“Me big man—­you big man!”

It was his opinion that two great men had met, and that the occasion was a grand one.  Moralizers to the contrary notwithstanding, greatness is not always lacking in self-consciousness.

“I would like to go into one of their wigwams, or huts, and see how they really live,” said the Bishop.

“You had better drop that idea,” said the guide, a white man who knew more about Digger Indians than was good for his reputation and morals, but who was a good-hearted fellow, always ready to do a friendly turn, and with plenty of time on his hands to do it.  The genius born to live without work will make his way by his wits, whether it be in the lobby at Washington City, or as a hanger-on at a Digger camp.

The Bishop insisted on going inside the chief’s wigwam, which was a conical structure of long tule-grass, air-tight and weather-proof, with an aperture in front just large enough for a man’s body in a crawling attitude.  Sacrificing his dignity, the Bishop went down on all-fours, and then a degree lower, and, following the chief; crawled in.  The air was foul, the smells were strong, and the light was dim.  The chief proceeded to tender to his distinguished guest the hospitalities of the establishment, by offering to share his breakfast with him.  The bill of fare was grasshoppers, with acorns as a side-dish.  The Bishop maintained his dignity as he squatted there in the dirt—­his dignity was equal to any test.  He declined the grasshoppers tendered him by the chief, pleading that he had already breakfasted, but watched with peculiar sensations the movements of his host, as handful after handful of the crisp and juicy gryllus vulgaris were crammed into his capacious mouth, and swallowed.  What he saw and smelt, and the absence of fresh air, began to tell upon the Bishop—­he became sick and pale, while a gentle perspiration, like unto that felt in the beginning of seasickness, beaded his noble forehead.  With slow dignity, but marked emphasis, he spoke: 

“Brother Bristow, I propose that we retire.”

They retired, and there is no record that Bishop Soule ever expressed the least desire to repeat his visit to the interior of a Digger Indian’s abode.

The whites had many difficulties with the Diggers in the early days.  In most cases I think the whites were chiefly to blame.  It is very hard for the strong to be just to the weak.  The weakest creature, pressed hard, will strike back.  White women and children were massacred in retaliation for outrages committed upon the ignorant Indians by white outlaws.  Then there would be a sweeping destruction of Indians by the excited whites, who in those days made rather light of Indian shooting.  The shooting of a “buck” was about the same thing, whether it was a male Digger or a deer.

“There is not much fight in a Digger unless he’s got the dead-wood on you, and then he’ll make it rough for you.  But these Injuns are of no use, and I’d about as soon shoot one of them as a coyote” (ki-o-te).