Interview: Lucy Young

Contributed by Ben Schill of Phillipsville

In 1939-40 Lucy told her story to her friend Edith Van Allen Murphey, range botanist and author of "Indian Uses of Native Plants". It appeared in the California Historical Society Quarterly in 1941. Murphey tried to reflect Lucy's speaking style in her transcription and managed to preserve the voice of one of the last survivors of the coming of whites to this country. Accounts of this nature are very rare. It was not considered proper to speak of the dead and Indians believed that there would be retaliation if they made any criticism of white society. - Ben Schill

Lucy's Story, in Her Own Words

My grandpa, before white people came, had a dream. He was so old he was all doubled up. Knees to chin, and eyes like indigo. Grown son carry him in great basket on his back, every place.

My grandpa say: "White Rabbit" - he mean white people - "gonta devour our grass, our seed, our living. We won't have nothing more, this world. Big elk with straight horn come when white man bring it." I think he meant cattle. "Nother animal, bigger than deer, but round feet, got hair on neck." This one, horse, I guess.

My aunt say: "Oh father, you out of your head, don't say that way."

He say: "Now daughter, I not crazy. You young people gonta see this."

People come long way, listen to him dream. He dream, then say this way, every morning.

They leave li'l children play by him. He watch good. Have big stick, wavbe round, scare snake away. He had good teeth. All old people had good teeth.

One time they travel, they come to big pile of brush. My grandpa stop and look at it. He say: "This, good wood. When I die, burn my body to ashes on top of ground. Here gonta be big canoe, run around, carry white people's things. Those White Rabbit got lotsa everything."

How canoe gonta run around on dry ground all round here?" We ask him.

"Don't know." he say, "just run that way." He mean wagon, I guess.

I never grow much. They call me "Li'l Shorty", T'Tcet'Tsa, but I know pretty near everything that time. My grandpa put his head on my head, smooth my hair and hold his hand there.

"Long time you gonta live, my child," he say. "You live long time in this world."

Well, I live long enough, I guess. 'Bout ninety-five next summer, if I living til then.

My grandpa never live to see white people, just dreaming every night 'bout them. People come long way, listen to him dream.

My grandpa move down by big spring. One day he couldn't get up. He say: "I gonta leave you today. I used to be a good hunter. Kill bear, elk, deer, feed my children. Can't feed my children no more. Like old root, just ready for growing now." Pretty soon dead. Speak no more.

All seem like a dream to me. Long, long ago. Night time, he die and in morning, all tied up in deerskin with grass rope. Sit up knees to chin. They tie him up too soon. He roll over and come back. Scare everybody. He ask for water and ask for backstrap to basket always carry him in. He ask for little basket he always use for cup. He drink lots.

"I starve for water and want my strap," he say, "that's why I come back.

"Then he die. Our people dig big hole, put stick across. Put brush. Put body in. Put more brush. Burn all to ashes. They put basket and strap, too, with him, when he go where people go at last.

First soldiers I ever see, my li'l sister 'bout three feet high. Took us to Fort Baker and down Van Duzen River. Mother run away, twice. Last time took us to lower country. I run off too, many times.

It was August. Soldiers had all Inyan together. Gonta take them to Hoopa.

Mother run away when we hit redwoods. Hide us all in hollow tree. Lay there all day. I had li'l cup and bucket soldier give me. Mother send me to hunt water.

I 'fraid lost. Break bushes every li'l way. Dark in redwoods. Can't see nothing. Pretty soon come to big fern. I break it, lay in my track. Pretty soon hear waterfall, fill bucket. Turn back, find stick I broke. Find fern. Good thing I do that way. Might get lost. Too dark, them redwoods.

Two days we lay in hollow log. Hear soldier in camp, go li'l ways, listen. Go li'l ways, listen. Go li'l further, listen.

Way down the gulch, lotsa hazelnut, we eat. Travel on. 'Bout sundown come out open country. Big ridge, look down. Two elk feed by alder spring. Raise up head like tree branches. Big horn. Then he run quick. We hear brush crack, way down there.

