O'odham Resource Use in the Colonial Pimería Alta

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Landscapes of Resilience: O'odham Resource Use in the Colonial Pimería Alta

Item Type text; Electronic Dissertation

Authors Mathwich, Nicole

Publisher The University of Arizona.

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Link to Item http://hdl.handle.net/10150/631374

LANDSCAPES OF RESILIENCE:

O’ODHAM RESOURCE USE IN THE COLONIAL PIMERIA ALTA

Nicole Mathwich

A Dissertation Submitted to the Faculty of the

SCHOOL OF ANTHROPOLOGY

In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements

For the Degree of

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

In the Graduate College

THE UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA

2018 Mathwich 2

Barnet Pavao-Zuckerman

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The research presented in this dissertation was funded by the Wenner-Gren Foundation, Society for Ethnobiology, Arizona Archaeological and Historical Society, Southwest Mission Research Center, and the School of Anthropology Stanley J. Olsen Fellowship and Haury Fellowship. There are no words to describe the deep gratitude I feel towards my dissertation co-chairs Mary Stiner and Tom Sheridan and advisor Barnet Pavão-Zuckerman, who have patiently guided me over the past few years. They undertook the formidable challenge of balancing my joyful pursuit of new ideas and methods and with the rigors of quality research and professional scholarship. Through their mentorship and example, I have also learned the considerable labor, time, and odd phone calls required to help turn a student into a professional. I am grateful for that time and effort. I wish to thank my committee members Terry Majewski and Barbara Mills for their valuable input in drafts and in the defense, which has strengthened the final product. This dissertation would not exist without the experience, generosity, opportunities, and years of support I received from the Arizona State Museum, especially from John McClelland, Patrick Lyons, Jim Watson, Dale Brenneman, and Michael Brescia. At the School of Anthropology, Diane Austin, Steve Kuhn, and David Killick have been particular guiding forces that I wish to thank for their help and support. This work was made possible through the cooperation and resources of Arizona State Museum, Western Archaeological and Archival Center, Tumacácori National Historic Park, and the Environmental Stable Isotopes Laboratory at UA. I am grateful to Alex Ruff for his work and data collection for the stable isotopes study. The research presented in this dissertation owes a debt to and builds on the research of many, particularly Rebecca Dean and Bunny Fontana. At the University of Arizona, I found an incredible, collegial community of researchers, professors, and students, past and present. Over years of happy hours, field and lab work, conferences, and shared meals, tears, and laughter, we have created a community that has nourished our spirits. Particularly, I would like to thank Lucero Radonic for giving us an excellent place to live, Cari Tusing for her friendship, and Katie MacFarland for her patient friendship and weekly support through the thick and thin. I wish to acknowledge and thank my parents, Brian and Andrea Mathwich who provided unstinting support and acceptance of my love of archaeology and trust in my abilities over decades. This dissertation began intellectually in California, and I am indebted to Michelle Bezanson, Linda Hylkema, and Lee Panich at Santa Clara University for continuing to stoke that interest and providing me with the tools and training to pursue it further. Finally, I’d like to thank Pablo, who took a chance and travelled 5,738 miles to the desert of Tucson to learn a new language, learn how to drive, start a new career, and create a new life with me. Mathwich 4

Dedication

To Pablo Rodriguez Garcia

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

List of Figures ...... 10

List of Tables ...... 12

Chapter 1. Ecologies of colonialism ...... 14

Organization of dissertation ...... 17

The Spanish Empire in the Pimería Alta...... 18

Archaeological approaches to colonialism ...... 20

Theoretical approach of this dissertation ...... 21

Settler-colonialism narratives in the United States ...... 23

Other reflections...... 25

Contributions to the field ...... 26

Chapter 2. Theoretical framework ...... 29

What is colonialism? ...... 30

Leaving the shadow of acculturation ...... 37

Challenges to Eurocentrism ...... 41

Multi-vocality in practice ...... 44

Complexity in archaeology ...... 45

Examining the Pimería Alta through persistence ...... 49

Chapter 3. Spanish colonialism in western North America ...... 51

Waves of colonialism ...... 52 Mathwich 6

The Columbian Exchange ...... 55

New Mexico ...... 58

Alta California ...... 61

Pimería Alta ...... 64

Prehistoric overview ...... 64

Subsistence and settlement ...... 65

Colonial intensification and revolt in the Pimería Alta ...... 68

Conclusions ...... 73

Chapter 4. Geology, hydrology, & ecology of the Santa Cruz Basin ...... 75

Geology ...... 75

Mountain range composition and soil ...... 76

Hydrology ...... 77

Climate ...... 80

Periodic wet cycles and droughts ...... 82

Seasonal temperatures ...... 84

Stable oxygen isotopes in water ...... 85

Water storage and evaporation ...... 86

Plant communities ...... 88

Conclusions ...... 91

Chapter 5. Long-term animal use in the Santa Cruz River Valley ...... 93 Mathwich 7

Decolonizing archaeology ...... 95

New chronologies ...... 96

Methodological segregation ...... 98

The Pimería Alta as a case study ...... 99

Methods...... 100

Results ...... 106

Index by period ...... 107

Discussion ...... 111

Taphonomic considerations ...... 113

Lack of systemic resilience and postcolonialism ...... 115

Conclusions ...... 116

Chapter 6. Mission records and O’odham landscape use ...... 119

Outside the adobe walls ...... 119

Resisting binaries ...... 121

Colonial refuges ...... 124

Seasonal landscapes in the Pimería Alta ...... 125

Mission registers ...... 127

Methods...... 128

Sites chosen for analysis ...... 130

Results ...... 132 Mathwich 8

Discussion ...... 139

Conclusions ...... 145

Chapter 7. Dynamics of small-scale animal husbandry using agent based modeling .... 147

