The state confiscated Billy’s canoe that day and carted it to a warehouse where it sat for years.
its own. Image-Northwest Indian Fisheries Commission
“Now the canoe was a rather large craft made of a log,” recalls Frank Haw, a former manager with the Department of Fisheries. “We’ve got this place where the patrol officers would store confiscated equipment. And I don’t think I’ve ever been in there, but I know it was filled with all sorts of things: nets, and guns, and gaff hooks, fishing rods and everything.”
Upon his release, Billy sent a telegram to Steward Udall, acting secretary of the Interior. The conflicts with the state were out of hand. In a plea for federal help, Billy recounted a 2:00 a.m. raid by the state’s “riot squad:” “Leonard Squally, Nisqually Indian, and Hattie Iyall, vice chairman’s wife, were wounded and hospitalized. Young children were thrown into barbed wire; many more were injured.”
Years later, after the dust settled, Billy reminded the fisheries managers about his missing canoe: “You guys got my canoe!”
Frank Haw went looking for it, and discovered the canoe in the Seattle warehouse in 1980. “So by golly, it was Billy’s birthday as I recall,” Haw says. “We had some kind of a little get together. And that was during the Ray Administration and Gordon Sandison was there. And I mentioned this to Gordon, ‘I heard that Billy’s canoe is in our storage shed some place. Let’s give it back to him.’ And Gordon thought that was a great idea. So, it took a big truck because of the size and weight of this thing, and we hauled it to the place where we had this little get together and presented it to Billy.”
The canoe had dry rotted over sixteen years. Its original carver, Johnny Bob, then ninety years old, restored it, and Billy’s historic canoe now hangs from the ceiling of Wa He Lut Indian School looking out on the Nisqually River.
Billy’s mother was aghast at the array of brawls unfolding on her doorstep. “Oh boy, they had a fight! They were stopping the Indians from fishing, and this is Indian land,” Angeline cried in utter dismay.
Witnesses provide varying accounts of the uproar on October 13, 1965 like bystanders reconstructing the scene of a fatal car crash. The Indians’ take is documented in affidavits and a special report, The Last Indian War. The state’s perspective is articulated in a subsequent investigation and report sent to the governor.
From the Game Department’s perspective, its enforcers showed remarkable restraint. They knew about the planned fish-in. According to the rumor mill, Indians planned to use firearms against state officers “if need be to protect their rights.”
As officers huddled at an Olympia warehouse that morning, Bob Josephson, chief of Patrol, gave orders to observe, warn, and arrest quickly. Two four-man crews crouched in nearby powered patrol boats. Roughly thirty additional officers scattered across Nisqually Hill.
Around 4:00 p.m., fishermen threw in their nets. Officers approached and chaos erupted. Officers claim they were booed, jeered, and even spat upon: “They picked up rocks and sticks and let them have it when they hit the shore.” Officer Monte Seigner was “beaten with an oar” so badly blood dripped to his chin. “Blood was flowing freely from wound and down the right side of his face,” fellow agent Armon Koeneman told investigators. One officer said Indians pounced on him so hard they broke his ribs.
“These people aren’t Nisquallys,” criticized Reuben Wells, chairman of the Nisqually Tribe. “We think we should be able to fish anywhere on the Nisqually. But we’re willing to abide by the law.”
There were multiple arrests, according to the state, for fishing violations, assault, and interference with officers.
Indian fishermen tell a far different story, calling the episode a vicious and unwarranted attack on nineteen women and children. The Native Americans had announced the fish-in at Frank’s Landing to keep up their fight for treaty fishing rights at ancestral fishing sites off of their reservations. Fishers, children, reporters, and the family dog—a dachshund with one blue eye and one brown—sat in a boat out on the river. As the late Janet McCloud recounted, shouts filled the air: “Get ‘em! Get the dirty S.O.B.’s!”
