The The Autobiography of a Kiowa Apache Indian Autobiography of a Kiowa Apache Indian

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The Autobiography of a Kiowa Apache Indian

Dover Publications, Inc.

Early Years

I WAS BORN on the north side of Spring Creek, which is about one mile southwest of what is now Fort Cobb, Oklahoma. My mother told me I was born there. It was about 1878. Before me there were two brothers, but they died.

Before I was born my father went and talked with the older people. My father approached another old man because of the death of my two brothers. It was the tradition of the older people when children had died in a family. He told the chief, "If it is all right with you, when this baby is born we are going to break the family camp from where we are now. The day he is born we are going to move across the creek. The whole family camp will move across the creek and leave the baby and the old lady there, for a whole day. After that day, the whole camp will come back after the old woman and the baby. She will pray that day that the baby may live to be an old person."

From that day on my folks took care of me and raised me. They said that in years to come they would do something for me.

When I was about six years old I didn't yet have a name. They just called me "boy." Then my father approached some older people and told them his boy was growing up and that he wanted someone to name him. An old man said, "We will give you a name." They were going to put up a big tipi and have a feast. At that time they would pray, too. My father said to the old man who was to name me, "I am going to give you a bald-faced horse." On the morning of the day they were going to name me, the old man called all the older people to come into my mother's tipi, and said, "We are going to pray and give this boy a name." All the old people came into the tipi and sat down. The old man who was going to give me a name was sitting so he would be facing the tipi door, looking east. When they got ready to start, my mother brought me inside. I went all around the tipi and sat down on the north side. The old man said, "Now we are going to give this young man a name." My father was seated by this old man. My father got up and said that he wished his son to take the name of his mother's brother. This uncle of my father was already dead. It was the tradition that the name should go on in the family line. That name was Whitewolf.

After the name was given to me, the old man pointed to another old man seated on the south side of the tipi. This old man picked me up, held me in front of him, and raised me up and repeated the name four times. He said, "From this day on you shall be known as Whitewolf, and everybody will know you by that name." Then everyone there took me and lifted me up four times the same way and said the same thing, until I got back around to my mother. When I got back to my mother, the old man who gave me the name took me outside the tipi and he announced in a loud voice to the whole camp, "Today we have named this child Whitewolf, so that you shall all know him by that name. May he grow to be an old man." Then the old man and I came back into the tipi and took our places again. Then my mother and her mother brought food inside the tipi. When the feast was over that was the end of it and everyone went back to his camp. From then on I had my name.

WHEN I WAS about ten, the Kiowas were having a Sun Dance on the other side of Mountain View—west of it. My father took me there because he wanted me to grow. It was the morning of the dance that my father took me. My father had a buffalo hide over him, with a stick or something holding the hide up over his head. He was carrying me in front of him. There were many others there who had brought their children for the same purpose. They all went around in a line where the Sun Dance was being held. When my father and I came around to the door of the dance lodge, my father went inside and I went back to my mother. I guess that was the last time the Kiowas ever had that ceremony.

From then on, I was getting to be a young man and was going around among my people.

Then one time my father took me over about a mile west of Hatchetville, near Cache Creek, to a ceremony. It was called kotizi, water-medicine ceremony. It was in a tipi. My father was already inside when my mother brought me to the door. I went inside and sat down. The man who was head of the ceremony prayed for all the children and he prayed for me. At noon they were feasting inside the tipi. Over the fire was corn, which was boiling together with tongue. An old woman was watching this corn and tongue that was cooking. The people in there had bowls made of turtle shell. Some of them were of wood. The old woman was dipping the food out with a buffalo-horn spoon. She gave food to everybody in the tipi and also to the people on the outside. They had just ordinary bowls. There were songs and prayers at this ceremony. The prayers were for the little children to grow. They had done that from way back, a long time ago.

WEST OF ANADARKO, I saw my first Ghost Dance. It was when I was about twelve years old. There were Kiowas, Arapahoes and some of the Apaches. They said that it was the Arapaho up north who had seen the Ghost Dance. They were the ones who brought it down this way. The Arapaho were told when they learned the Ghost Dance that some day they would see all the dead come back to life. They said that those who don't believe in the Ghost Dance will be under the ground, but those that believe will be above. Everybody came into the camp. My mother and father were there. They danced four days. On a certain song everyone in the camp would cry and look up and say, "When are you coming down? Come down to us soon." After the dance, we went back home. The Apaches were camping east of Big Joe's place, along the creek. They were going to have a Ghost Dance. They usually had one every week then. All the tribes around were having the Ghost Dance then. Several years after that, the Apaches began to think that there was nothing to it. I don't know just why. The things they said didn't come true, so they didn't think that there was anything to it. They quit having it after that.