We see horse track. Hide again. Somebody whistle. We hide in fern. Just see soldier hat go by. We watch them long ways. When dark come, we go way down open ridge.

Something rustle. I think dogs overtake us. We look back. Skunk family follow us - mother, five li'l ones. We go down, find li'l flat, heavy timber. We lay down, sleep til sunup. Mother never eat, just drink water. We got crackers, dried beef from soldiers.

There we stay til sundown. Mother begin get sick. If she die, she tell us go back to soldiers, not to other white people. We go on. From top of mountain, we come to big pond. High mountain.

I pack water for poor mother. Poor li'l sister tired, can't hardly walk. I pack her by hand. Look all time for service berry. Go way out around. See track, I think must be people. Nobody there. Look close, bear track, deer track too.

Get pretty close our own country. Bunch grass country. We make li'l hole, so we lay down to sleep. Mother never sleep. I never sleep. Li'l sister sleep. Too tired, li'l sister.

We hear bear coming. Mother raise up head. Moon just coming up. I listen, listen. Bear pass by. Next thing, Mother say "Children wake up, let's go. Sunshine big all over country."

We go round behind Lassik Peak on top of ridge. Rocky. I starve for water. I hunt for water like in redwoods, see li'l ferns, drink water, carry to mother, rest awhile, then go on. Too hungry we feel. I want to go back on road, let soldiers catch us. Then we find sunflower, plenty. We gather head, seed. Dry enough to eat. We go down creek, catch crawfish. Mother can't eat hardtack, make her sick.

We had bedticking dresses, soldiers made us. I wear that. Mother holler: "Young ducks coming down in water." I stand in water, catch li'l ducky in skirt. Two of 'em. Pretty good size. Can't fly yet. Run on top of water. We kill 'em, club.

We had soldier matches. If didn't have, we could make fire with stick. Lots of buckeye good for that in Soldier Basin. We swinge cotton (singe the down) off li'l ducks. Gets lots of maple leaf. Fill hole with coals. Wrap ducks in leaf, keep ashes off. Put in hole. Duck fat, taste good, smell good. I never eat. Want mother eat, get stronger. I eat dry beef, crackers, good enough. After we eat, I catch crawfish again that I lose out of dress skirt when duck come downstream.

We stay one night. That's all. Keep moving. Up hill here, all way to Kettenshaw. Got to that valley. White man been plant wheat, then go off, leave it. This wheat lotsa ripe. Moonlight. We all pick awhile, drop down, sleep. I pick li'l longer. Drop down, sleep. Mother pick all night. Had basket pretty near full.

She wakes us up, "Come children. Big spring ahead of us. We make it tonight."

I 'fraid step on snake, I say. Mother got deerskin, make us high moccasin, up to knee. No moccasin for mother, hide ain't big enough.

We get to big spring, we stay all night, all day. Evening mother want to go down to head of Soldier Creek. We stay there, gather brush, make basket, pounding basket, call it "Chesta-a". Pounding rock, call it "Bilt sook".

Two days, Mother make chesta-a, then pound wheat. Roast it first in old pan we find there. Make pinole.

Long time we stay there, get good basket roots along river. Kinda' I lonesome there. Talk about move over li'l gulch, get hazelnut. Bear like hazelnut too. I 'fraid bear get mother. She laugh. Tell me bear get it, take li'l sister to soldier. They take care us both.

Then Mother talk 'bout go Alder Point. No rain, no snow. I don't want go, I wanta stay where lotsa wood.

Mother gather hazlenut. Come back quick, 'mence crack all night by small firelight, take hazlenut out. Every time I wake up I hear cracking, cracking, so don't have to carry shell.

We move camp back to Mad River. Don't stay long. Then go South Fork Mountain. There we stay bout month. Eat hazlenut. Lotsa ketten (camas) bulb too. Then come rain.

Poor Mother, build bark house. We happy there.

One day, I see smoke over to Kettenshaw. Me and li'l sister playing. We see big smoke raise over Kettenshaw. Mother come out, shade eyes with hand. Look, look.

"Guess someone come back from Hoopa," she say.

