What Happened to the Indians?

Before the arrival of the Pirates of the Caribbean and Haunted Mansion, there was only one Disneyland ride that actually featured a murder victim. My first sighting of it as a child was deeply disturbing, but eventually became an object of morbid fascination.

The Mark Twain Steam Boat (or the Columbia on the rare day it was out of dry dock), was a “D” ticket ride that made an excursion around Tom Sawyer’s Island and the Rivers of America. Not quite as colorful as the Jungle Cruise, with all its wild animals, waterfalls, and exotic temples, it still offered an idea of what life on the Mississippi might have been like in the 19th century.
As we rounded the bend and the Frontierland dock disappeared from view, the landscape turned densely wooded, with only a brief glimpse of Fort Wilderness on the hilltop.

Once we reached the remote northern edge of the island, a scene of carnage came into view. A frontier log cabin was ablaze and a pioneer settler lay dead in his front yard with an arrow in his chest. I could not tell if he had been scalped, but he had definitely assumed room temperature, as they say. It was a grim and somber scene, and I could not look away. I tried to unravel this frontier crime scene in my mind. What happened here? Was he alone, or was his family killed with him? Was he ambushed defending his property? How long has he been dead? How far away are his nearest neighbors? When will he be missed? The burning cabin should send up enough smoke to draw attention. He needs to be buried before the wild animals start picking at his corpse.

There was no doubt in my mind who was responsible for this heinous act. Obviously, some renegade Indian war party had cruelly snuffed out his life, and it confirmed to me why the savage Red Man must be subjugated. I don’t remember feeling such animosity toward a group of people since those godless hunters had killed Bambi’s mother.

For months and years I rode the Mark Twain Steam Boat to check on the status of the dead pioneer. And every time we rounded the bend, there he lay. When, oh when would his body be discovered and receive a proper burial? There seemed no point in reporting the incident to the authorities, as they were clearly well aware of it. The narration on the steam boat faithfully pointed him out to us each and every time. And then, finally it happened. On one of my many trips to the crime scene, the body was no longer there. The cabin was still on fire (very hearty timber), but the corpse had been removed. I felt at peace knowing that this tragic figure had finally been laid to his rest . . . until I listened to the pre-recorded narration.

Earlier versions of the script told of his tragic encounter with hostile Indians, but today the story had been revised. No mention of an Indian attack or deadly arrows at all, and the cabin fire was passed off as a cooking accident in the kitchen.

I was outraged. Who were they kidding? I knew the truth from years of Disney narration that recounted the Indian attack. This was obviously a cover-up, and the innocent little kids standing around me were none the wiser. Oh, dark day, I thought. They changed the story to protect the guilty. Fine. Call it a cooking accident if you want, but I know the truth.

What happened to the Indians? I will tell you. They were absolved of the crime as part of a steady but relentless campaign at Disneyland to remove any object, reference, or symbol that might offend anyone in any way. The age of political correctness was impacting the nation, and even Disneyland was feeling the heat. An emerging dread of hurting people’s feelings was altering the very traditions of our country. Some schools were no longer issuing grades for fear that the “C” label might stigmatize little Johnny. At after-school sporting events, keeping score was considered harmful to the losers’ feelings of self worth. Christmas trees were being banned at shopping malls and other public venues to avoid alienating other religions.

The Indian lobby was among the most vocal, even going so far as to demand that professional sports teams change their names to eliminate all derogatory slang deemed offensive to American Indians. Apparently the Washington Redskins, Kansas City Chiefs, Cleveland Indians, and Atlanta Braves were just going to have to find a new name as an act of good will. So, it was not surprising that Indian activists would demand that the dead pioneer on Tom Sawyer’s Island be removed to end this ugly stereotype.

Over the years I could see the hand of political correctness at work in Disneyland. The Frontierland Shooting Gallery was originally equipped with .22 caliber rifles. Good sense prevailed, and they were quickly replaced with BB guns, a harmless but perfectly acceptable alternative to me. My Dad was an avid gun owner, an affinity he acquired as a youth on the farm, where a rifle was a tool as vital to the farmer as his tractor. Protecting your livestock and domestic animals from wild and dangerous predators was a constant duty of America’s farmers and ranchers. Living on the farm, my Dad grew up with a Winchester rifle in his hand and learned to respect its deadly power.

