To the Reader

The author of Cogewea occupies an unique sphere in the literary field. So far as the writer of this sketch is aware, she is the first Indian woman to enter the realms of fiction. Believing that the reader would be interested in a brief portrayal of her life and ancestry, she was at last prevailed upon to let the same here be entered. This was not attained without difficulty. Her racial sensitiveness shrank from what she termed “unwarranted presumption.”

Hum-is’hu-mā: “mourning dove,” was born while her mother and maternal grandmother were crossing the Kootenai River in a canoe near Bonner’s Ferry, Idaho, about 1888. Her people at the time were on their way from Fort Steel, British Columbia, traveling by packhorses to the States. She bears a remote strain of good Celtic blood, dating back to the earlier advent of the Hudson Bay Company into the Northwest. This, in a measure, accounts for her deep sympathy so manifest throughout her book for the mixed-blood, the socially ostracized of two races.

Mourning Dove is a maternal great granddaughter of See-whelh-ken, head Chief of the Schu-ayl-p^k, or Schwelpi; Schoyelpi⁠—spelled in various ways⁠—now embodied with the Colvilles, including the Okanogans proper. She is identified with the latter tribe, whose language she speaks.

See-whelh-ken’s tribe resided at the Swa-net^k-qha: “big river falls,” known in history as Les Chaudière, or Kettle Falls, of the Columbia River. The Okanogan appellation, however, applied to the stream in its entirety, so famed in legendary lore. These Falls have ever been renowned for their great fishery, and the Schu-ayl-p^k were generally blessed with an abundance of salmon. The Chief was noted for his generous distribution of fish to the less fortunate bands and tribes remotely situated. Regarding the fishery as a direct provision of a benign Spirit-ruler, he deigned not, at any time, to accept compensation for the food. The beautiful sentiment of ceremonial gift-exchange so universal among all the tribes, should not be confounded with sordid commercial barter. To this day the older Indians⁠—even to the distant surrounding tribesmen⁠—speak of the great See-whelh-ken, of the “big heart,” so strong is the memory of he who, in other snows drove famine from the door. Tall, well proportioned with strong, pleasing features, he ruled with a firm, though just hand. Stressed on communistic ideals, his every action was governed by magnanimous wisdom.

Descended from an ancient line of warrior-chieftains, See-whelh-ken saw the advent of the white man into his domain, and was ever that alien’s most steadfast friend. It was owing greatly, if not wholly to his influence that his own, and neighboring tribes maintained friendly relations with the strange intruders. The rapid decimation in the ranks of See-whelh-ken’s once virile following, is ghastly testimony of the recompense that was meted to him.

Of happy childhood, Mourning Dove recalls none. At the age of seven she was placed in the Sacred Heart Convent, at Ward, Washington, but the following year was brought home to aid in the care of her small brothers and sisters, all younger than herself. When thirteen she was returned to the convent, but her mother dying within the twelve months, was recalled to take charge of the bereaved home. For the next three years she was a mother to the four little ones.

At last there came a period of exhilarating life with her maternal grandmother, Soma-how-atqu. Under the tutelage of this venerable parent, the girl’s impressionable mind became innoculated with the principles of ancestral philosophy. In the fishing village by the streams; in the hill and mountain camps where the women digged and cured the various edible roots; where they harvested and dried the wild berries; gathering basket-weaving materials within the deep forests; did she acquire a lasting knowledge of the customs of her tribe. She learned the magic, invigorating virtue of the native foods, and the religious significance of the “Song of the Mountain Herb.” She was made to understand, and to believe in the mysterious, and sacred power of the sweat-house, as a cleanser for both body and mind.

Mourning Dove took long horseback rides into remote sections of the neighboring mountains, bivouacing alone and wherever overtaken by night. Fond of hunting⁠—but not in the sense of sport⁠—a good shot and wholly self-reliant, these excursions through wilderness mazes grew with the years. This wild girl was endowed with a primitive sense of security not born to her civilized-reared sister. A daring and graceful rider, she often figured in the dashing relay, and “squaw” races, and other equestrian sports peculiar to the Western range.

In 1908, Mourning Dove became more closely connected with the cattle range. She witnessed the last grand roundup of buffaloes on the Flathead Indian Reservation, Montana; when the famous Pablo herd was disposed of to the Canadian Government. She saw the scattering of this remnant of the plains monarch, and the reservation thrown open to settlement. Her sympathies were with the buffaloes⁠—the one remaining link with an era forever past. The animals fought desperately before at last driven from their native haunts. Some burst from the railway cars in the process of loading; one being dashed to the ground with a broken neck. This scene brought tears to the eyes of some of the aged Indian bystanders, a race renowned for unemotional stocism.

A sensate longing by Mourning Dove for an education was never realized. Her people, as an integral, contended that her convent schooling, where she reached the third grade, would suffice for all practical purposes. But from seventeen to twenty-one, through her own efforts, she attended Government Indian schools. During this time she was acting matron for sixty to seventy girls. Although this service occupied half of her time, barring her from study, it carried with it no salary⁠—no compensation whatever⁠—apparently a feature of Departmental economy. While strict with her charges, the young matron was markedly kind. Loved by them all, they confided to her their many little troubles and childish grievances. Zealous of duty and responsibility, she had no hesitancy in crossing swords with her superiors for what she deemed to be justly right.

The winter of 1912⁠–⁠13 found Mourning Dove enrolled in a Calgary, British Columbia, business college. Engish, and typing were her principal studies. The humiliation from wanton contumely because of her Indian blood, were multitudinous, but, using her own phraseoiogy, she “stuck” through the term, not missing a class.

Mourning Dove is endeared to her people. A warm personality, and sound judgment has enabled her⁠—despite her tinge of Caucasian blood⁠—to render signal and telling service to the dependent tribesmen. The grafting land-grabber, arbitrary and unjust Departmental rulings, and the unnecessary harshness of U.S. guardians of the Canadian border line, have all felt her corrective influences. Seldom, if ever, has she failed in commanding the admiration, if not respect, of those opposed. A single instance:

An aged Indian couple unacquainted with English, were arrested near the Canadian boundary for some infringement of intricate international law. Infirm with years they were being driven afoot along the hot, dusty road by the two arresting officers in a buggy. Observing this from her own camp the intrepid girl mounted her horse and overtaking the procession, shamed the younger man into alighting, and permitting the woman to ride. Not satisfied with this she secured the release of the old prisoners, in defiance of usual red-tape procedure.

It was amid such scenes that the idea of writing Cogewea was conceived. Years of tutelage in the teepee of the primitive minded Soma-how-atqu on the wild Kootenai, with a later village residence by the scenic Flathead Lake under entirely different environment, tended to qualify the author most admirably for her task. How well she has succeeded, the impartial reader must determine. Her characters are all from actual life, and throughout the narrative, she has endeavored to picture the period as she actually saw it⁠—an Indian⁠—in the closing days of the great cattle range, and the decadence of its King, the cowpuncher.