Domesticated animals and human society ...... 149

Ethnographic background ...... 150

Agent-based models ...... 155

Epidemic diffusion models ...... 156

Methods...... 158

Results ...... 163

Discussion ...... 168

Conclusions ...... 171

Chapter 8. Stable isotopes from livestock tooth enamel ...... 173

Spanish colonialism in the Sonoran Desert ...... 173

Colonial livestock resource use ...... 174

Rationale ...... 176

Material and Methods ...... 178

Geochemical methods ...... 179

Results ...... 181

Bulk samples ...... 181

Serial samples ...... 186 Mathwich 9

Modern water sampling ...... 189

Discussion ...... 190

Water resources ...... 190

Livestock diets ...... 191

Ecologies of colonialism ...... 193

Conclusions ...... 194

Chapter 9. Examining resilience in O’odham colonial landscapes ...... 196

The study of a colonial landscape ...... 197

Reorganization ...... 199

Prehistoric/historic animal use ...... 200

Water management ...... 201

Absorbing new pressures ...... 203

Mission registers and seasonality...... 203

Challenges to animal husbandry ...... 205

Conclusions ...... 207

Challenging narratives of erasure in the American West ...... 210

Appendix A. Santa Cruz Valley Archaeological Sites ...... 212

Appendix B. Archaeological teeth from Tucson Presidio, Tubac Presidio and Mission

Guevavi ...... 218

References Cited ...... 222 Mathwich 10

LIST OF FIGURES

Figure 2.1. The dialectic relationship between ideology and the material world...... 33

Figure 3.1. Map of Pimería Alta colonial settlements from Spicer (1962)...... 70

Figure 4.1. Map of the Santa Cruz Watershed boundaries (Norman et al. 2012: Figure 1).

...... 79

Figure 5.1. Timeline of Santa Cruz Valley sites in analysis...... 102

Figure 5.2. NISP plotted with the SI ...... 107

Figure 5.3. NISP plotted with the AI...... 107

Figure 5.4. AI plotted against SI...... 108

Figure 5.5. SI through time...... 109

Figure 5.6. AI through time...... 109

Figure 5.7. Average Shannon Index value by period...... 110

Figure 5.8. Average AI value by period...... 111

Figure 5.9. The connectivity and homogeneity of the units affect the way systems respond to changing conditions...... 112

Figure 6.1. Map of the colonial settlements. Map by Katie MacFarland...... 133

Figure 6.2. Event records timeline...... 134

Figure 6.3. Chi-square equation...... Error! Bookmark not defined.

Figure 6.3. Chi-square equation...... 137

Figure 6.4. Daily frequency of participants, all sites...... 139 Mathwich 11

Figure 6.5. Monthly participant count vs. average monthly precipitation ...... 142

Figure 6.6. Monthly participant count vs. average monthly temperatures...... 142

Figure 7.1. Snap-shot of initial set up of simulation visualization (Uri 2016)...... 162

Figure 7.2. Carrying capacity is set to 120 with a 25% rate of animal transmission...... 163

Figure 7.3. Carrying capacity is set to 120 with a % rate of animal transmission...... 164

Figure 7.4. Carrying capacity is set to 120 with a 5% rate of animal transmission...... 164

Figure 7.5. Carrying capacity is set to 375 with a 25% rate of animal transmission...... 165

Figure 7.6. Carrying capacity is set to 375 with a 50% rate of animal transmission...... 165

Figure 7.7. Carrying capacity is set to 375 with a 75% rate of animal transmission...... 166

Figure 7.8.Dodds and Watts (2004:3) outlined three generalized models of contagion and each graph represents the thresholds for epidemic spread...... 167

Figure 8.1.Map of sampled sites in relation to other sites examined in this dissertation.

...... 176

Figure 8.2. Carbon and oxygen isotopes from bulk samples by taxon...... 184

Figure 8.3. Carbon and oxygen isotopes from bulk samples by site...... 184

Figure 8.4. % C4 and diet between caprines and cattle...... 185

Figure 8.5. Bulk oxygen samples compared to modern precipitation...... 185

Figure 8.6. Serial sampling of cattle teeth in the Pimería Alta. Each tooth sample is ordered from the oldest to youngest sample ...... 188

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LIST OF TABLES

Table 5.1. Pearson correlations ...... 106

Table 6.1. Sonoran Desert harvesting times from Hodgson (2001)...... 126

Table 6.2. Average individual participation...... 130

Table 6.3. Summary table of event and participant counts by site...... 131

Table 6.4. Spearman’s rank order correlation of events and participants ...... 135

Table 6.5. Chi-Square Test: goodness-of fit to an even distribution...... 137

Table 6.6. Spearman’s Rank Order Correlation of Participant Count and Climate Data.

...... 143

Table 7.1. Overview of ABM Model Components...... 156

Table 7.2. Summary and Rationale of Model Variables...... 159

Table 8.1. Modern δ18O water ratios for the Tucson Basin and Guevavi...... 182

Table 8.2. Bulk sample averages...... 183 Mathwich 13

Abstract

The Columbian Exchange was the vast and pervasive transfer of animals, plants, diseases, and people between the Americas, Africa, and Eurasia. Archaeologists studying the

Exchange have examined emergent identities, cultural persistence, and the long-term political ramifications of archaeological interpretations of cultural change for Indigenous peoples of the

Americas; however, less attention has been given to the mechanisms of how native peoples negotiated the introduction of European livestock within their local environments. Livestock possess the ability to transform local ecology, and have the disruptive potential to be agents of colonialism. Without adequate analysis of Indigenous peoples’ experiences of this facet of colonialism, there is a risk of under-valuing local knowledge and ecological constraints. My research integrates society, economy, and ecology in order to study shifts in Indigenous landscape use following the introduction of livestock. I use multiple, independent lines of evidence to examine how local conditions influenced Indigenous responses to colonial pressures at Spanish colonial mission and presidio sites between AD 1685 and 1850 in the Santa Cruz

River Valley (southern Arizona and northern Sonora). Using mission registers, agent-based modeling, zooarchaeological data, and stable isotope analysis, I investigate how O’odham resource use responded to colonial demands. My findings identify multi-site patterns in resource use and reflect a mix of reorganization of resources in response to colonial pressures and the persistence of pre-contact landscape use. These results broaden understandings of the diverse responses of Indigenous communities to Spanish colonialism and emphasize the importance of local dynamics in shaping colonial interactions.

