(PDF) Truth & Stories (2016)

■ David W. Samuels Department of Music New York University

Truth and Stories This essay attempts to account for a shift, over the past century, in the narrative particle used in San Carlos Apache storytelling. Early text collections feature a verb of speaking. More recent storytellers tend to use a particle glossed variously as a received wisdom particle, a remote past particle, or, most productively, a deferred realization particle. Drawing on Zygmunt Bauman, I argue that the collective administrative agendas of government, education, military, and religious personnel on the San Carlos Apache Reservation, orbiting around the conjoined metapragmatics of modernity, Christianity, and literacy, help to explain the social life of these narrative particles. I focus particularly on the role of Lutheran missionaries in San Carlos in supporting the idea of an increased reliability accruing to the deferred realization of writing and reading. [Western Apache, evidentials, missionary encounters, verbal art] “But we object to Mr. Colyer’s assumptions as the basis for this work. They are not to be approached as a wronged, inoffensive, simple-minded people, but rather as natural-born liars, to be made truth-loving by culture; as thieves to be made honest; as indolent to be made industrious, and taught not to murder.” —Weekly Arizona Miner, Prescott, Mar 16, 1872 The Trauma of Administration O ver the course of the twentieth century, the preferred narrative particle used in relating San Carlos Apache stories shifted from a verb of speaking (ch’inii) to a form best regarded as an evidential particle of deferred realization (lez k’eh). In the present essay I describe and attempt to account for this shift. My attempted accounting has a number of intertwined concerns. First, I want to place it within the suite of military, governmental, educational, religious, and commercial institutions that formed the trauma of administration and that set crucial conditions for the creation of the discursive ﬁeld of the San Carlos Apache Reservation. Second, I want to tell the story of the institutional agendas of conversion, development, and modernization in San Carlos through the individual representatives who were charged with carrying out these programs. Third, I want to explore the ways in which the constitution of the discursive ﬁeld of the reservation may have helped prepare the material and ideological ground for the creative evolution of the narrative particle under examination.1 By trauma of administration, I mean to take seriously Zygmunt Bauman’s (2000 [1989]) observations about the relationships between modernity, rationality, and Journal of Linguistic Anthropology, Vol. 26, Issue 1, pp. 62–80, ISSN 1055-1360, EISSN 1548-1395. Copyright © 2016 American Anthropological Association. DOI: 10.1111/jola.12107. 62 Truth and Stories 63 holocaust. “The department in SS headquarters in charge of the destruction of European Jews,” Bauman (2000[1989]:14) wrote, “was ofﬁcially designated as the Section of Administration and Economy. This was only partly a lie. . . To a degree much too high for comfort, the designation faithfully reﬂected the organizational meaning of activity.” In this sense, holocaust is an extension, or perhaps logical conclusion, of the rationalist drive to improve civilization through progress. Bauman compared the administration of modern civilization to the weeding tasks of “a gardener’s vision” and “a gardener’s job” (92-93). “Modern genocide is an element of social engineering,” he wrote, “meant to bring about a social order conforming to the design of the perfect society” (91). By a similar token, the individuals sent to San Carlos to eliminate polygamy, promote Christian worship, encourage schoolchildren to drink more milk, build houses, or distribute ﬂour, sugar, coffee, and beef saw themselves as rational actors administering societal betterment—as builders, not destroyers, of civilization.2 The collective goal of the cluster of agendas marking the administration of reservation life was to discredit Apache practices, the philosophies undergirding those practices, and the people who continued to be their practitioners. Its representatives routinely promoted the superiority of values bearing the triune marks of modernity, literacy, and Christianity in the reservation community. Important among these were tropes of evidential reliability, stability, and durability of the written word over the spoken. These three together, inasmuch as they were focused on convincing Apaches of the faultiness of their symbolic engagement with the world, emphasized the means by which a narrative claim could be authoritatively sustained. Christianity was held superior due to its revealed truth and its status as a literate, “book” religion.3 Formal compulsory education was held superior due to its teaching of fundamental reading skills, which in turn offered children the tools with which to sift truth from falsehood. Extractive development—any process that reaped hidden riches from the land, be they animal, vegetable, or mineral—was held superior due to requirements of planning, contractual obligation, and deferred gratiﬁcation. A key distinction between the “primitive” and the “modern” in this telling was the idea that the latter’s domination of the former was in part the result of its having devised more consistent, standardized, and reliable means of circulating communicative acts than those of nonliterate communities. The idea was not without its problems. It was, of course, possible to lie in print. Newspapers of the day were ﬁlled with editorials vehemently acknowledging as much.4 But the rhetorical framework of literacy’s perfection was in the way its stability favored the rooting out of falsehood. Over time the very permanence of the written record made possible an inductive and deductive process of verifying or falsifying previous utterances. This—or so the argument went—made the act of lying in print riskier in than lying in speech. The means of an utterance’s mediated circulation was thus made iconic with a discovery process for evaluating the truth of that utterance. This tightly stitched relationship effectively discredited the truth- bearing function of Apache narratives and narrators alike. In short, an important aspect of the trauma of administration can be found in the energy and capital expended in reshaping the hierarchical relationship of “truth” and “falsehood” such that the discursive means of San Carlos Apache people were undermined and weakened. I contend here that understanding the shift from ch’inii to lez k’eh must take account of these contexts of administrative trauma and the denigration of orality in the San Carlos reservation community. In what follows I place particular emphasis on the missionary work of the Lutheran church, but I have not chosen this emphasis with any thought that the Lutheran mission in San Carlos bore a special responsibility for “causing” the shift in storytelling particle, or for producing its contexts. Indeed, as I discuss in subsequent sections, the Lutherans were Johnny-come-latelies in the administrative apparatus of the reservation. But the Lutheran missionaries did enter 64 Journal of Linguistic Anthropology the reservation community with a particular focus on textual authority, in convincing Apaches of the truth of gospel and epistle stories in distinction to other truths and other stories. Mission newsletters, correspondence, and sermon texts are peppered with questions of how one asserts and controls the authoritativeness of entextualized discourse. This work was embodied most prominently in the person of Francis Uplegger, who performed missionary work in San Carlos from 1919 until his death in 1964 at the age of 96. Uplegger