Arivaca Valley when the Indians were firing their ollas. Pottery was a big business. Long lines of ollas of all sizes circled the slopes where they were made, and mounds of manure and clay soil and piles of small smooth stones used for polishing the ollas were close at hand.

The Indians also made baskets, and spent much time dyeing the bleached cloth of flour sacks, preferring the bright yellows and browns, perhaps because these dyes were the easiest to extract from the roots and sticks of barberry and from walnut hulls.

Groups of fifteen or twenty women often hurried up-country to gather dye plants, or yucca leaves to make baskets, or bear grass to make petates, sleeping pads. While they combed the countryside, they kept their eyes open for prayer sticks, which they gathered as they moved along. The Indian children who came to play with me taught me which branches made the best prayer sticks. All were cut into pieces about ten or twelve inches long, but there were a few very special branches that sent much more powerful prayers than the usual prayer stick. According to Wahyanita, an Indian girl three years older than I, not even my father's rifle had the power carried by the good prayer sticks.

Wahyanita was stout with a round face, and her hair, cut in a straight line above her eyebrows, made her head appear even more round. Her darting black eyes set her apart from the other Indian children, whose eyes were dull and usually fixed on some distant prospect. It was Homesteaders were entitled to a parcel of 160 acres, and nearly everyone took advantage of the opportunity. The rancheros rode the range every day seeing to their cattle. Poston he no here, he gono." Pointing west, she said, "Gono across sea, far away. Pobrecito! Maybe he no come back. Queen chop head off, maybe!" Many isolated people in the Southwest believed Queen Elizabeth I was still on the throne of England. She was the only European monarch they were familiar with; so, in their minds, if anyone were to be beheaded, it would be done by this Queen Elizabeth. For Charles Poston, one of the most able and controversial of the brave pioneers of Arizona, to go across the sea to the lands where people's heads were chopped off was awesome news.

But the Indian news network had that particular item very mixed up, or six years out of date, or both. Many times I heard my Grandfather Vilducea telling of a day late in September of 1902, two years before I was born, when Azul, a Pima Indian from Florence, arrived at the ranch, sent by a friend of Grandfather's to bring a message. Very weary, he came immediately to stand before Grandfather, saying: "Francisco, murió nuestro amigo, El Cadi." Our friend, the magistrate, has died. Grandfather was unable to speak for quite awhile; he was so shocked. Then he asked, "When, Azul?" And Azul raised three crooked fingers in answer: "San Juan, three months ago." On San Juan's said that Wahyanita was the daughter of an Apache. Certainly she was different.

In the years when she was my frequent companion, she taught me most of what I know about Indian beliefs. She told me all about the Indian creator-god, l'itoi, who will come again some day, the Indians believe, from his dwelling place on Baboquivari, the great mountain to the west of us. Wahyanita told me of the salt caravans the Indian boys made in the spring, and of how they fasted for many days, running up and down the mountains, and throwing prayer sticks high up on the slopes and into the canyons.

Strangers to our Indian country did not understand the Indian attitude toward religion. Most of the Tohono O'odham (Papagos) had been converted to Catholicism. They spoke reverently of the God at the mission and of the miraculous St. Francis Xavier, but they clung to their own religion as well, simply adding the Christian theology to their own.

One common sight of the time was that of an Indian standing motionless for hours, looking off into the distance, seemingly at nothing. An "Americano" traveler came to our door one day. Grandfather Vilducea fixed him a lunch. The man ate slowly, keeping his eyes on an Indian standing on the crest of a small hill, staring off toward Baboquivari Peak. The American turned to me: "What is that Injun doing up there, girl?"

"Standing," I told him.

"Why?"

"Because 'him' wants to."

"Why does he want to?"

I told him only the Indian could give him a reason, and he put down his dishes and went up the hill to ask this one what he was doing.

When the man got back, he stood in front of Grandfather. He was speaking English. Grandfather could not understand him and sent for my mother to interpret. When he finally understood that the stranger was unable to get an answer from either me or the Indian about his reason for standing silently on the hill for so many hours, Grandfather smiled and said, "Contemplation, brother, contemplation!"

Then the stranger put his face right next to Grandfather's and said angrily, "Don't call me brother. I'm not your brother! I'm not a Mexican, and I'm not an Indian. I'm a white man!"

Grandfather calmly picked up the man's hand and compared it with his own, which was much lighter. "In fact, you're a very dark man," he said, letting go of the other's hand.

When the man left, Grandfather sadly said to me, "That man will never understand contemplation!"

My mother and I once witnessed another seemingly incomprehensible Indian "watch." An Indian woman stood on the very edge of our creek, which was in flood, and watched the water go by. She did not move for many hours. When Mother finally went to her and asked why she stood so long, the woman pointed across the ditch. "Water take soil. Tomorrow, more flood take more soil. I no like." She stood a moment longer, then picked up a large rusty ladle she had with her and led Mother to the opposite side of the creek. She stooped down and began to dig, quickly uncovering the bleached bones of a baby, buried only two feet beneath the surface.

"My baby die. I sick. I no take to hill. I will take now. I no want flood to take." I can still see her in my mind, walking away toward the hill, holding the tiny skeleton to her breast.

The Indians traveled constantly. When desert fruit was ripe in one place or another, they went to pick it.

Many such incidents taught us to respect the Indian's habit of standing in silence for hours. Our Indian friends lived on the edge of famine and, as their plight worsened, they often stood looking toward Baboquivari, seeking help or some answer from their god, l'itoi.