Mother want to go back, see who there. I 'fraid. I tell it: "You go there someone kill us. I going take li'l sister, go to soldier now."

We had thick black oak bark. We pack fire on it, save matches. Evening time, wind blow way down ridge. I see big fire raise where I drop coal.

Over Kettenshaw, two women, one man burn coals in grass for grasshopper. They see our smoke, know then we still alive.

"That's our cousin and li'l children." they say. "Them that run off from soldier. Lots of Inyan die on road. Starve.

Mother went down to river, stay all night. Morning come, we go way up ridge on top of Kettenshaw. Coming down, Mother tell me, "Daughter, I dry for water." I get water. I ask if going to go flat down on Kettenshaw. She say, "No, we get out on point see who is, if we know."

Had big load of hazelnut to pack. "Push basket up for me, daughter," Mother say. She sit down. I lift strap, push basket up on back. I hear bush crack. Look quick, see soldier hat. I run back, run in gulch. Mother call me, "come back, don't run off." I lay there long time. After while I come back.

Our cousins come there, dressed in soldier clothes. Man had mustache too. Look strange. I ask it: "Where your woman?" "Coming slow", he say. "Sick, pack grasshopper, pack basket, nothing to eat but grasshopper."

Mother divide pinole and hazelnut. She feed 'em good. All us went back to Mad River. We had old uncle coming there. Lots of fish in hole, deep hole. Can't catch them, so we get big root, soaproot, pound it, put in hole. Lots of fish come then to top of water. Ain't dead, ain't hurt, just float. If put in fresh water, going to come alive again.

We eat that evening. They tell me go back down river, look for old uncle. I run down quick, come back. Mother tell me, "Stay down li'l while, might be pass us." I go out again, look round, hear rock rattle. I watch, watch. See poor old fellow coming, pack big black basket. I run to camp, say, "Old uncle coming now."

Mother say, "Go meet him." I do, he commence to cry, hold my hand. He had to catch fish, like we did too.

Fall time, then acorns getting good. All want go back Alder Point, winter there. We camp, build bark house. Everybody tell li'l sister and me, "Go on outside, play." We get oak ball, playing, playing. We play pitch 'n catch.

White people come find us. Want to take us all to Fort Seward. We all scared to death. Inyan boy tell us, "Don't 'fraid, won't kill you."

Tookted us to Fort Seward, had Inyan woman there, all man killed. Plenty house there; any Inyan escape from Hoopa, bring it to Fort Seward.

After while, Chief Lassik come in. White people went away to get grub. Snowing. Find Inyan track way down some place on road. Three white man, two, three Inyan boys going to hunt up who made track. Find it.

"Don't run," Inyan boy tell them. Going to take you Fort Seward." They bring back four Inyan men, five women, Fort Seward. Chief Lassik among them. He uncle-cousin my mother. Then all stay there, kill deer, pack it in. Pack wood all time.

One white man come there. Want take me South Fork Mountain. His woman got li'l baby. He want me stay his woman. He take me South Fork. He herd hogs, gonta take them to Weaver. I never stay long there. This Inyan woman whip me all the time. Didn't talk my language. 'Bout week all I stay. Commence rain pretty hard. He tell me go get water. I go down, water muddy. I get it anyway. He ask me, make sign, "Where you get this water?" I show him down to river. He thinks I get water in hole near house. He throw out water, commence whip me, tell me go get water.

I go down river, pretty steep. I throw bucket in river. I run off. Never see bucket no more. I had soldier shoes. Take off, tie around neck. Water knee deep. I just had thin dress, can run good. Come up big high bank. Keep look back, see if that woman follow me.

Lots of redwood tree stand there. I see hog got killed. Laying there, neck and shoulder eat up. Hog warm yet. When I put foot on it, something come up behind me. Grizzly bear growl at me. Wind blow from river. He smell me. I fall back in tall ferns. I feel same as dead. Grizzly set there, his paw hang down. Head turn, look every way. I keep eye on him. He give up listen, look, turn around, dig hole to sleep in. I keep still, just like a dead. I fainty too, and weak.