was sent to San Carlos with the speciﬁc charge of stabilizing the linguistic work being done there (Hoenecke 1984), and his sophisti- cated translations of gospel texts, hymns, and sermons played an important role in constituting and justifying the discursive ﬁeld of the reservation administration. True though it is that the 1930s saw an Apache Independent Church movement spring up in protest against “lack of Apache involvement in Church management” (Spicer 1962:260; Nevins 2013:205), I think we ignore the “vigorous missionary” who “studied the Apache language and translated hymns and doctrine into the language” (Spicer 1962:260) at the risk of misunderstanding how the discursive ﬁeld of the reservation was produced, and the Lutheran role in—at the very least—setting the scene for more recent discourse interventions. The Shift In early text collections from the San Carlos Apache Reservation storytellers used a line-ﬁnal verb of speaking ch’inii as the narrative particle. This is the “fourth person” form of the verb, something like the English impersonal pronoun, and variously translatable as “it is said,” “one says,” “they say,” and so forth. The storytellers with whom Goddard (1919) worked around 1905 used the narrative marker ch’inii almost exclusively (see Figure 1). Seventy-ﬁve years later Britton Goode (1980) recorded a number of historical talks at his kitchen table in the Seven Mile Wash district of San Carlos. In them, Goode used le z k’eh as his narrative marker almost exclusively. Ch’inii, by contrast, is nowhere to be found. z’ ła 1905 da zaz go nagołta zaz golzeego baa nagoni’ Akoh aıda z’ iłts’az onadaahasaz az lę́k’eh Dawa dahay u daagolıı lę́k’ehy u ak u onadaasaz az lę́k’eh Mı nant’an daagolıı n’zızı aı da’agee dagolıı lę́k’ehi onkoh adishnii w aı In 1905 it rained hard, as it was told That was when they left, All of them went back to where they were originally from Those that had their leaders stayed where they were as I tell you this. The preference for le z k’eh over ch’inii is found in all of the school readers prepared by Curtis Bunney, Lola Steele, and Dorothy Smith for the San Carlos School District under Title IV during the 1970s. A 1980 publication by Phillip Goode prepared under the auspices of AILDI similarly made exclusive use of lez k’eh: ı n’ıı lah dzızı’i yoskaz az yu nch’ınanaadzid lę́k’eh. A Ch’agosh’o’yu nanasdaa lę́k’eh. Isk’an nyaazhi’ dagodiyaa hik’ee ngolzızıhıı mıgowaz goz’az az hı lę́k’eh. n’ıı la Ai zaz aku mıgowa goz’az az hı dazho z bit’ahgee bizzih sizizzi lę́k’eh saz az : Four days later he woke up. He sat back down in the shade. Around noon he walked back toward the house where he lived. Then to his surprise a deer was standing just beside his house. Truth and Stories 65 Figure 1. Sample page from Goddard (1919), with appearances of ch’inii (tc’i ni) circled. The verb of speaking here is paired with the asserted past tense marker ni’. What does this shift express, and how do we account for it? A somewhat unexamined Navajocentricity in Southern Athabaskan linguistics and linguistic anthropology, perhaps, has resulted in the assumption that the narrative particle in San Carlos Apache would be some form of cognate to the Navajo verb of speaking jini. And this is certainly what we observe in Goddard’s 1919 collection. In her introductory comments to Paul Ethelbah’s performance of the story “Ndah Ch’i’in,” Nevins offers a succinct and thorough sketch of the use of the verb of speaking as a storytelling particle in Western Apache narratives. “Apache narrative poetics makes particular use of utterance ﬁnal discourse particles,” she wrote. “The most common used in many White Mountain Apache narratives is ‘ch’idii,’ and translates roughly as ‘it’s said,’ or ‘they say.’”5 Nevins’s account of the continuity of the verb of speaking’s use as a narrative marker, however, was less accurate. “In the stories recorded as text collections ﬁfty to a hundred years ago,” she continued, “these utterance-ﬁnal particles were extremely regular—occurring at the end of almost every sentence or every quoted turn at talk of a story” (Ethelbah, Ethelbah, and Nevins 2012:203). Nevins cites two authors as evidence for this continuity: Goddard (1919, 1920) and Hoijer (n.d.). The situation turns out to be both more complicated and more interesting. Although Goddard’s collection of texts demonstrate that a century ago ch’inii was the most common and rigorously appearing line ﬁnal narrative marker, the frequencies of ch’inii in Hoijer’s work, collected in the 1930s, are in fact quite mixed and transitional.6 Some stories—”The Boy and His Sweetheart,” “An Adventure with a Bull”—feature regular line-ﬁnal use of ch’inii. Others—”The Deer Hunters,” “First Contact with the Whites”—instead feature line-ﬁnal lez k’eh. Still others, such as “A Raid on the Pimas,” begin with one and shift to the other. Other work also leads to the conclusion that by the mid-twentieth century a shift in narrative particle was occurring. Faye Edgerton (1963), working with the Wycliffe Bible Translators, analyzed both ch’inii and le z k’eh as hearsay particles. Edgerton (1963:121) characte- rized the former as attaching to any statement “which the speaker knows only by hearsay.” The latter she described as “action or condition in the past, known chieﬂy by hearsay” (148). There may be a shading of difference between “knows only by” 66 Journal of Linguistic Anthropology and “known chieﬂy by,” but it seems Edgerton treated these particles as interchangeable in the delivery of a narrative event. She further described ch’inii as a narrative particle used in storytelling contexts, but did not elaborate. Edgerton’s SIL partner Faith Hill (1963:153), however, in an essay in the same 1963 collection, described le z k’eh as a particle used when discussing events having taken place in the “remote past.” In other words, Hill credited to lez k’eh the same capacity noted by Nevins for ch’inii: “a very precise way of orienting to narratives about the distant past” (Ethelbah, Ethelbah, and Nevins 2012:203). Part of the difﬁculty lies in the muddy waters between how a thing might be translated and how it ought to be represented analytically. As a result, a number of narrative particles that are not in fact verbs of speaking have been presented as meaning “it is said.” The problem is made plain in Webster’s (2012) discussion of areal distribution of Athabaskan quotative particles. His Table 14.3 presents a list of eight narrative particles, from six Southern Athabaskan languages, drawn from eight scholarly sources. Each of these “translates” narrative particles, regardless of their status as verbs of speaking, as a form of “said.” Later on in this article, Webster’s Table 14.7 clariﬁes that these particles are not all verbs of speaking. Similarly, Hoijer’s (1938) note on the Chiricahua Apache narrative particle na’a translates it as “it is said.” Hoijer follows this, however, with an explanation describing na’a as a “narrative enclitic” referring to “events that the narrator has not personally witnessed”— not a verb of speaking but an inferential or accepted wisdom particle. In the narrative “He Became an Eagle,” Nevins and Nevins (2004) translate the particle leni as “it is said to have happened.” This is likely le’—a White Mountain form of le z k’eh—followed by the asserted past tense ni’ (de Reuse personal communication).7 A note in Nevins and Nevins 2013 (229 n.12) concurs with de Reuse’s analysis, as does Nevins (2013:174). Given the complications encountered in this sense of translation, it is certainly possible to consider chin’ii and lez k’eh as “fully interchangeable” quotative particles (de Reuse 2003:82), presenting them identically as verbs of speaking. In his discussion of these particles, however, de