The Kiowas were going to have a Ghost Dance. They said that this was going to be the real one. Some of the Apache went over there. The Kiowas told them what they were going to do. They showed us how to do it. Then we went over to Hatchetville and we were going to do the Ghost Dance the way the Kiowas showed us. There weren't many people there. I was a grown man then, so I went over there on horseback. I went inside. I sat down in back. They all had rattles of cow-hooves that they were shaking. It was something like the Holiness Church of today. They stomped their feet and rolled around on the floor. There was a Kiowa man there running it. He told them that when they finished smoking, he was going up to heaven and see Jesus. They all began to sing after his talk and some of them were saying, "This fellow is going up to see Jesus." Some of them asked for a pillow for this fellow. They said that while he was dancing he was going to fall back, and he should have a pillow for that. They said his heart would then go up to Jesus. This Kiowa fellow tied a black handkerchief around his wrist. He told them to sing a certain song and that when they did it would take him to heaven. They sang that song. This fellow was kind of grunting. He got stiff and fell backwards and lay there. He lay there about ten or fifteen minutes. Everybody was still singing. After they were through singing, they said they would smoke. After they smoked, he started grunting, and some of them said, "He has come back from heaven." He got up and they gave him a pipe to smoke. Then he laid it back down. They asked him to tell them about his journey to heaven. He said, "When I fell back, I started going up there. I found out where the dead Apaches were and went over to them. I saw Rabbit Shoulder. I shook hands with him. The rest of them were all seated around. He asked me why I came. I said I came for the Apaches, that they had sent me. 'Don't you see them? Look down there, where they are camping. The Apache people sent me here to see you. They want you to see Jesus and have Him come and talk with me.' The old Apache man, Rabbit Shoulder, called for Jesus and told Him I had come to see Him. I saw Jesus coming toward me, and He was a good-looking man. I shook hands with Him. He asked me why I came, and I told Him the Apache people sent me. I told Him to look down and He would see them. I told Him that they want to know when their kinfolk are coming back down to them. They want them to come soon. Jesus told me that in the spring, when the trees begin to have buds, when all the people begin to believe and they all wear a feather on their heads to show that they believe, He would give back all the dead people. All the people are up there and they are in a hurry to return to you. Now I've told you all this. Try to get more members who will wear a feather on their heads." At that time I believed in it. When I got home, I told people all about it, but they said that it was all lies.

About two weeks later, they had another one over by Hatchetville. Some missionary who had one wooden leg, came over there. I was there again. The missionary was talking. He said, "What you are doing here is no good. You should take up the Christian way. Someday they are going to take all of you over to the Agency and talk to you." After the missionary left that evening, the men began to talk among themselves. The next I heard, this missionary went to Carnegie among the Kiowas. I heard that the Army went over there, too. The Army told them that they wanted this Ghost Dance to stop. They said that it caused a lot of trouble where it started, up north, and that they were going to put a stop to it. But after the Army told them that, they went on and kept having the Ghost Dance.

They called in all the Kiowas who were running the Ghost Dance; they camped by the bridge north of Anadarko. The Agency talked to them. They called in Sam Williams, who always ran the Apache Ghost dances. The agent told all the leaders, "You were warned by the Army not to do this dance. If you do it again, we will put all of you in jail." They didn't have the Ghost Dance after that, as far as I know.

When the fellows who were running the Ghost Dance would give the children a feather to wear, the parents might pay them as much as twenty-five dollars.

WHEN I WAS still pretty small, I remember that east of the Agency near Anadarko, there were some Catholic sisters sitting under an arbor in the camp. Someone was calling out to us to come over there because they had something to tell us. My mother and father took me over there. A fellow was there, named Bill Brownbear, who was interpreting for the Catholic sisters. There was another man with those sisters. This man who was with the sisters prayed, and then there was singing. He took out a black book; it was a Bible. He started reading from it. I didn't understand it at that time. The only thing he was doing that I knew was good was the praying because we had always had praying in the Indian way. Every now and then I could understand a little bit, like when he talked about "our Father," but the rest of the time I didn't know what he was talking about. When the service was over they said that they would give some of us rosaries. They said that next time they came back they would give out more of them. The men got larger rosaries than the children got. I didn't get any, but my father did. Every two weeks we went to the camp for rations. We went back there again one time—I think it was on Sunday. They had church and went through the same thing as the first time. Then one of the sisters went through the crowd and gave out rosaries. That time I got one. They told me to wear mine all the time. I felt proud of it. I never took it off. I wore it when I slept and even when I went in swimming. People would go back to that service every Sunday, but they went just to get a rosary with beads on the chain. A lot of them didn't even believe in it, but they wanted those beads. I guess those Catholics went around to the Kiowas, too.