That's time I run- when he dig deep. Water up to my waist. I run through. Get to Fort Seward before I look back.

At last I come home. Mother at Fort Seward. Before I get there, I see big fire in lots down timber and treetops. Same time awful funny smell. T think someone get lots of wood.

I go on to house. Everybody crying. Mother tell me, "All our men killed now." She say white men there, others come from Round Valley, Humboldt County too, kill our old uncle, Chief Lassic, and all other men.

Stood up about forty Inyan in a row with rope around neck. "What's this for?" Chief Lassik say. "To hang you dirty dogs," white men tell it. "Hanging, that's dogs death," Chief Lassik say. "We done nothing to be hung for. Must die, shoot us."

So they shoot. All our men. Then build fire with wood and brush. Inyan been cut for days. Never know it their own funeral fire they fix. Build big fire, burn all them bodies. That's funny smell I smell before I get to house. Make hair raise on back of my neck. Make sick stomach too.

That man what herd hogs, his Inyan boy speak my language. He say, "Why you come back?"

"That woman whip me every day," I say.

"What for she whip you?"

"Everything, little or big, she whip me."

Boy say, "White man say he going to take all you folks over there, build you house."

That white man, same evening, got me, took to his house. Then took me down South Fork again. I ride behind. He talk his woman. He had cowhide rope. He upped that. Give woman good whipping with that. He stay all night, next morning, go back Fort Seward.

'Nother Inyan boy where I was. I didn't know he spoke my language. When white man go, then this boy talk with me. He tell me, "Tomorrow 'nother white man come, going to take you off. Way down. Tomorrow, white man come."

So it did happen. He take me then. This boy say, "Better you stay white people, better for you. All your people killed. Nothing to come back for."

I didn't say nothing, yes or no.

He bring me back Alder Point, this white man did. From there, he take me down low. I ride on pack saddle. Had big blanket over me. Winter time.

Get up on top of mountain, meet 'nother white man, got li'l Inyan boy with him. This boy talk my talk good. He ride pack saddle too. They take us way up to Blue Rock Mountain. White man live there. Dogs begin barking. We get there, ride up to gate. White man take me off. I can't walk. Ride all day. Take li'l boy off too.

I see woman come out of door. I know that woman, one of my people. Bill Dobbin's mother. This one, her father's my aunt. She know me, I know her. She set down in chair, hug me, commence cry. I too because I think about mother all time.

This woman live with white old man. He cook supper. This woman don't know how to cook. He come in, think I his daughter. "You papoose?"

She say, "No", put hand on chest. "My Inyan", she say. "Ah ha", white say. He bring out li'l baby tumbler, give me li'l whiskey, put sugar in it, cause riding in cold.

Then they took me to Long Valley. He had 'nother wife there. Next morning, that other man was there, washing face. He come in, count my finger. "One, two, three, four days you going down close to ocean." That man washing was cutting wood there. I stay there and play with pups. I look back. Two small Inyan boys stand there. I look, and feel afraid. Went in house.

That man cook supper. He go to bed overhead. I sleep in big blanket by chimney. He cook in kitchen in morning. "Get up," he say. "Breakfast ready."

Two Inyan women come in. Talk quick to me. "Poor my li'l sister, where you from?" "I come from the north. That baldheaded man bring me."

He got wife and children," they say.

These women talk clipped my language. "That way all Inyan children come here," they say. "He bring them all."

I half-cry all time, for my mother. After while, bald-headed man come back, talk women long time. Going to have big gamble over there, they say. Man got up and left. First, they give women grub, hog backbone, ribs. These women say, "In four days you go stay old couple close by us." One say, "I got white man, come see you." They leave for home, little ridge over hill. I hear Inyan talkin' li'l way. I stand there and think. Only show for me to run off, now. Nobody there. I run in house. Match box on shelf. I put it in dress pocket. In kitchen I find flour sacks. Take loaf of bread, take boiling meat. Take big blanket from my bed.

I went out so quick. I never shut door. Then I went to barn, open door, let all horses out.