Reuse was clear that they are not. And, according to his analysis, lez k’eh “turns out to be the most intriguing element of the [evidential] system” (de Reuse 2003:83). We must abandon, then, the idea that ch’inii continued to be the most common narrative particle in San Carlos Apache through the twentieth century. And we should similarly cashier the impression that a new narrative particle simply replaced the older one to serve an identical quotative function. Indeed, the Apachean and Southern Athabaskan evidential system, stylistically replete but syntactically discre- tionary, offers speakers rich and varied means by which to coordinate narrated and narrative events, and “for orienting participants to distant, extended persons and agents” (Nevins 2013:174). Part of an explanation may lie in a shift in the elements comprising narrative genres. Nevins and Nevins (2013:229 n.12) imply as much when they note that in their experience le z k’eh appears as a particle in narratives “about realizations concerning Biblical events and the actions of relatives who had passed away.”8 We are left to explain, however, why younger adult Apache speakers in the 1990s were “puzzled” by the signiﬁcance of the formulaic shigoshkaan dasjah ending found in Goddard’s 1919 collections; why “The dominant connotation of ch’idii for young and middle aged speakers. . . was translated as ‘gossip’” (Nevins and Nevins 2012:136) among White Mountain speakers; and why ch’inii was thus discordant with the idea that traditional stories should be “authoritative items of Apache cultural tradition” (Nevins and Nevins 2012:137).9 In other words, an explanation by way of genre conventions still must attempt to explain how those conventions have shifted over time. De Reuse’s work begins us on this path. His was the ﬁrst and remains the most complete analysis of the use of le z k’eh in naturally occurring discourse. His discussion makes a triangular distinction among the means by which, and the timeframe in which, speakers became aware of events being reported in a given narrative. De Reuse concludes that le z k’eh acts as a deferred realization particle and as an inferential, Truth and Stories 67 denoting that a speaker’s knowledge of an unwitnessed past event is drawn from direct sensory experience of the traces of that prior event. On the one hand, this distinguishes le z k’eh from ni’, the “asserted past tense” (de Reuse 2003:83) denoting the idea that the event is past and that the speaker has always known that the event is past. On the other, it distinguishes le z k’eh from ch’inii, which attributes the speaker’s source of knowledge of a past event to the words of other prior speakers. The distinction between ch’inii and le z k’eh is not the time frame in which a narrated event occurred—not “past” and “remote past,” as Hill surmised—but the time frame, and means by which, the narrator gained knowledge of the narrated event. De Reuse’s (2003:84–85) example 14 offers a narrative in which the speaker had accidentally spent the night sleeping in a graveyard: z’ danasikai ni’ aıdi’. [1] T’ah tł‘eda We left from there while it was still dark. [2] Hikahgo nohwee gozt’izzid. It got daylight while we were walking. [3] Go dził bika’yu hikahgo t’az az zhiz’, And when we were walking on the mountain we looked nijeedy u nadadılt’zızıd. back down to where we had slept. ı n’ı nanezna’ łeshijeedy [4] A u We had slept in a graveyard! nohwiheskaz az lę́k’eh! In this example, the narration of the events as they occurred in line [1], the leaving in the dark, is told with the ni’ particle, indicating the narrator’s personal certainty that the event took place. Upon reaching line [4], however—the retrospective understanding about where they had slept—lez k’eh indicates the deferred realization of the fact: Now we knew what we didn’t know before, that we had slept in a graveyard. The particle thus appears to share some semantic features with Chipewyan –hii k’e, “used to indicate that the act was discovered by traces or other evidence after it transpired” (de Haan 2008). The difference is between knowing that an elephant has been in your refrigerator because someone said so, and knowing it because you saw its footprints in the cheesecake. As de Reuse notes, his analysis of le z k’eh makes it problematic to think of it as simply a quotative particle interchangeable with the verb of speaking ch’inii. “Indeed,” de Reuse (2003:87) muses, “what does storytelling have to do with deferred realization?” De Reuse speculates that the shift resulted from “the breakdown of oral tradition in storytelling” (87) in the San Carlos Apache community. As the sources of traditional narrative knowledge became more diffuse, he argues, the crediting of that knowledge to actual speakers became more problematic. As a result, “modern speakers no longer use ch’inii because they are unable to trace the story to a speciﬁc storyteller whom they learned it from, and establish their authority by using lez k’eh instead” (de Reuse 2003:87-88). My argument builds on and distinguishes itself from this in two ways. First, I hope to ﬂesh out some of the social, ideological, and rhetorical forces contained within but only hinted at in de Reuse’s shorthand designation, “breakdown.” Second, it is through the administrative trauma of San Carlos that I approach the question. I turn now to how that trauma emphasized particular means of broadcasting, circulating, and receiving assertions taken to be reliable and, for want of a better word, true. Establishing the Discursive Field of San Carlos The San Carlos Apache Reservation was born of a Christian ideology. The executive order that created the reservation was an outgrowth of President Grant’s Peace Policy.10 That policy placed economic, social, educational, and religious goals under a cooperative partnership of “Christian organizations acting in harmony with the Government” (Delano 1873:687). Procedures would be administered by “competent, upright, faithful, moral and religious” individuals also chosen in consultation with these Christian organizations (Delano 1873:686). The Peace Commissioner sent by 68 Journal of Linguistic Anthropology Grant to establish the boundaries of the San Carlos reservation was an evangelical Christian and founder of the United States Christian Commission, Vincent Colyer. The general sent to negotiate the peace that would lead to the Apaches living on the reservation was an evangelical Christian and head of the Freedmen’s Bureau, Oliver O. Howard.11 The moral administration of San Carlos was placed under the Dutch Reformed Church. In short, the policy explicitly blurred the lines between sacred and secular domains in the administrative discourse of San Carlos. All parties were concerned with instituting law-abiding obedience, reading, writing, penmanship, and mental problem solving among the Apaches; with ending polygamy, convincing school children to drink cow’s milk, and regulating forms of cohabitation; with child-rearing practices and revealing the fundamental truth of Christian doctrine. Reports reﬂected this ﬂexible line. Government and military agents measured their success in the reservation system not simply in terms of Indians enrolled, rations distributed, or outbreaks quelled, but in terms of changing moral and ethical behavior. Missionaries measured theirs not simply in terms of growing church membership and baptisms, but by increases in literacy rates, number of houses built, acres of land under cultivation, bushels of corn reaped, and head of cattle brought to slaughter (Christlieb 1882:17–18). All these, according to Grant’s Secretary of the Interior Columbus Delano, presented Native people with “a better way of life than they have heretofore pursued,” and helped them “understand and appreciate