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CHAPTER 1. ECOLOGIES OF COLONIALISM

Centuries of European colonialism created the foundations of the modern world, but this period has left a profound and difficult legacy in its wake. As part of colonialism, people, plants, animals, and pathogens were transferred across continents in a long-term exchange structured by power relationships based on economic and social inequality. Europeans brought organisms— sometimes intentionally, sometimes inadvertently—into new ecosystems. Eurasian organisms entered New World ecosystems and began disrupting the long-term social and environmental relationships. The Columbian Exchange resulted in new relations among humans, animals, and the land (Crosby 1972a, 2004). Indigenous communities in the Americas withstood centuries of outbreaks of epidemic diseases and colonial intrusions, followed by the dramatic reduction their populations and reconfiguration of local politics and economics.

In the aftermath, new social inequalities developed. Narratives appeared to explain, and in some cases, justify the social and economic disparities initiated by colonialism. Over the last century, historical narratives about the Columbian Exchange reinforced social disparities because many of these histories privileged the actions and perspectives of Europeans and their descendants. Stories about colonialism revolved around European colonists: Colonists were quick to exploit the disarray produced by mass depopulation and came to control much of the

Americas because they possessed superior European tools and institutions as well as partial immunity to Old World diseases. The narrative became integrated into twentieth century anthropological approaches to traditional “vanishing” cultures (Cusick 1998; Kroeber 1948).

These perspectives remain a fixture in American consciousness. The Doctrine of Discovery remains the foundational legal basis for much of U.S. law toward American Indians (Miller

2005). This just-so story has been used to continue colonialism through the reification of Mathwich 15

European dominance all over the globe and continued marginalization of Indigenous peoples

(Chakrabarty 2000; Said 1979; Wolf 2010).

Archaeologists of the past two decades have sought to reframe the narrative of European colonialism in ways that recognize the agency of Indigenous peoples and attend to the political implications of archaeological research (Arkush 2011; Jordan 2014; Leone 2009; Panich 2013;

Preucel 2007; Trigg 2004). This work has been cognizant of past problems and attitudes affecting archaeological practice and actively sought to build collaborative projects that place oral histories and Indigenous knowledge on par with geochemical methods and archaeological analyses. These approaches examine emergent identities, cultural persistence, and the long-term political ramifications of research on Indigenous histories (Gosden 2004b; Lightfoot and

Martinez 1995; Panich and Schneider 2014; Silliman 2012). There remains a gap, however, in understanding how Native peoples negotiated the introduction of European domesticates within their local environments and the nature of these differences. There exists an ambiguity of motivations behind practices that aided European settlement in archaeologies of colonialism.

Theories of identity, economy, and research strategies with a deep focus on a single site capture limited aspects of Indigenous experiences of colonialism. In these approaches, the study of ranching and farming in colonial contexts has been considered through the lens of labor and engagement with capitalism (Pavão-Zuckerman 2011; Silliman 2008) or as part of a broader

Indigenous social landscape (Barrett 2015; Panich and Schneider 2014). While appropriate in some regions and periods, these approaches often exclude agro-pastoralism from the suite of native strategies used to navigate New World colonialism and focus on the persistence of

O’odham social connections and landscape uses. In cases where Indigenous groups adopted ranching or farming European domesticates, animal husbandry is often not included in the Mathwich 16 continuum of Indigenous resource use. Recent work, however, has highlighted the importance of animal husbandry to Indigenous autonomy and economies during the colonial period, and applied methods such as GIS mapping and agent-based modeling to understand these dynamics on a large scale (Bethke 2017; Curry 2017). New methodologies are opening up many possibilities to explore animal use in the colonial period from multiple angles.

Some of these methodologies come from complexity and ecological theories, very different traditions from postcolonialism and Indigenous theory. Postcolonial emphasis on historical contingency and local particularity seems inherently at odds with regional approaches to data aggregation and abstract modeling. My research seeks to bridge this theoretical disconnect in landscape use through the study of pre-contact practices and the effects of colonial livestock on land use. I place multiple lines of traditional archaeological evidence— zooarchaeological, historical, geochemical, and computational—in tension with an interpretive approach which locates Indigenous people as central actors in their historical contexts. Through postcolonial theory and complex adaptive systems, my research asks how O’odham subsistence practices and land use at colonial sites in the Pimería Alta impacted their persistence as a political and cultural group. I detail how livestock became a component of broader resource strategies among O’odham groups. From these data, I argue ranching should be considered part of Tohono O’odham historical cultural landscapes.

The subsistence strategies of O’odham groups in Spanish colonial settlements (1691–

1852) offer a window into these broader dynamics because of the diversity of data associated with them and the limited success of colonial efforts in the region (Salmón 1988; Sheridan

1992). The Pimería Alta, today the border region of southern Arizona and northern Sonora, provides an ideal location to examine these political and ecological processes. Weak Spanish Mathwich 17 control, decentralized O’odham leadership and groups, epidemic disease, the threat of violence from Apache raiders and Spanish soldiers, and the challenges of desert foraging and farming created historical contexts that required careful navigation. Through this dissertation, I examine how O’odham living at colonial sites negotiated colonial and environmental demands using evidence gathered from mission records, isotopic analyses, zooarchaeological data, and agent- based modeling. Each line of evidence provides a facet of O’odham groups’ complex responses to the challenges presented by colonialism, and together demonstrate the diversity of strategies used to adjust to pressures of new colonial demands in the arid Sonoran Desert.

Organization of dissertation

My design of this dissertation presents historical and archaeological evidence of historical O’odham landscape practices. In Chapter 2, I outline the theoretical background of the dissertation and how postcolonialism can articulate with concepts and methods from complex adaptive systems. In Chapter 3, I frame the Pimería Alta within the larger context of Spanish colonialisms to illustrate how local dynamics and the historical context of Spanish politics shaped colonialism in different regions of Southwestern North America. Chapter 4 reviews the environmental and geological background of the Santa Cruz River Valley and their influence on human subsistence strategies. Chapter 5 uses zooarchaeological indices to set livestock within the broader continuum of O’odham animal uses at prehistoric and historical sites. For Chapter 6,

I look at how native participation in life events from mission records correlated with seasonal demands. Chapter 7 uses agent-based modeling to investigate how O’odham community size and structure affected the adoption of small-scale animal husbandry. Chapter 8 employs isotopic analyses of livestock bone to identify the ecozones affected by livestock grazing and assess how

O’odham reconciled the resource requirements of ranching with desert farming requirements. Mathwich 18

Finally, Chapter 9 synthesizes these results and examines how the adoption of livestock impacted some areas of O’odham life and but had little effect on others. The methodologies of each approach were distinct, and thus relevant method descriptions are located in each data chapter instead of a single method chapter for ease of reading and reference.