When I was old enough, my Dad took me and my brothers out to the local canyon for some target practice. Dad dutifully schooled us in the proper care and handling of firearms, and essential do’s and don’ts. I felt privileged at the passing of these solemn traditions from father to son. The Disneyland shooting gallery was a happy reminder of my Dad’s interest in guns. I gladly used every “C” ticket I had at the shooting gallery. When I ran out of tickets, I paid money to continue shooting. The shooting gallery was always on my “To Do” list.

As a concession to the gun control die hards who cried loudly of its dangers, the BB guns were downgraded to laser ray guns. I am sure the laser guns allow Disney liability attorneys to sleep better at night, and they may even be lower maintenance, but they have watered down this attraction and sucked out all its fun to the point that it doesn’t even belong in Frontierland. If anything, laser ray guns are the stuff of Star Wars and belong in Tomorrowland, not Frontierland. Oh, wait – they already have that attraction in Tomorrowland. It’s called Buzz Lightyear Astro Blasters. But out west, Wyatt Earp didn’t settle his differences with a ray gun. As Steve McQueen made clear in The Magnificent Seven, “We deal in lead, friend.”


Disney’s Aunt Jemima’s Kitchen went the way of Sambo’s Restaurant. You probably don’t remember Sambo’s Restaurant if you were born in the 60s or early 70s. It was an old restaurant chain named after the storybook character Little Black Sambo, who ran the tiger in circles until the tiger melted into a pool of butter.
The franchise could not survive the long arm of America’s civil rights movement. When the name of the restaurant was deemed offensive, customers dried up and the chain eventually filed for bankruptcy. To avoid a similar fate, Disneyland retired the name “Aunt Jemima” in favor of The River Belle Terrace.

One of the most flagrantly politically incorrect rides in the park – The Pirates of the Caribbean – continues to endure, thanks to creative attempts at rehabilitation. From beginning to end the ride trivializes loathsome behavior, from torture to drunken debauchery, attempted rape, selling women into slavery, looting, and arson.
The ride seems to escape the chopping block because those pirates are so darned lovable. They sleep with pigs, sing merry songs, and playfully fire flintlock pistols at kegs of gunpowder. What’s not to love? Even Captain Jack Sparrow (a.k.a. Johnny Depp) makes an appearance to assure us of the ride’s good-hearted nature.


The ride has made some modifications to placate women’s groups. In the scene where the pirate was chasing a damsel, clearly with dishonorable intentions, he was modified to be merely chasing her for her armload of food. Now the scene has the maiden waiving a rolling pin chasing the pirate. Nice save, Disney.

The live bank robberies and shoot-outs on the streets of Frontierland are long gone, the Davy Crockett toy rifles are no longer sold in the park, and in 2001 the Jungle Cruise guides were disarmed so that they could no longer fire their pistols at those defenseless mechanical hippos – mustn’t set a bad example for the children. They got their guns back a few years later when public outcry prevailed. But the guides are now encouraged to avoid shooting the hippos if at all possible – you know, try firing a warning shot first to scare them off. Maybe the mechanical hippos can be reasoned with.


Ultimately, the log cabin fire was extinguished entirely. Disney shut off the gas jet, presumably to stop wasting energy. Now, let me get this straight – Disneyland consumes enough energy to power a small emerging nation, clearly the poster child for American decadence and waste. So, to demonstrate its commitment to energy conservation, it shuts off the lone gas jet fueling the log cabin flame. I am sure Disneyland’s monthly utility bill saw a big difference (not!). Today the log cabin appears to be inhabited with new settlers, with a fresh clothes line of laundry drying in the front yard. (See recent photo, to the right, of the log cabin.) The Indian tribe is camped just around the bend, so these new settlers better stay vigil.

I am trying to adjust to this brave new world. I suppose it is for the best, so I’ll humor them. But I will always know what happened at the fateful log cabin years ago – and it wasn’t no cooking accident.