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perhaps lend them out as road-menders, possibly drive them to the Humboldt River camps.
Among the Mission Indians, who are broken more or less to gentle ways, a buck may beat his squaw, in passion, but he seldom forces her to work.
His women, as a rule, are willing slaves, eager to sweat for their ungrateful lord; but if they leave the roots undug, the patch of corn unsown, he only laughs and yawns.
He would have done the same, and therefore thinks the negligence a venial sin. An Indian of these mountains snarls at such a buck with scorn, saying, “he is not brave enough to thrash his squaws!”
Compared with Apaches, Kickapoos, and Kiowas, the Utes are but a sorry lot-root diggers, rat catchers; yet the sorriest Ute alive — a dog not brave enough to scalp a sleeping foe, or to avenge a blood feud — is brave enough to kick and club a girl.
Yet he prefers to set his women at each other, trusting that their jealousies will make them tear and scratch enough to save him trouble in his lodge.
“Why have you brought the old squaw with you?”
we enquire of the Pai-Ute bridegroom.
“ Ugh!”
he grunts, “to break the little one.
All ”
1875.
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