The concept of crystallization provides a useful frame for uniting the methodologically disparate chapters in this dissertation. For Ellingson (2017), crystallization is the juxtaposition of quantitative and qualitative information that acknowledges the partial and open nature of knowledge production and the positionality of the researcher. Like the facets of a crystal, this dissertation presents different aspects of Indigenous experiences colonialism, but is by no means a complete or objective work. My position as an archaeologist with specific skill sets and cultural background and education shapes my understanding and approach to these issues. The diverse approaches strengthen this study of landscape use in the colonial Santa Cruz Valley because

O’odham groups interacted with many resources within their cultural landscapes. Each facet held important information, but interpreted separately, they told very different stories. When interpreted together, they offer a new, complex picture of O’odham colonial resource use.

The Spanish Empire in the Pimería Alta

Spanish colonialism was a series of long, tentative historical processes. It was neither unified nor centrally administered, with various bureaucratic and economic interests that were often in conflict. Indigenous peoples responded and shaped colonial encounters and relationships in a variety of ways. Indigenous groups varied at inter- and intra-community levels in their participation, resistance, and distance to Spanish efforts. Native power structures, belief systems, and environments left an indelible imprint on colonial efforts. The dialectic between broader Mathwich 19 colonial ideologies and local negotiation and adaptation are reflected by labor patterns and land use at colonial settlements.

On the northern edges of western North America, Spanish colonialism permeated the

Pimería Alta, today northern Sonoran and southern Arizona. In the 1690s, Jesuit missionary

Father Eusebio Kino established a chain of missions along several river valleys in the region, bringing with him European domesticates including cattle and wheat. Eurasian plants and animals entered an Indigenous society with subsistence practices formed through long-term human-environmental interactions. Livestock were clearly outside of those practices, yet by the nineteenth century, many Tohono O’odham participated in ranching. The scale and importance of Indigenous ranching have been often discounted by scholars. Historians and geographers of the region do not consider O’odham use of livestock in the Pimería Alta to be ranching (Kozak and Lopez 1999; Perramond 2010; Sayre 2003, 1999). Compared to the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the activities at the missions and native rancherías were smaller in scale and not linked to global market demands. These researchers often dismiss the first century and a half of ranching as something little more complicated than hunting feral cattle.

Limiting the definition of Southwestern ranching to a strictly capitalist activity undermines the Native American origins of ranching and their long participation in the industry.

The interpretation that Indigenous peoples did not contribute significantly to ranching until the

U.S. Territorial Period undercuts the potential time depth of traditions that arose as a result of three centuries of human-animal interactions. Ethnographers record a variety of ways in which the Tohono O'odham integrated horses and cattle into their belief systems and economy (Bahr et al. 1974; Castetter and Underhill 1935; Kozak and Lopez 1999; Rea 1979). Archaeological evidence also points to the intensive processing of cattle bone and the production of hides and Mathwich 20 bone grease for local mines (Pavão-Zuckerman 2008, 2011). Archaeologies of colonialism increasingly examine colonial sites within a comprehensive Indigenous cultural landscape

(Jordan 2016; Lightfoot et al. 2013; Panich and Schneider 2015). In lieu of a judgement about how colonial livestock relates to later Territorial Period ranching, the question of interest is not whether O’odham ranching is comparable to Anglo activities. Instead, the question is how

O’odham ranching fits into previous Indigenous landscape uses? This shift in perspective re- centers the Tohono O'odham in their homelands and views the adoption of Eurasian domesticates as part of a continuum of lifeways in the Sonoran Desert.

Archaeological approaches to colonialism

Archaeologies of colonialism have a long history of exploring the new patterns, which grew out from previous cultural practices, and pre-contact practices, which took on new meanings due to colonial pressures. These changes sometimes resulted in ethnogenesis, drastic shifts in resource use, and creation of new communities and ways of life (Deagan 2015; Ginn

Peelo 2011; Voss 2008). In other colonial contexts, native peoples’ relationships to their lands changed as their populations dropped and as their societies engaged with global economic demands. Archaeologists study and interpret these processes and thus help shape narratives of colonialism. And, archaeological interpretation and knowledge production can have unforeseen consequences on identity politics.

Colonized groups in the United States have been forced to move within a political structure that predicates federal recognition on cultural authenticity and ancestral ties.

Authenticity is thus more and more a political aspect of Indigenous identities (Ross and

Pickering 2002; Trigger and Dalley 2010). Several archaeologists used archaeological evidence of the persistence of cultural practices as a link between prehistoric and colonized groups (Panich Mathwich 21 and Schneider 2014; Silliman 2012). This work emphasizes persistence because of 1) an awareness of challenges to Indigenous political recognition and land claims in specific political contexts, and 2) an understanding that material shifts from precolonial practices do not necessarily represent a cultural break with the past. Approaches which explore ethnogenesis, creolization, and persistence, reflect evidence-based historical developments. The approach one applies, however, will affect interpretation of the material assemblage. The question then becomes which perspective should an archaeologist privilege in analysis, the politically savvy one or the one that best reflects material cultural patterns? I argue this choice is a false binary.

Indigenous persistence offers a different lens through which to interpret drastic shifts in subsistence systems and provides a theoretical framework for structuring data collection and analysis. In fact, methodologies and concepts from complex adaptive systems can be incorporated into this framework and be used to explore Indigenous societies’ interactions with colonial pressures.

Theoretical approach of this dissertation

I use persistence as a central interpretative position of this dissertation—that Tohono

O’odham groups exist today because of the decisions and actions of their ancestors in the past. In my research, persistence emerged as a concept that both acknowledges the severe challenge colonial intrusions posed to Indigenous peoples and recognizes the adaptive capability and agency that empowered the survival of many native groups (Panich 2013). In the Tohono

O’odham case, persistence accurately reflects the political and cultural status of the tribe, but it does not reflect the colonial histories of all native groups in northern Mexico. Many groups blended into Spanish and Mexican immigration into Sonora, and while some subsistence practices were maintained, group and language identities became fragmented as a result of this Mathwich 22 immigration. I begin from this first interpretive position, and interpret subsequent data and methods through persistence.