All day I travel on edge of valley. I forgot I going to have to swim Eel River. Then I see white man house and lotta Inyan house, all smoke even - good sing. I go toward white man house. I go upstream look for foot log. Brush thick, too. I found big trail. 'Fraid then, I stop and listen, every li'l while. Pretty soon find footbridge. Just getting dark good. Star coming up. 'Nother big stream, shallow water.

Lotsa people there. Lotsa bell. Talk. Laugh. Packtrain stop there. I cross above camp. Water knee deep. Go up long hill. Pretty near daylight, come out on mountain. Come out in big open country where Billy Dobbin's mother lived.

Owl commence holler, coming daylight. Way this side, great big rock. Big live-oak. Hollow place. I lay blanket down. Sleep all day. Dark, I wake up.

Night come. I pack shoes one shoulder, blanket 'nother shoulder, pack grub in hand. Lotsa snow, that time, Bell Springs Mountain. There I put on shoes. I come out in big opening, went down away from road.

Saw big mountain, went over it. I backtrack li'l way. See white man hunt for me on white horse. I lay still long time, travel all night.

Went down in canyon, find big log all dry underneath, I sleep right there all day. Had to cross two li'l creek, went barefoot there. When I cross those two li'l creek I home to old ground, not far from Alder Point.

Again I lay down in sun to sleep. Three days I stay there. 'Fraid to go down to Fort Seward. Good weather. Think 'bout Mother all time. Half time cry, once awhile. Two nights I stay alone, then I go to Fort Seward.

That white man told Inyan boys watch for me come home. Lotsa Inyan women there. Men all killed.

I go where they get water, two, three places there where make buckeye soup. It ain't done yet. Nobody there. I taste buckeye, all bitter yet. I drink water out of basket sitting there. After awhile I see woman coming. I step behind brush. She never see me. She pour water in buckeye. Talk to self 'bout being bitter. It was my mother! Then I step in plain sight. She stir soup with hand, shake drops off, look round. "Who's you?" she say. "That you my daughter?" I say yes. She hug me and cry. Poor mother!

"Inyan boy watching," she whisper. "You come 'bout morning, 'bout midnight." "No", I told her. "Got grub, got blanket, I sleep down here some place."

"Shall I bring buckeye soup tonight?" she ask me. "No, don't bring grub out, might they follow you, find me."

Two nights I hide out. I go way down creek under big tree roots. Sleep dry. Then I go to house. All time I never leave no sign. Mother and li'l sister hunt me. Make believe gather wood, never find me.

My uncle hunt me the last night. I see him. Then I show up on open ground. He say, "Poor li'l thing, hunted, starving. 'Bout midnight, I put you cross river in boat. I say, "Tell Mother meet me out there."

He say "Them two li'l girls been take away from that 'nother woman. Cry all time."

Midnight I go in, meet him. Watch stars for time. I eat. Mother give me 'nother blanket, food too. Them two man don't make no track. Walk in leaves and river. Had big boat. Put my aunt and me 'cross river. If Mother let li'l sister go, white men kill Mother.

We travel all night, sleep all day 'til sundown. Had lotsa dried meat. Left most of my whiteman grub with Mother. Found some of our people at Poison Rock, pretty near sundown. I see old man pack wood. He been on look-out. He go in big bark house. I look in door, big fire in middle of house.

Man say, "Li'l girl, look in door." They get up, bring me in. Young girl lay there, sick, my half-sister. That night she die. Snowing, raining hard. They dig hole, right by house. Put body in. All went out. Tore all house down, set it afire. Midnight, snow whirl, wind howl. Then we went over to 'nother house. All left there next day, went over to Soldier Basin.

We stay there awhile, went to Cotton Wood. Some of our people there. We went to head of Mad River, next day to South Fork of Trinity River. We stay all night. Tired. No horses. Next day to Cottonwood.

My cousin, Ellen, Wailaki Tom's woman, was there. We find her right away. Then I stay at Cottonwood all summer. After awhile, my cousin living with white man, he want to kill her, she leave him. I stay with her and li'l boy.