the comforts and beneﬁts of a Christian civilization” (Delano 1873:686–687). Such comforts were predicated on accepting the advantages of formal education, personal property, extractive economic development, the stability of written communication, and the truth of the Gospels. Demonstrations of these beneﬁts “must commend themselves to every right-minded citizen as in keeping with the duty of a powerful and intelligent nation towards an ignorant and barbarous race providentially thrown upon it for control and support” (Delano 1873:686). The sense of divide—between civilization and backwardness, rationality and superstition, revealed religion and animism, agriculture and nomadism—was crystalized in various stagings of “literacy events” (Heath 1982). These included demonstrations of the superior power of scribal communication, as well as metaphorical representations of the stable permanence of writing by Apaches. These performances of literacy also contributed to arranged tours of the evidential hierarchy. General Howard arrived in Arizona in April 1872 in the wake of the horriﬁc Camp Grant Massacre (Jacoby 2008; Record 2008). Opening his ﬁrst meeting with the Apache leaders he called Santa and Hos-Yea, Oliver unfurled a fairly complete list to his guests of the advantages of modern civilization.12 Working the land, going to school, digging for silver and gold, accepting the one God—these would overcome the disparity in wealth that the Apaches heretofore had equalized by raiding. Santa countered Howard, observing that the General could accomplish these things because “You are a man that can read and write. You know how to make and do things. You know all about the world. You can make this house; you can do many things.” Howard asked Santa to embrace literacy’s power to open new possibilities for the future. “If your children would come to school,” he reported himself replying, “they would know as much as I” (Howard 1872a:621). A month later Santa brought a stone to his ﬁnal meeting with Howard. It was meant as a metaphor of his desire for a lasting and permanent peace. Offering the stone to the General, Santa again spoke of his illiteracy. “I don’t know how to read and write,” he told Howard. “That stone is my paper. I want to make a peace that will last as long as that stone. . . to make a peace as lasting as a rock” (Howard 1872a:622). The stone’s deﬁciency as writing, however, was mocked in the local press. One report noted that Santa’s stone was accidentally kicked across the ﬂoor, and so hastily replaced by another. Santa’s poetic image was thus revealed as a shifter, less than writing, lacking the stable and veriﬁable semantic value of particular text (Weekly Arizona Miner 1872). Truth and Stories 69 Over the ensuing summer Howard brought a delegation of ten Apache and Pima representatives on a 38-day trip to Washington, D.C. Inability to write was here tinged with poignancy. A correspondent from the capital marveled at the trust they had shown Howard, “leaving their squaws to come to an unknown country, to them, with no ability to write, or in other ways to communicate with them, and until they walk in upon them some day, they will never know what became of them” (Arizona Sentinel 1872). More than a demonstration of the importance of postcards home, however, the trip was a journey along the evidential hierarchy. Speas (2004:260), following Oswalt (1986) and Willett (1988), argues that “the categories of eviden- tiality lie in a hierarchy, corresponding to the degree to which the evidence directly involves the Speaker’s own experience.” (2004:260). By this argument (cf. Aikhenvald 2004), hearsay and personal experience lie at the polar extremes of this continuum. By bringing the Apache and Pima leaders “to the centre of civilization,” Howard hoped they could replace hearsay reports of the United States’ weakness with personal sensory experience of its power. And by Howard’s account, the agenda succeeded. His guests “return to their people laden with a knowledge of our wealth, our power, and our numbers, that nothing can efface from their memory” (Howard 1872b:391).13 Howard reported that they took “extraordinary interest in our churches and schools, and in our farming and manufacturing operations.” In response to this exposure, he continued, the delegates asked “not for trinkets, but for the appliances of education and for what will render them self-supporting” (1872b:391). Howard’s demonstrations mirrored episodes in John C. Cremony’s Life among the Apaches from a few years earlier (Cremony 1868).14 In one, “Sons-in-jah” (“Great Star”)15 echoed Santa’s plaint to Howard. “You ‘white eyes,’” Cremony depicts him saying, “know how to read and write; you know how to circulate your information and ideas from one to the other, although you may never see or know the party; but we poor Apaches are obliged to relate what we know and have seen by means of words only, and we never get together in large parties to remain long enough to disseminate any great amount of information” (295). In a second, an Apache didn’t believe that writing would be decipherable by a reader.16 Cremony scribbled a note for him to bring to the sutler, standing some hundred yards away, authorizing delivery of a ration of tobacco for the Apache. Returning with the tobacco, Cremony described the response of his Apache skeptic as “astonishment” and head-scratching “wonderment” (45). In a third passage, Cremony “composed a short oration” in Apache and read it to a number of his acquaintances. Three days later, he asked them to repeat the speech back to him. “Some of them” who had attended the speech, Cremony wrote, “came very near stating the tenor of my remarks.” But among those who had only heard of it second hand, Cremony wrote, “I could scarcely recognize my own offspring” (269–270). Cremony was clear with his Apache subjects about the moral of his experiment. Now, said I, you can comprehend the unreliability of your traditions. If you cannot remember, for even three days, the substance of so short an address, and if it becomes so mangled by being related from one to another that its original meaning is entirely perverted, what faith can be placed in those traditions which you say came down to you through so many generations? This question, enforced as it had been by a notable example, was unanswerable, and it was followed up by pointing out the difference between oral and written tradition. This paper, I said, holding up the manuscript of my speech, will remain for generations exactly as it is now, and should it be preserved for a thousand years, it will read, at the expiration of that time, precisely as you have just heard it read. (1868:270–271) Cremony thus revealed himself as the classic theorist of orality and literacy described by Heath (1982:92): someone for whom the advent of literacy transfers the “veriﬁcation of truth value” from the witness to a text to the contents of the text. Bourke (1891:473), a generation later, showed Apaches taking pride in their ability to command reading and writing, “the methods which had made the whites own such a ‘rancheria’ as San Francisco.” Writing of General Crook’s journey to meet 70 Journal of Linguistic Anthropology Geronimo at the Ca~ non de los Embudos in March 1886, Bourke described a night- time gathering around a campﬁre. Crook carried “a letter which he had received from Lorenzo Bonito, an Apache pupil in the Carlisle School,” Bourke wrote. “‘Ka-e-ten- na’ had received one himself, and held it out in the light of the ﬁre,” Bourke continued, describing a performance that bears the earmarks of the joking imitations Basso (1979) famously described as “portraits of the Whiteman.” Bourke described Ka-e-ten-na “mumbling something which the other Apaches fancied was