I contrast persistence with concepts and methods from complex adaptive systems (CAS), which broadly encompass the study of systems. At the heart of CAS are non-linear relationships, knowing how a system’s individual parts interact does not necessarily lead to an understanding of the whole system's behavior (Page and Miller 2007). Individual and local interactions may be random and unpredictable, but broader patterns are observable and emerge from these interactions. In addition to non-linearity, CAS approaches examine how systems adapt and change in response to pressures. CAS has been relatively underused in archaeologies of colonialism, primarily because many of the approaches used by historical archaeologists come from critical theoretical traditions. Additionally, CAS approaches often involve computer simulation of models, and Western positivist approaches to the world. At the same time, CAS approaches offer important tools for understanding how the world works. If people with a vested interest in decolonizing anthropology are not using all the tools available to them, then they are effectively ceding these approaches to those who are indifferent to legacies of power inequality and colonialism. As a researcher, I find this to be an undesirable and untenable, and use this dissertation to examine how CAS can be thoughtfully integrated into studies of the Indigenous experiences of colonialism.

Resilience is a term often used to describe Indigenous survival and persistence under colonial pressures, but it has multiple meanings. Resilience is a systemic quality and capacity and is a concept that comes from CAS. Resilience is "the capacity of a system to absorb disturbance and reorganize while undergoing change so as to still retain essentially the same function, structure, identity, and feedbacks" (Walker et al. 2004:5). This definition of resilience Mathwich 23 is distinct from psychological definitions of resilience, which reflects an individual or a group’s ability to adapt to adversity, and is thus perceived as a desirable quality. Change in a system, however, is neither good nor bad. Change alters feedbacks, and the result is usually beneficial for some and problematic for others. Resilience as used in CAS offers precise ways to describe systemic interactions. There are limits to the interpretive value of systemic resilience (Redman

2014), and systems can collapse and shift into new states. Not every system is resilient. The capacity to absorb change, collapse, and reorganize are aspects worth exploring in the Santa Cruz

River Valley because the colonial period saw substantial change to O’odham communities across the Pimería Alta. On the other face of resilience, there exists the possibility of points where a system can no longer absorb or reorganize in response to change and shifts to a new state. The new state will still be defined by local conditions but will have different feedbacks and structures. Complex adaptive systems cannot explain or offer solutions to deconstruct these systemic power inequalities and may contribute to the concealment of exploitation. Systemic shifts do not necessarily impact political and social persistence, and it is crucial to differentiate between the two. For these reasons, I place complex adaptive systems in tension with persistence.

Settler-colonialism narratives in the United States

These distinctions between complex adaptive systems and postcolonialism are necessary to report the ecological dynamics of the colonial period and the power and economic inequalities which spurred Spanish colonial intrusion and occupation of the Pimería Alta. Contemporary demands on natural resources in western North America compound the separation of Indigenous peoples in archaeology from their landscape practices, some of which might be considered “non- traditional” because of the practices’ colonial origins. The expansion of populations in the Mathwich 24 western United States and northern Mexico has increased the pressure on natural resources and thus the need to understand and protect cultural landscapes threatened by development. To that end, tribes and researchers use sacred places and historical resource use as legal evidence in support of land claims and resource control (Ferguson and Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2006; Ross and Pickering 2002; Toupal et al. 2001; Zedeño 1997). Extensive research on prehistoric landscape use throughout North America has revealed the great time depth and breadth of

Indigenous alterations to the landscape (Delcourt and Delcourt 2004; Fish et al. 2008; Hegmon et al. 2016; Keeley 2002; Lightfoot et al. 2013). Cultural landscapes are creations both of material and cultural relationships between people and places, and that relationship includes activities of native peoples before and during colonialism.

Herding and ranching are significant cultural and economic activities for Native

Americans across the western United States (Bethke 2017; Kozak and Lopez 1999; Mitchell

2015; Nabhan et al. 1989). In 2012, the USDA Census reported 69% of American Indian- operated farms specialized in livestock production, including beef, sheep, and goat farming, compared with 50% of all farms in the U.S. (USDA 2012). Of American Indian-operated farms,

56% are located in Arizona and 20% are in New Mexico, two regions with a long history of

Spanish colonialism (USDA 2012). While Native Americans constitute 1.8% of U.S. farm operators, the USDA consistently marginalized Native Americans in these activities through discriminatory loan practices, which limited farmers’ access to federal development money. In a

2017, Native American plaintiffs were awarded $380 million in a class action settlement, but at the time of writing, the settlement is still being contested in federal courts (Keepseagle v. Vilsack

2017). Discrimination against Native Americans in modern ranching and agriculture has its origins in the colonial period but continues to be reinforced in the modern legal system. I write Mathwich 25 this dissertation within a contemporary historical context where Indigenous participation and contributions to U.S. ranching history and practice are marginalized. The data and findings within this dissertation illustrate the depth and flexibility of O’odham environmental knowledge and their capacity to apply it to animal husbandry. These findings challenge narratives that minimize and erase Indigenous animal husbandry from U.S. history.

Other reflections

One question that will inevitably occur to readers of this dissertation is why I did not collaborate on my archaeological work with the descendants of the Pimería Alta missions. In a study that claims to be centered in postcolonial theory, there is remarkably little input from descendants. There are two answers to the question of why I did not pursue a collaborative framework for the dissertation. First, my research was experimental in some ways, and I could not promise success or any clear advantage for tribal members’ participation in the project. The relationship between archaeologists and tribes in the U.S. has been problematic in the past, and is being re-negotiated with mixed success (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008). These relationships require time, patience, and trust, which many graduate students cannot always offer at the early stages of their careers. Second, when I entered graduate school, I lacked the maturity and experience to navigate tribal politics and develop working relationships with tribal members.

This dissertation is, in some ways, an offering in the hopes of attracting tribal interest and debate about the role of ranching in their history. It is also an invitation and challenge to my American culture to tell a different story about the Old West, one which includes Indigenous contributions to ranching culture and history.