Hordes of Indians constantly combed the hills in search of food. In the spring, they hunted for cholla buds and the tender pads of nopales. Enormous Santa Rita prickly pear plants grew on the edges of canyons, their beautiful purple pads loaded with tunas. When these ripened, they dropped on the white sand below, making easy pickings. The Indians could time to the hour when they were going to fall, and they gathered them before the birds or squirrels could get to them. They set snares, too, and caught quail, rabbits, skunks, or whatever other unlucky animal fell into their traps.

My father told us of taking a friend up El Cerro one day and of meeting a group of Indians who were dislodging rocks and digging with blunt tools and clawing the soil out of the way with their broken nails, their faces glistening with sweat. Finally, after a terrific struggle, they brought out a carrot-like root-a saya.

"Those Indians are insane, Agustín!" said my father's friend incredulously. "They have to be crazy to work like that for a little root! What is that for, Agustín? Is it some sort of narcotic?"

"That," my father replied, "is called eking out an existence from rock. More than we could do. The food supply is scarce, and they have to keep body and soul together."

It took newcomers to our desert some time to understand the Indians' plight in time of want. Even times of plenty left many hungry. They often traded or sold the sparse food supply they gathered, and we learned to eat many things through this trade. Our house was always surrounded by Indians selling their ollas and baskets. They brought us jojoba beans and bulky sacks of creosote twigs from which we brewed the strong tea called bediondia or gobernadora. And always they brought flour and bread made from mesquite beans. These were staples in our food supply.

One of the Indians who came to our house almost every day was an old man we called our "simple savage" because he was a truly primitive Indian and seemed happy to remain so. His name was JoséJosé, and he always wore only a loincloth and a quijo, a basket that fit the head and resembled an inverted hat. He went barefoot, picking up cow chips and putting them in the quijo to use for fuel.

One day José-José appeared at Mother's door accompanied by an Indian we did not know-his pariente, he told Mother. The stranger wanted a fresh goat hide that had been stretched and nailed to a board leaning against the barn. When Mother told them they could have the hide, they took it off the board, then immediately nailed it back wool-side up. Then the stranger began scraping off the wool.

José-José, who was lazy and inclined to be sulky, left his kinsman working and came to stand in the corner of the wall. He looked toward the kitchen. This meant he was hungry; experience taught us he would not leave the spot until he was fed. He seldom spoke, but today he was more talkative than usual, telling Mother the Indians in his village were all very hungry. Mother took the hint. She placed two tortillas on the stove, sprinkled them with crumbs of cheese, and topped each with a second tortilla. "Go get your pariente, José-José," she called to him. When thetwo Indians returned from the corral, Mother handed them the tortilla sandwiches and some pieces of boiled squash, which they promptly devoured.

"What is your name?" Mother asked the strange Indian. "Juan Pronto," he replied, adding that he was from the Bajio, an Indian village south of Sasabe. He pronounced the "B" as a "P", as the Indians did, and spoke in the staccato manner of the Tohono O'odham, but he was able to make himself understood quite well.

"Juan," said Mother, "will you please tell me why you are scraping that zalellita?"

"To eat," he said simply. "Very good. Tonight we cook it near the river. All in Poso Verde very hungry. Food all gone." And the two returned to their task of scraping the hide.

I followed Mother back into the house. "Ma, did he say he is going to eat that thing?"

"That's what he said."

The thought of eating a goat hide made me feel sick. When Father came home, I told him about Juan Pronto and José-José and how they were going to cook the hide and eat it. He was very interested. That evening he took Ruby, my younger sister, and me down to the river to watch the process. Mother, Uncle Mike, and Uncle Luis, Uncle Mike's younger brother, came along too. They were the sons of Don Francisco and Margarita Vilducea.

The Indians gathered around a small fire, cut the hide into two-inch strips which they tied to long sticks, and held them over the coals. Grease dripped onto the fire, creating little clouds of acrid smoke that drifted up to us where we were sitting on the riverbank.

As each strip was cooked, it was spread on a flat rock to cool. Juan Pronto cut one of the cooled strips in half and presented it to Father for us to taste. Father cut it into several small pieces and gave us each one. Mother ate hers, saying it wasn't quite done. I chewed my piece over and over, but it seemed the more I chewed it the bigger it got. "I don't like it, Ma," I whispered.

"Hush," she said. "You'd like it if you were hungry enough."

"Why didn't you fellows boil the hide, instead of roasting it?" Father asked.

"Oh, boil better," said Juan Pronto. "Make good soup. But no pot. No pot, no boil."

"I can lend you a pot," said Uncle Mike, jumping up. He went splashing across the stream to Grandfather's house and came back carrying a cast-iron pot, some salt, pepper, and onions.

Within minutes the pot, half-filled with river water along with the hide strips and seasoning, was propped on three rocks over the fire, simmering away. Then the Indians made us promise to return in the morning to taste it.

The following morning, Mother carried a bowl and spoon and an empty threepound can so she could retrieve Grandmother's cooking pot and Juan Pronto could carry the remainder of the stew back to his village. Father and I came too, each carrying a bowl and spoon. The goat hide was now perfectly tender, and I was able to eat it. The Indians declared the stew the best they ever tasted, and they ate heartily. It was not the best I had ever tasted, but I ate it and said nothing.

Juan Pronto stood and said to Father: "I have good food, good rest, good friends,