reading, and at which they marveled greatly” (Bourke 1891:472). Bourke also depicted Ka-e-ten-na writing, with misspellings and bad grammar, “in carefully constructed school-boy capitals.” Despite playing the scene for its purported humor, Bourke detected pride in the achievement of this type of mediated communication, and noticed “envy” and “surprise” among the other Apache scouts gathered around the ﬁre. All these episodes present literacy as a form of deferred realization. As presented by Oliver and by Cremony, Santa and Sons-in-jah were both dejected over their inability to inscribe something whose meaning is carried by the inscription to be decoded by witnesses separated by great time or distance. Sons-in-jah speciﬁcally alluded to the ability to communicate to extended groups of people who are not personal witnesses to a speech act. Santa speciﬁcally complained of the need to produce signs that will be clearly read and understood by future generations. To represent this durability, Santa brought a stone to his meeting with Howard. Cremony’s note to the sutler presented a clear demonstration in which the meaning contained in writing existed prior to its being revealed to the reader at a later point in time. He offered his oration as proof that the signs of writing were inherently more accurate and reliable than those of speech, in a way explicitly meant to undermine the idea of oral tradition. Bourke, for his part, depicted a scene of keeping and carrying around letters from far away, cherished even if one was unable to read what they contained. It is ironic, perhaps, that not one word of Cremony’s speech survived for 100 years, let alone the thousand he chided the Apaches about. We have only his retrospective report. There is no way of knowing, but it would surprise me to ﬁnd that Cremony incorporated into his speech any of the poetic and rhetorical devices commonly used by orators and ceremonial practitioners to commit long texts to memory. The rhetorical discrediting of oral transmission and tradition in the face of literacy and modernity were the stakes in the founding administrative traumas of the reservation. Christianity and the Lutheran Mission The Lutheran church was a latecomer to the administrative management of the Apaches at San Carlos. When Johannes Plocher and George Adascheck arrived in October 1893 from their seminary home in Watertown, Wisconsin, Camp San Carlos and Fort Apache had been under military administration and occupation for more than a generation. It is true that Captain Adna Chaffee noted, in his 1879 Report to the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, “Although this agency is, as I am informed, under the charge of a religious body, no minister of the gospel has ever been sent here to labor” (1879:8). My argument has been, as Robbins (2004) has shown, that the formal presence of a missionary was unnecessary in order for Christianizing efforts to take place. Under the Christian administrative rhetoric of the early reservation, it hardly took a missionary to expose Apaches to “the light of Gospel truth, which every sensible, thinking man knows to be absolutely essential to human progress and civilization” (Howard 1872b:391). For conversion to Christianity did not simply make a churchgoer of the heathen but, in the words of M. L. Butler (1888:28), transformed her “into an intelligent, law-abiding, enterprising Christian citizen.” Many people engaged in administrating San Carlos represented the advantages of Christianity to the Apaches. “The disposition of the Indians of this agency to do right is very good,” wrote James E. Roberts in his 1874 report from Camp Apache to the Truth and Stories 71 Commissioner of Indian Affars. “It is not hard to make them understand right from wrong” (1874:286). Although the Dutch Reformed Church never established a formal mission station, the church leadership was instrumental in selecting civilian agents to the Apaches. John P. Clum, a dedicated lay member of the church, arrived at San Carlos in 1874 and modeled Protestant values of self-governance and private enterprise. He established an Apache police force and saw to the construction of the main agency building, commissary, corral, inﬁrmary, and guardhouse, “Notwith- standing the fact that no building appropriation has been allowed this agency” (Clum 1875:219).17 The church similarly selected J. C. Tiffany, who succeeded Captain Chaffee at San Carlos in 1880. Tiffany (1880:6) “established singing Sunday afternoon, and Bible readings for the employes.” The boarding school had a Christmas dinner and a Christmas tree every December. In the absence of a church and minister, preaching was done by Rev. J. J. Wingar, a Methodist minister who was head farmer at San Carlos for a number of years before establishing St. Paul’s United Methodist Church in Globe. Tiffany even observed in his 1881 Report that living by example was more important than preaching the Gospel. “I ﬁnd that to do missionary work successfully you must gain the conﬁdence of the Indian, deal justly with him, and in one’s own life show the effect of Christian principle; then you can talk to him ad he will listen. But the kind of civilization which comes with oaths in the mouth and whisky and gun in hand does not strike them as being desirable, and there is too much of this kind in the Territories” (Tiffany 1881:8). And so we should not imagine that the Lutherans arrived into an untilled or fallow missionary ﬁeld when they arrived in San Carlos. The administrators preceding the Lutheran missionaries did much groundwork. Yet by 1890, Theo. G. Lemmon, superintendent and principal teacher at the San Carlos Boarding School, showed exasperation. “Is it a fact,” he asked in his report to the Commissioner, “that the school-master and school ma’am dare teach arithmetic where the minister fears to preach Jesus Christ?” (Lemmon 1890:13). The civic context into which the Lutheran missionaries entered remained unsettled. When Plocher and Adascheck arrived in Arizona, reports of rumored Apache outbreaks, or sightings of The Apache Kid, Massai, and other renegades peppered local news reports. C. S. Fly’s portrait of the Kid was a popular attraction at his Tucson photography gallery. Six months after the missionaries arrived in Arizona, in February 1894, Governor L. C. Hughes offered a $5,000 dead-or-alive reward for the Kid (Weekly Journal Miner 1894a).18 Mere weeks before the missionaries’ arrival, Arizona was in an uproar when the War Department announced the closing of Fort Bowie. A year later a similar panic ensued at word that the military base at San Carlos would be closed. “These two posts,” the Weekly Journal Miner (1894b) protested, “are on the direct route always taken by renegade Apaches on their occasional outbreaks for the Sierra Madre mountains in Mexico.” The experiences of the Lutheran missionaries continued to embrace the links between Christianity, education, law, and enterprise in fostering modernity and civilization among the Apaches. One of Plocher’s ﬁrst accomplishments was establishing a mission school in Peridot, a few miles up the San Carlos River from the agency. He also ran “an interesting Sunday school” (Hunt 1895) as well as Sunday services for pupils at the federal boarding school, which was under the direction of Captain Albert Myer of the 11th Infantry, the military agent. When Plocher performed the ﬁrst Christian wedding ceremony and the ﬁrst baptisms of Apache converts, in his sixth year in the community, these events were reported to the Commissioner of Indian Affairs by the boarding school Superintendent (Wright 1899). Plocher was followed into the ﬁeld by a steady stream of teachers and ministers from Wisconsin (Manthe 1994). Then in 1916, Alfred Uplegger forsook his ﬁnal