This dissertation examines how local circumstances shape colonialism, and how those dynamics became part of social practice. While the focus of this dissertation centers on Tohono Mathwich 26

O’odham ancestors in the Pimería Alta, I also viewed this research process as an exploration of my heritage as an Anglo-American with a family history in ranching. As an Anglo white

Catholic, I benefited from the privileges and advantages of colonialism and the legacies of the

Spanish missions. In my lectures about Spanish colonialism and outreach to local high schools,

Catholic parishioners, retiree communities, and Comicon audiences in southern Arizona, I continue to encounter the same narrative about the colonization of western North America: acculturation is the model for cultural change for the general public. The heroic evangelism of

Catholic priests remains a compelling narrative, and the idea lingers that, all in all, Native

Americans benefited from the introduction of European lifeways. These ideas remain fixed in how the general American public talks about this period, despite decades of dissection and negation by Native American leaders and scholars, anthropologists, and archaeologists (Sleeper-

Smith et al. 2015). These narratives of erasure do not accurately reflect the data presented in this dissertation nor the decades of archaeological and historical work on Spanish colonialisms.

Contributions to the field

While the crux of this dissertation centers on postcolonial questions of continuity and change in resources through the lens of livestock use, these issues are tied to a long tradition of anthropological and archaeological inquiry into human and animal relationships. Ever since

Evans Pritchard (1937) examined the complex relationship between the Nuer and their cattle, there has been ethnographic evaluation of the enormous role of animals in human societies and how that relationship shapes human views of nature. How humans interact with animals has become an emerging component of modern ethnography and has resulted in the inclusion of animals as agents in ethnographic work (Fitzgerald 2010; Kirksey and Helmreich 2010; Singer

2014; Staples and Klein 2016; Yates-Doerr 2015). At the core of this reflection is how humans Mathwich 27 see themselves in relationship to the natural world (Koenig 2016). In studies of colonialism, social power structures can be reflected in inter-species relationships as political and economic demands begin changing previous relationships and expectations of ecosystems. The seamless integration of biological, social, and economic worlds is not new, but understanding how animals act upon humans is increasingly a subject of interest in archaeology. Niche construction has become particularly important as a model for early domestication, and suggests that animal needs alter human society and materiality as humans alter their environment for domesticated animals

(Laland et al. 2001; Laland and O’Brien 2010; Smith 2015; Zeder 2012a). My work engages with these perspectives by arguing that this process is not limited to Eurasian centers of domestication, but that livestock have a curious way of entering and remaining in human societies. This process composes a part of ecological colonialism, as well as a unique and enduring aspect of human and animal relationships.

In the Southwest, scholars have long recognized the importance of Spanish colonial period as a time of epidemic disease, conflict, and reconfiguration of Indigenous society

(Lightfoot 2015; Liebmann and Murphy 2011; Lycett 2014; Preucel 2007; Sheridan et al. 2015;

Spicer 1962). Colonial influence and trade has been a subject of interest in Southwestern studies for decades (Colton 1941; Di Peso 1956; Gilman et al. 2014; Mitchell and Foster 2000; Spicer

1962; Woosley and Ravesloot 1993). More recently, researchers have explored trade materials through the framework of migration and community connectivity (Borck et al. 2015; Hedquist

2016; Lyons and Clark 2008; Mills et al. 2013; Peeples and Haas 2013). There is little reason to believe those social ties stopped with the arrival of the Spanish (Preucel 2007; Liebmann 2012;

Trigg 2005; Spielmann et al. 1990, 2009). My research examines the persistence and expansion of connectivity to include European networks following contact at a local and regional level. My Mathwich 28 focus is on a region of the Southwest outside of the Pueblo area, where a substantial amount of archaeology on the colonial period has been undertaken. This research complements previous material and architectural analyses and expands the empirical environmental data available about the colonial period. I believe this dissertation also offers a helpful case study into how colonial archaeology ties into the long history of human occupation in the Southwest.

This dissertation brings concepts from CAS into conversation with postcolonial perspectives. Each theoretical tradition emerged from different backgrounds. CAS grew out computer and ecological models, while postcolonial theories emerged out literature, history, and critical theory. Both are essential to archaeological approaches to landscape use in the colonial period because there is an extraordinary amount of nature in the human history of colonialism.

Mathwich 29

CHAPTER 2. THEORETICAL FRAMEWORK

The ideas presented in this chapter were stimulated by a question-and-answer session following the Arizona Archaeology and Historical Society lecture by Dale Brenneman (Arizona

State Museum), Bernard Siquieros (Tohono O'odham Nation Cultural Center), and Ronald

Geronimo (Tohono O’odham Community College) about O’odham place names in Arizona. The audience was a mix of retirees, local archaeologists, and tribal members. At one point, after the conversation turned to the consequences of Spanish colonialism on O’odham speakers, a tribal member asked, “Why did our ancestors let the Spanish do this?” Silence followed. Then the speakers began breaking the colonial period into lifetimes and relationships during which alliances, demographics, and violence fluctuated. It would be difficult for anyone in that period to predict long-term outcomes of any single decision that they made. As a Euroamerican archaeologist studying the colonial period, theoretically, I should have had some answers to offer, but I had nothing that could address the frustration and consternation of the person who posed the question. Why did O’odham groups let Europeans into their communities? I have often asked similar questions of my Church as a Roman Catholic, as an inheritor and beneficiary of a tradition of evangelical colonialism and its complicated legacy of poor treatment of Indigenous peoples. These questions approach a fundamental concern in archaeologies of colonialism: How did people in the past make the decisions and what was the context of those decisions? The people of the past were no better and no worse than today, and they made decisions within contexts shaped by previous events and values. A major task of archaeologies of colonialism is to explore the diverse experiences of colonialism and identify and explain that diversity. As archaeologists search for explanations, they must avoid naturalizing colonialism and reinforcing origin stories used to support contemporary inequalities. At the same time, there has to be a Mathwich 30 respect for the independence of decisions in the past, and a reluctance to place narrow judgements on the past based on hindsight. It is a delicate and difficult task, and it requires consideration of multiple theoretical perspectives and data sources.

In this chapter, I will outline a theoretical path toward exploring the first question. First, I define my usage of the term colonialism, and then review the foundational approaches in anthropology and archaeology used to interpret colonialism in the Americas. I examine the emergence of postcolonialism as the main paradigm for archaeologies of colonialism. Next, I introduce concepts from complex adaptive systems and examine how these concepts may aid archaeological interpretations of colonial sites. I argue that complex adaptive systems, when held in tension with postcolonial critiques, offer a way to conceptualize native economies without a dependence on global and Eurocentric economic models. Instead of viewing Indigenous economies through the lens of early capitalism or world systems models, local dynamics and social systems can be used to create models of native decision-making.