The next thing I knew was that the missionary Mr. Methvin was building a church right north of the old Agency. I saw them working on that building. After it was finished, they went around and told people that, when they heard the bell, they should come over there. The people around camp were talking about how this man was going to show them how they could come back after they died. They thought that he was some kind of a medicine man. What he meant was that, if you led a good life, your soul would have eternal life. But the Indians thought that he could bring the dead back to life. Everybody started sending their children to that church. My mother told me that, if I should die, I wouldn't be gone forever but would come back to life. This all happened before I ever went to school.

Another boy and I went to church one time. The preacher was talking and there was a Kiowa fellow alongside him interpreting. Then they divided us up into groups and gave us each a little paper. After that I went to church all the time. Soon some of the older people started to come to church. Later on I began to understand that they meant that when you die you don't return to earth but go up go heaven.

Years after that, I heard that they were going to build another church down by Cache Creek. Then some white people came there. Mr. Curtis came there. Some of us helped haul rocks to build this church. On Sundays Mr. Curtis would come out to where we were camping and talk to us. This was before the church was finished. Bill Brownbear was interpreting for them. Some of the Indians started to believe in it. I guess it was because most of them always had believed in praying.

One time Mr. Curtis said that he was going to read us the Ten Commandments. All I got out of it was the one that says, "Thou shalt not steal." I remembered that one. He said that if you stole you wouldn't go to heaven. Henry Brownbear got up and said, "I used to steal horses, but I don't do it any more." Another old man got up and repeated the commandment, "Thou shalt not lie." He said, "I don't lie. I always tell the truth." Henry Brownbear would get up after every commandment that was read and repeat it. His Indian name was "Old Man Nervous." That was because he had a tremor of the hands. He repeated every single commandment. He was the only one who kept jumping up like that. When Mr. Curtis got to the commandment that said you should not go with another man's wife, Henry Brownbear just whistled and said, "That's too much. I want that woman sitting over there. I guess I'll just have to go to hell." When the reading of the commandments was over, Henry Brownbear got up and told the people that he liked all but that one commandment. When everyone had gone back to camp, he went over to his boy Bill who had been interpreting and told him, "I don't want you to be standing up and telling us all these things. I want you to sit down and not say anything." This was one of my first times in church. I had seen the Catholic services before that, though.

When I was little I stayed with my grandfather. He was a tall, slim man. My grandfather's cousins used to come. They were all old men. My grandfather would bring them over, just one of them at a time, and they would sleep with me and tell me stories. My grandfather told me that the Indians didn't fight among themselves any more. He told me to be friendly to people and never to steal or lie about anything. He said that in the old days the Apaches used to ride from up near the Kansas line down to Mexico, looking for good hunting grounds. Whenever they met up with the Sioux there would be a fight He told me always to get up early in the morning. He said that when I grew up to be a man, always to get up early and feed and water my horses. He said to take care of the horses and keep them fat, because they would take care of me and help me to find something to eat. He told me that now I didn't need to have a fast horse to do fighting, but that he wanted me to take care of my horses so I could use them to farm with, like the white people were doing, so I would have something. He said not to forget to plant corn to feed my horses with, and to eat. He said there were many ways to use corn and that there were going to be many more, and that was why I should never forget to raise it. He said that someday I would have a home of my own and I should always have lots of wood to cook food with. At that time they prayed for wood, because it helped to prepare food for them and it kept them warm. He told me always to give blessings for food and to be thankful for my home. He said, "I've told you all these things. Now I am going to tell you some stories. I don't want you to forget them. I want you to remember them so you can tell them to your children and they can tell them to their children." Now I have told you all those old stories, I want you to give them to me so my grandchildren will read them and be able to tell them to their children, too.

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Excerpted from The Autobiography of a Kiowa Apache Indian by CHARLES S. BRANT. Copyright © 1969 Charles S. Brant. Excerpted by permission of Dover Publications, Inc..
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