year in seminary to accept the call to San Carlos. He was followed by his father Francis, mother Emma, and sisters Gertrude, Johanna, and Dorothea. Even at this late date, during World War I, the missionaries had a clear administrative involvement in the 72 Journal of Linguistic Anthropology civil and regulatory life of San Carlos. Shortly after the Upleggers arrived, in a letter dated September 20, 1917, the Bureau of Indian Affairs superintendent invited Alfred Uplegger to stop by his ofﬁce. The note demonstrates the overlap between his and the missionary’s administrative and educational responsibilities: My dear Mr. Uplegger— You are welcome to come at anytime to confer about Indian work. Will be pleased to help you if I can. Will tend to divorce matters you mention. I hope your school will ﬁll up without police pushing—but will assist you if necessary. Sincerely, Ernest Stecker Supt. Stecker’s offer of police support adds particular interest to this communication. Although they were comfortable with police assistance at the outset (Plocher 2008), by the time of the Upleggers’ tenure one difference between the Lutheran mission school and the government school, at least as the Lutherans framed it in correspondence, was in the coercive attendance policies of the latter. The Lutherans were satisﬁed to have a smaller student body that was at least nominally made up of voluntary participants to the prospect of a larger student body composed of children from families who had been forced to comply with school attendance regulations against their will. The path to conversion had to be taken freely and not under threat of police compulsion. A second note from Stecker to Uplegger, apparently borne to him by the couple in question, asked the missionary to “unite this couple by marriage. They have been living together heretofore.” The bonds between moral and administrative discourse is explicated in Francis Uplegger’s January 19, 1925 letter to Malcolm McDowell, secretary of the Board of Indian Commissioners. “We consider Government and Church,” Uplegger wrote, “two handmaids of the Divine Ruler.”19 This, then, was the context of the military and administrative occupation of the San Carlos Apache Reservation for upward of half a century or more. Certainly the people of San Carlos were engaged as active participants in struggles over these issues. As Nevins (2013:205) recounts, Traditionalist and Apache Independent Christian (AIC) movements “emerged in the 1920s and 1930s as critical responses to the challenge posed to local Apache leadership by the Lutheran mission.” I would argue that we risk erasing the means by which the discursive ﬁeld was created, and the purpose for which it was created, by beginning with this counterdiscourse. To take but one example: if contemporary Traditionalists assert that “Changing Woman. . . prayed to Bik’ehgoihidaane (God, or more precisely, ‘because of whom there is life’),” and that “He answered her prayers by causing the sun’s rays to impregnate her while she was still a virgin” (Nevins and Nevins 2009:20), the overlaps with Christian doctrine distinguish it in signiﬁcant ways from what Palmer Valor told Grenville Goodwin (1939:4).20 In noting such evolutions of traditionalist discourse, we ought not treat the decades of colonial impositions of administrative authority in the early reservation community as less relevant. By beginning in the 1920s, we risk erasing the work that the Lutherans, personiﬁed by Francis Uplegger, performed in ﬁnding Apache language means of communicating Christian theolog- ical concepts to their audiences, as well as their links to other forms of administrative trauma. Lutheran Mission Work under the Upleggers Clothed in a scientiﬁc distinction between natural and revealed religion that was indebted to Max M€ uller, the Upleggers in San Carlos, in conjunction with their colleagues in Whiteriver to the north, carried forward continuing concerns that Truth and Stories 73 placed traditional Apache ceremonial practices and ideologies at issue. Those practices and beliefs might bear some wisdom, as humans were naturally able to glean some insight into the nature of God’s work. But their knowledge was obscured in shadows and incomplete at best, and unreliably collected and circulated in any event. Because of this, “natural man” lived in fear of death. Understanding the revealed truth of Christian salvation was a necessity for those who aspired to civilized modernity. Lutheran mission correspondence was peppered with accounts of incidents whereby San Carlos tribal members were taught the distinction between supplication to nature and supplication to the creator of nature. “In their unenlightened desire,” Uplegger wrote in his memoirs, “they give honor, with prayer word and symbolical reference, not to the Creator, but to the imagined Nayaenaezghani” (Uplegger n.d.:83). But praying to animals, natural phenomena such as clouds, lightning, or the whirlwind, or to “Nayae-naezghani, the ‘Monster slayer,’ the imagined son [of] the sun” Uplegger (n.d.:100) wrote, “is the same as praying to a fence post” (115–116). Uplegger was optimistic, however. Being naturally religious, Apaches “still held in the spell of their superstitions” were nevertheless at an advantage over “the white men that. . . entertain no religious thoughts whatever” (Uplegger n.d.:83). What they needed was to be taught the distinction between their obscured and veiled access to “the power at work behind the visible world” (Uplegger n.d.:96) and the full light and truth of revealed religion. A key to this was understanding the distinction between what was contained in Apache narratives and the written record of the Bible. One 1924 article in the Lutheran mission newsletter, under the byline of Lon Bullis, painted a clear picture of the distinction between “a fable story” and “a true story.” The former “is a story that was gotten up for old men and women that do not sleep at nights.” By the same token, the author argued, people who worship false gods simply “pray to something thought out by men,” whereas the true God condemns this behavior in Deuteronomy and especially in the Gospels (Bullis 1924).21 The distinction was in keeping with the traumatic administrative elevation of literate culture over oral. Like Cremony composing his oration, the Lutheran missionaries were concerned with Apaches understanding the reliability of their literate doctrine over the hearsay of traditional Apache theological beliefs. Mission- aries writing of camp and home visits in San Carlos consistently depicted themselves as arriving with Bibles in hand to share the good news inscribed in its pages. The reliability of those accounts—the evidential value of literate over oral circulation— played an important role in this missionary presentation of the salvation revealed in those narratives. In his memoir, Francis Uplegger recounted the general tenor of the creation stories he had heard among the Apaches: “Long, long ago it began, they say (djindni, “one says”, “they say,” or djindnidn, “they said”). When men there were none, when nothing there was, then it began, then, when the earth was not and there was not the sky the dark (meaning: which is to be looked at with wondering and reverent thought). Here now earth and sky let us make, He said, so they say. Then that wherewith earth and sky the dark were to be made, was not, they say. Then about it He had his thought, and about it He spoke, they say. Then, Now let it be made, He thought, they said, let both be made. “And so then His helpers He thought on, they said. So, persons four will do it, He thought. So with His mind He thought them out. So it was done, they said; the good thing was to be done. “That on earth no people would dwell would not be good, said