What is colonialism?

The term “colonize” originated from a context of invasion and domination. The word came from the Latin colonia meaning “settlement, farm” from colere meaning to “cultivate,” and referred to a settlement formed by retired soldiers in a newly conquered territory of the Roman

Empire as a reward for service (Oxford Dictionaries 2010). Rome’s expansion model required people loyal to the empire to move into newly conquered territories. Colonies varied from ad hoc villages founded by soldiers to large formal settlements and estates founded under Rome’s direction (Alcock 2005). Colonist claims to land were reinforced through agricultural activity and long-term occupation of land, superseding claims of the original inhabitants. Hundreds of years later, this type of agricultural conquest became an important component of early modern Mathwich 31

European colonialism. The term colonialism refers to a specific type of relationship between colonies and the entity that created the colony. It is a political and economic relationship defined by its intentionality and structured inequality. Colonialism is “a form of unequal social relations between polities, and entails the idea of political, military, or economic dominance by intrusive foreign groups over local populations” (Stein 2002:28). Colonialism is distinguished from colonization by this intentionality. Colonization is a broad phenomenon appearing in ecology, biology, and history, and is defined by the foundation of colonies by organisms in areas that they have not previously lived. Human colonies can include diasporas as well as settlements that facilitate trade. The term colony does not assume any hierarchical organization of power or specific relationship with local peoples, but is simply a kind of settlement (Jordan 2009; Stein

2002). Colonies over the last five centuries reflect some important differences in scale and the structures of power from prior incarnations.

European countries created economic colonies beginning in the fifteenth century, with empires forming as mercantilist nations pushed outward to command the flow of goods and wealth. Mercantilist trade ambitions aimed to transform whole regions into captive markets, labor pools, and sources of raw materials for European industries. Alongside economic expansion, early modern European ideology created a hierarchical dichotomy between

“civilized” European and “primitive” other, stemming from Western Christian beliefs regarding the ordering of the world as reflected in the Chain of Being. The inferiority of the “primitive” others, and their distance from God justified re-training and if resistant, replacement. Europeans arrived with these ideologies in the Americas. Through time and encounters with native societies, Euro-Americans formed a political system which naturalized a hierarchy of power based on race. This broad approach to social organization influenced every aspect of life and Mathwich 32 spread across the globe, altering the social and material worlds of Europeans and colonized peoples and forming the basis for modern societies.

Colonialism as ideology

The Spanish arrived in the New World with an ideology prepared to envelop the new cultures, values, and challenges they would encounter. In the Spanish Borderlands, Spicer (1962) called this simplified, exported Spanish approach “conquest culture," a concept borrowed from

George Foster (1960). At its heart, the Spanish arrived in the New World with an ideology that justified invasion and expansion. This ideology exists not only in laws and historical records but forms a fundamental part of human relationships with the environment. My research approaches ideology as a reflexive relationship between physical materials and social relations (Bernbeck and McGuire 2011). Following Engels (Engels 1946[1886]) and Bernbeck and McGuire (2011),

I understand ideology to be a relationship between concepts and material realities. This relationship further develops in the material world, and materials therefore reflect back onto social relations (Figure 2.1). Thus, ideology finds its expression and development within economic and social spaces. From those spaces, ideologies can be reproduced, contested, or altered.

The articulation of ideology with the material world is embedded within objects and animals. The expression of ideologies in objects is key to examining how social power is created and sustained in the archaeological record. The dialectic between social and material power is in the artifact, whose material characteristics reflect the history of the artifact’s manufacture, structure, use, and disposal. A U.S. grocery store steak, for example, is a product for sale, but the meat behind the plastic reflects the values of the culture that produced it. The steak comes from a descendent of British cattle breeds that displaced Spanish criollo cattle in the U.S. The animal Mathwich 33 was likely raised on the range and later transported to a feedlot to fatten on corn, creating the marbling of fat desired by the cultural tastes of the American consumer. Finally, slaughterhouse employees, many of whom arrived in the country without documents, killed and butchered the animal at an industrial facility. The final steak product was packaged and shipped to a distributor before ending at its final grocery store destination for consumer purchase. Each step of this process was designed to consolidate costs and maximize efficiency and safety. The steak, from the DNA of the animal it came from to its distribution, is an artifact of modern industrial agriculture ideology. A consumer’s choice to purchase and eat the steak (or not) reflects their relation to the ideology. This modern example illustrates one way the material world reflects ideologies. The study of materials in archaeology explores the process of production and through the process, identifies how ideologies might be reproduced or contested.

Ideology Materials

Figure 2.1. The dialectic relationship between ideology and the material world. Materiality of livestock

Ideologies are embedded in the material world, but animals have different properties than inanimate objects. Animals occupy a place between human subjects and objects and have needs Mathwich 34 and societies of their own that are distinct from, but intersect with human ones (Kirksey and

Helmreich 2010; Koenig 2016). These needs and the human-animal interactions act as ecological agents on the landscape whose presence or absence can have cascading effects on other organisms (Hernández and Laundré 2005; Smith 2015). Discussions of animals often privilege humans as actors, ascribing disproportionate control to humans, reflecting an expectation of a separation from, and a high degree of control over, the natural world that is characteristic of late- capitalist developed societies (Balée 1998; Szabó 2015). Livestock in particular are subjected to assumptions of absolute human control over their needs and activities because they are domesticated and literally shaped to accommodate human needs. Human behavior, however, often reacts to the needs of animals. A shepherd may choose the pasture, but that decision is shaped by range quality, the water needs of the herd, and the ability of the herd to travel to the new location. Humans, for all their ingenuity, can only minimally alter how far a sheep may walk in day. This shift toward viewing human interactions with livestock as more reactive than directive is necessary to understanding human decisions in the past.