Ellen's cousin's brother say to me, "Take care my li'l boy, cause I going to Hayfork. Maybe white folks kill me." He say, "Take care my boy, take him way off."

White man named Rogers come after this. Ellen, my cousin's man, went to work for him. I go with her to Hayfork, and take li'l boy too.

Rogers, my white man, take me then, that summer. Marry me when get old enough. 'Bout size ten year old girl, I guess, when first see soldier. I stay there at Hayfork long time. My mother come there too. She die after awhile at Hayfork.

My cousin Ellen, younger than me, but she got man first. We didn't neither one know much. Man told us to cook beans. We cook green coffee for beans. Man cook long time for us.

Li'l sister, white man took her away. Never see her no more. If I see it, maybe wouldn't know it. That's the last young one took away. Mother lost her at Fort Seward.

I hear it, I went back, got Mother, brought her to Hayfork. Lotsa Inyan there, lotsa different language, all different. Mother stay with me until she die.

You asked about Father, he got killed and brother in soldier war, before soldiers captured us. Three days fight. Three days running. Just blood, blood, blood. Young woman cousin, run from soldier, run into our camp, three of us girls run. I lose buckskin blanket. Cousin run back, pick it up. I roll it up, put under arm. Run more better that way. We had young man cousin, got shot side of head, crease him, all covered his blood, everything. We help him to water. Wash off. No die. That night all our women come to camp. I ask Mother, "You see my Father, big brother?" "Yes," she say, "Both two of them dead." I want to go see. Mother say no.

Young woman been stold by white people, come back. Shot through lights and liver. Front skin hang down like apron. She tie up with cotton dress. Never die, neither. Little boy, knee pan shot off. Young man shot through thigh. Only two man of all our tribe left, that battle.

White people want our land, want destroy us. Break and burn our basket, break our pounding rock. Destroy our ropes. No snares, no deerskin, flint knife, nothing.

Some old lady wear moss blanket, peel off rock good.

All long, long ago. My white man die. My children all die but one. Oldest girl, she married, went far off. Flu take rest of them. Oldest girl die few years ago, left girl. She married now, got li'l girl, come see me sometimes. All I got left, my descendants.

About twenty-five years ago, I marry Sam. Marry him by preacher. Sam, he's a good man. Hayfork Inyan. Talk li'l different to us people, but can understand it. We get old age pension, buy li'l place in Round Valley. Keep our horses, keep cow, keep chickens, dogs, cats too. We live good.

I hear tell 'bout what Inyan do early days to white man. Nobody ever tell it what white man do to Inyan. That's the reason I tell it. That's history. I seen it myself.

In early days everywhere you travel was good water. Ever since cattle, sheep, been come in, they tromp, spoil water. Too much stock make Inyan hard time, eat all grass down, can't gather seed.

White people talk 'bout hard time. I never seen it yet, this country. Round Valley. Once, long ago, hard winter, too much long snow, rain, can't get nothing to eat. People begin to eat their deerskin. Had pepperwood nuts gathered. Each of us little ones get four pepperwood nuts for supper, swinge hair off, blister skin by fire. It all swell up, look like bread rising, then eat. Every two days, they eat like this. That's the only hard time I see.

When snow going off, Father went out, can't walk far. Too weak. Eat nothing. Find big white fungus on black oak. He bring it home, pound up fine, heat up rock, put in water, cook in basket. Then find long grass under trees, dry it in basket over fire. Pound it for pinole.

Got no roots, pound manzanita berries, stone and all, make pinole.

On Mad River, white oaks have black moss, pound it out, squeeze it out, cook it thick, taste like acorns. Pretty black, but glad to eat.

Wolf starving too, catch deer, down in deep snow. Wolf eat buck meat too much, throw it up. Our people find it, wash off, cook, eat it. That's what I call hard winter.

Too much stock make Inyan hard time, eat all grass down, can't gather seed. Same time, ruin water.

* This information was told to Edith Van Allen Murphey at Round Valley in 1939 and is excerpted from the California Historical Society Quarterly, vol. 20 (1941)

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