He, they say. So they sat down about it (in council), they say. Now, how may it be done? said He, they say. Now, wherewith to make it there was nothing, they said. How will it have to be done? said He, they say. 74 Journal of Linguistic Anthropology “Then Djivgona’ai (‘Daylight-bearer’) rubbed with his hand over his breast, and what he rubbed off he divided into two parts. One part he made the hummingbird. He made it so as to ﬂy about fast, and, A message-bearer shall he be, said He, they said. The other part he made to be the earth, and here now down he put it, they said.” Uplegger was dissatisﬁed with this manner of transmitting holy information. After offering this version of the Apache creation story, Uplegger turned his attention to the narrative particle employed by its imagined teller. “Who were they that again and again are referred to with the ‘they say’ and ‘they said’?” he asked. “The form djindni in the narration of the Apache storytellers, literally equivalent to the French on dit and the German man sagt, indicates that the story is a matter of tradition among the people.” He concluded his evaluation of this manner of reporting by devaluing this “tradition” in distinction to “truth,” and again drawing a line between natural and revealed religion. “Did the core of the matter,” he asked, “originally spring from the imagination of some remote ancestors? Or do we here have fact encased in the visualization of the pondering and musing ‘primitive’ mind?” (Uplegger n.d.:35–36). Uplegger’s ﬁnding fault with the verb of speaking mirrors and adds precision to Cremony’s evaluation of oral tradition versus his written oration. How can a story related by a group of anonymous “theys” who supposedly “said” things be accepted as accurate and trustworthy revelation of the work of creation? It also extends and ampliﬁes the links Howard made, with the aid of Santa’s stone, between literacy, “God’s book,” and the truth of Christian doctrine. Although the preference for written documentation played an essential role in Lutheran rhetorics of conversion, I have located no mission correspondence in which anyone entered into a speciﬁc discussion of the narrative particle ch’inii or its alteratives. Nor is it clear that Francis Uplegger considered lez k’eh to speciﬁcally encode deferred realization. It is clear, though, that he did not consider it to encode hearsay or a verb of speaking.22 Also clear is that the Lutherans were dissatisﬁed with the traditional particle’s efﬁcacy for communicating the certainty of Biblical text and sermon. As Francis Uplegger, working closely with a number of language consultants and translators in his congregation, became more conversant in Apache, he prepared written scripts for each Sunday sermon in the Lutheran church at San Carlos. In not a single one have I found the verb of speaking as a narrative marker. In all that I have seen, going back to Trinity Sunday 1936, the narrative particle Uplegger used in delivering the Good Word (biati’ nizhozozni) was, invariably, lez k’eh. In contrast to ch’inii, the deferred realization particle communicated the means by which the written word of the Bible came to the San Carlos community from Christian writers separated from them by hundreds of years and thousands of miles. In this regard the Bible shares with newspapers the feature of having stories that “jump” (nach’idijah), that is, information that moves from place to place without having to be orally repeated along its route. Like Sons-in-jah’s observation to Cremony and Santa’s to Howard, it allows information to be disseminated widely without the need to congregate great groups of people in one place. Like Cremony’s demonstration of writing to the sutler and Bourke’s discussion of letters from Carlisle, writing—and the direct evidence inferential that signs of writing encoded— was framed as allowing texts to be decoded from marks and traces separated in time and space from the moment of their revelation. And revelation of Christianity’s light to the darkened souls of the Apaches was the Lutheran project. For the Lutheran missionaries, lez k’eh lent greater certainty and reliability to written reports of events than did ch’inii. Finally, I would speculate that to the extent that the deferred realization particle implied that the speaker had no awareness of the event or state at the time that it occurred, but only later realized what had taken place through a reading of signs, it was well-suited to the Lutheran task of presenting the Gospels as something the community didn’t know, or perhaps had only a dim understanding of, but only came to learn later: “we didn’t know but now we know.” It bears, in this sense, some similarity to a neologism Schieffelin Truth and Stories 75 (1996:447) has described among Kaluli Christians in Bosavi, a particle she interprets as “known from this source/not known before.” In the case of lez k’eh, the particle appears to have always existed as a strategy for marking the evidential value of certain narratives. Uplegger discovered, or had pointed out to him by one of his language consultants, the usefulness of this alternative form as a means of communicating narrative reliability. Realizing how lightly we must tread with these speculations, we cannot ignore the role played by Lutheran inﬂuence in the community, and the negotiation between missionaries, interpreters, and converts about how best to anchor the revealed truth of the Gospel in opposition to the hearsay of traditional creation stories, as an important element of the administrative discourses contributing to the shift in evidential usage. Conclusion Beginning with Basso’s treatment of joking imitations of the Whiteman (1979), a great deal of work in Southern Athabaskan responses to colonialism has been written concerning poetics (Webster 2009, 2015), place-names (Nevins 2008), language shift (Nevins 2013), and popular music (Samuels 2004). Here I have attempted to imagine the creation of the context for those responses and that other work. In this essay I have attempted to show how the trauma of post-reservation administrative, political, social, and discursive forces contributed to producing a shift in the evidential marker in San Carlos Apache storytelling. Building on insights from de Reuse’s analysis of the Apache evidential system, I have argued that the shift from the verb of speaking ch’inii to the particle of deferred realization lez k’eh evolved at least in part from a combined administrative emphasis on the importance of writing, the reliability of such written reports in distinction to oral circulation, and the importance of accepting the truth of Christianity as a gateway to enjoying the full beneﬁts of modernity. I traced this along two lines. First was the aspect of literacy. I attempted to demonstrate the ways in which military, educational, administrative, and religious representatives on the San Carlos Reservation preferred, and found superior, forms of evidentiality that encoded experiences through appeal to perceivable signs. Second, I discussed the ways in which an acceptance of the truth of Christian doctrine was rather incessantly argued to be a necessary aspect of the commitment to being considered “modern” and “civilized.” Third, I argued that there were explicit links forged between these two aspects of modernity, such that the deferred realization of the written word and the revelation of the Word of God were argued to be in some sense iconic with each other. I understand that there are readers who will ﬁnd my conclusions overly speculative and anecdotal. With those objections in mind, I would maintain that we would still need to face the challenge of ﬁnding more complete ways of acknowledging the trauma of administration in the Indigenous communities we study. For we are still left to explain the shift from verb of speaking to deferred realization particle. Undermining the truth-value of Apache stories and storytellers was an undertak- ing that involved the rhetorical and administrative efforts of American representa- tives from many walks of life—politics, education, religion, commerce, journalism, and media. Writing in 1891, John Bourke expressed sympathy for the Apaches on the San Pedro River who had their farms and horses conﬁscated and who were herded from their settlements onto Hell’s Forty Acres at San Carlos after the atrocities visited on them at Camp Grant. He blamed the deceitful and self-interested manipulations of policy by the group he referred to as “the Tucson Ring.” His disdain for the liars who stood to proﬁt by the Apaches’ misery had a narrative as well as an economic and a political dimension. “They had only to report by telegraph that the Apaches were ‘uneasy,’ ‘refused to obey the orders of the agent,’ and a lot more stuff of the same kind,” he wrote, “and the Great Father would send in ten regiments to carry out the 76 Journal of Linguistic Anthropology schemes of the ring, but,” Bourke (1891:437) concluded, “he would never send one honest, truthful man to inquire whether the Apaches had a story or not.” Notes Acknowledgments. This article would never have been possible without the patient discussions and critical engagements of a number of people. I am grateful beyond words to Joycelene Johnson for her continuing willingness to share her expertise in the San Carlos dialect of the Apache language. Mary Beth Nevins, Anthony Webster, and Willem de Reuse read and responded to multiple iterations of this essay, and it could not have been completed without their precise insights and questions. Jackie Urla, Bambi Schieffelin, Tom Porcello, and Louise Meintjes have also been readers and interlocutors from the outset. The thorough and exacting editorial process of the Journal of Linguistic Anthropology, including Misty Jaffe and two anonymous readers, improved the argument of this essay immeasurably. I thank the staffs at the University of Arizona Special Collections Library in Tucson and at the Library of the Lutheran Seminary in Mequon, Wisconsin for their generosity with both time and assistance. All errors remain mine alone. 1. To use the parlance of the times we might think of this array of institutions as a “culture complex” (see Wissler [1914] on the “horse complex” and Wissler [1916] on the “maize complex”). 2. This characterization obviously would not apply to those who thought of themselves as making a proﬁt by skimming or exploitation, but to those who considered themselves honest brokers. 3. C. A. Bateman (1872:287), agent to the Indigenous people of Nevada, appealed to the Commissioner of Indian Affairs for the establishment of schools and churches “feeding their minds and souls with the knowledge of our primary schools, and the truth of our sacred Scriptures.” 4. The treatment of truth-telling and lying in Territorial newspapers deserves a richer exploration than I can afford it here. The array of “born liars” and “hypocrites” lambasted in the press included Apaches, of course (Weekly Arizona Miner 1874; Detroit Free Press 1890); Arizona’s settler population, which included both those who exaggerated the threat posed by the Apaches and, worse, those who led pollyannas to believe that the territory was free of strife (Arizona Miner 1866); and editors of out-of-town papers that misrepresented the Apache problem to their readers (Arizona Weekly Citizen 1885). Worst of all were the whites who lied on behalf of the Apaches. These included the “contemptible white liars” who sympathized with the murdered Apaches after the Camp Grant massacre (Weekly Arizona Miner 1872a) and the government representatives who endeavored to ﬁnd peaceful rather than military solutions to the conﬂict between whites and Apaches in Arizona (Arizona Weekly Citizen 1871, 1874). 5. Dialect differences account for speakers using the nasal continuant /n/ or the unaspirated stop /d/ in their pronunciation of ch’inii or ch’idii. As the former is more commonly associated with San Carlos dialects, I use it here but preserve other authors’ spellings when they use ch’idii. 6. Nevins (Ethelbah, Ethelbah, and Nevins 2012) and Nevins and Nevins (2013) also discuss the use of the narrative closing formula shigoshkaan dasjah, “my yucca fruit lay piled up.” They offer insightful discussion of its metaphorical relations to traditional forms of labor and exchange within family and community. In Hoijer’s San Carlos texts, however, the most common closing formula is simply koh aał, “all ﬁnished” or “that’s all.” 7. De Reuse (2003:92) discusses the sequence lez k’eh ni’. His consultants translated it as “it happened in the past, and I know about it, but I did not see it.” 8. In his classic work on Western Apache language and culture, Basso (1990:114) distinguished three major genres of Western Apache speech, one of which, nagoldi’e—which he translated as “narrative” or “story”—he further divided into “four major and two minor genres.” Unfortunately he did not elaborate on any narrative particles that might have been indexically associated with these different genres. 9. Basso (1990:114), as well, identiﬁes ch’idii, “stories that arise in the context of ‘gossip,’” as one of the major Western Apache narrative genres. 10. Designed, or so its architects thought, to instill in Native people Christian values of peace, the plan was also known as Grant’s Quaker Policy. 11. As discussed in note 5 above, both Colyer and Howard were excoriated in the Territorial press as “born liars.” 12. Santa was more commonly referred to as Santos in the Territorial press. Truth and Stories 77 13. That these personal experiences would soon become hearsay in the retelling was not lost on astute observers. As a San Francisco Call editorial noted, “A Pima chief went East some time ago, and on his return described to his fellow-countrymen what he had seen. He was immediately set down as a liar, and his word was never good for anything afterward” (Weekly Arizona Miner 1872b). 14. In distinction to Howard, Cremony’s writings were accepted in the local press as on the whole true, if inﬂated versions thereof. Prescott’s Weekly Arizona Miner (1868) objected only that “’Bison’ McLean knew [the Apaches] far better.” 15. This is Cremony’s transcription of what is most likely “sozozs nchaa.” 16. For a reason I have been unable to fathom, this incident was reprinted in a number of newspapers over the summer of 1905. 17. Clum went on to establish quite a name for himself in the southwest, as the ﬁrst mayor of Tombstone and founding publisher and editor of the Tombstone Epitaph. See Anderson (2002). 18. This equals approximately $125,000 in current 2016 dollars. 19. Uplegger was in search of housing at the time, and so we should not discount the rhetorical move he was performing in attempting to convince McDowell to provide him with suitable space. 20. See also Goddard 1919:93, 115, 120. 21. Lon Bullis was an important interpreter for the Lutheran missionaries in San Carlos and was given the by-line for the article from which these quotes are taken, but it is unclear from both the writing style and from the shifting pronominal usage of speaker and addressee within the text of the article who the actual author might have been. 22. In his Thesaurus of Apache Language Forms (1945), Uplegger wrote that le z k’eh “projects action into the past,” and interpreted it as meaning “so it is to be thought of,” and “as it is to be seen in mind though belonging to the past or to circumstances not actually present” (Uplegger 1945:2, 3; de Reuse 2003:90). 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