Humans over the past 10,000 years domesticated and introduced species around the globe. Local societies, flora, and fauna changed in response to the needs of domesticated livestock, altering architecture, social structure, trade patterns, and resource use to accommodate the animals. Examples range from the colonization of the European coast by agropastoralists in

5600 BC (McClure et al. 2006) to the introduction of livestock in the Americas in the sixteenth century (Le Houerou 2008; Pavão-Zuckerman and Reitz 2011). Zooarchaeology is the study of human-animal relationships, and as discussed above, animals can both embed social relationships and alter the social structure. Livestock both act upon and are acted upon by human Mathwich 35 society, and this dialectic rises to greater significance in light of how Spanish colonialism altered human-animal relationships all over the world and introduced new socio-economic relationships.

Materiality of the Columbian Exchange

The biological phenomenon called the Columbian Exchange was the vast and pervasive transfer of animals, plants, diseases, and people between the Americas, Africa, and Eurasia

(Crosby 1972b, 2004). Ecological historians portray the biological disruptions spurred by the exchange as broadly catastrophic, at least to Native Americans. Ecological imperialism became a mechanism of colonial control as Eurasian plants and animals entered into analogous and new ecozones in the Americas, disrupting native flora and fauna and Indigenous economies (Cronon

1983; Dunmire 2004; Jordan 2009). The exchange was a complex and broad phenomenon that reached around the globe and introducing invasive species but also creating modern agricultural and gastronomic cultures. The widespread biotic and social disturbances wrought by the

Columbian exchange are true to some extent, but recent archaeological data show that Native

Americans and colonists responded in more varied and strategically flexible ways to these consequences of colonialism (deFrance and Hanson 2008; Gifford-Gonzalez and Sunseri 2007;

Panich and Schneider 2014; Pavão-Zuckerman and LaMotta 2007; Reitz and Waselkov 2015;

Reitz 2004; Silliman 2008). The dominance and perpetuation of Euroamerican power structures was never inevitable. Narratives to the contrary, whether biologically or technologically based, erase examples of unconquered groups, the persistence of Indigenous identities, and continuing resistance in spite of centuries of programmatic cultural change (Acabado 2016; Panich 2013;

Rubertone 2012). In fact, the introduction of horses to Indigenous groups such as the Apache,

Comanche, and Aracaunians created the European colonists’ greatest and longest enemies

(Weber 2005). Research on animals within colonial contexts assesses the ecological and social Mathwich 36 aspects of the Columbian Exchange, and way to examine the introduction, spread, and contestation of colonial ideologies in the Americas.

The study of the colonial process and its effects on Native Americans has contemporary political import. Over the past decades, researchers in several disciplines reinterpreted the

Columbian Exchange, but these historical explanations often reinforce Euroamerican oppression of Native Americans. In his international bestseller, Diamond (2005) explained European domination of the Americas as a historical and ecological accident, helping to undermine white- supremacist arguments of European intellectual and genetic superiority. Euroamerican dominance in the Americans, however, is still naturalized through the use of biological and archaeological data (Wilcox 2010). This view reproduces a biological narrative of the

“rightness” of the historical and contemporary marginalization of Native Americans in the U.S.

Livestock are a large component of this argument, as sources of epidemic pathogens and as an economic resource. This broad-brush approach treats native peoples as passive victims who were steamrolled by disease and the biological accident that most domesticated animals came from

Eurasia. Indigenous societies underwent significant transformations over the past centuries, and researchers cannot simply ignore those changes. Ecological approaches to the colonialism need to find a way to study the Columbian Exchange without naturalizing historical inequalities.

As I review the history of theoretical paradigms and their consequences, my focus is on the United States, where the bulk of my research is located even though archaeologies of colonialism span the globe. Indigenous peoples in northern Mexico are related to the modern

Tohono O’odham Nation, but have a different legal status, and their land tenure has a different history (Sheridan 1996) to that of my study area. While this project is relevant to the histories of northern Sonora, the experiences of native groups in that state deserves their own analysis but Mathwich 37 that are not within the scope of this project. U.S. histories of Spanish colonialism have been intertwined with the politics and anthropology of Native Americans. These interpretations helped shaped how Native Americans interact with the U.S. government and thus compels a historical review of how researchers understand long-term cultural change in anthropology and archaeology.

Leaving the shadow of acculturation

Understanding the drivers of cultural change has long been of interest to anthropologists.

At the turn of the twentieth century, diffusionism was the primary way of defining cultural change. Diffusion did not necessarily require cultural contact to occur nor did it explain anything about the process of adopting new behaviors or material culture. A need emerged to define a concept of cultural change independent of diffusionism. In 1936, a group of anthropologists set out to define acculturation as “...when groups of individuals having different cultures come into and continue first-hand contact, with subsequent changes in the original cultural patterns of either or both groups” (Redfield et al. 1936:149). Acculturation attributed the cause of the spread of ideas and technology to sustained contact between two distinct groups. In contrast, diffusion did not specify the duration of contact or whether individuals had to be from different cultures.

As the century wore on, acculturation came to mean the process through which non-Western peoples used Western goods and adopted Western cultural attributes.

Anthropologist Alfred Kroeber (1948) held that complex state societies (larger population, military, technology, etc.) would inevitably squash smaller, more “primitive” ones.

For anthropologists, the concept of acculturation produced a sense of cultural crisis at a global scale. Traditional cultures around the world were “dying” from prolonged contact with Western industrialized societies. These changes to traditional practices contributed to the perception that Mathwich 38 modern Indigenous groups were fundamentally disconnected from their pre-contact pasts. The presence and frequency of European or American goods, for example, signaled acculturation in archaeological contexts. For example, the consumption of Coca-Cola and the presence of bottles in a village’s refuse indicate participation in globalized capitalism. Through this participation, traditional cultures appeared to lose connection with their past (Leone 2009:164).

The idea that a group of people could become acculturated attracted the attention of national governments across the globe. They attempted to implement policies to “assimilate”

Indigenous groups into Western capitalist systems of commerce and land tenure. Acculturation constructed an artificial break between periods of time, and left little room for alternatives. The concept of acculturation continues to undermine contemporary Indigenous identities and rights.

Lightfoot (2006) noted that Berkeley anthropologists of the early twentieth-century, led by

Kroeber, drew a definite boundary between mission-affected native groups and their prehistoric pasts. They focused their research on groups outside the Spanish frontier instead of walking across the street and interviewing native California elders from missionized areas. Kroeber and his students also served as expert witnesses in Indian land claim cases in California. The anthropologists’ opinion that a native Californian group had lost traditional practices negatively affected Native American tribes’ land claim outcomes (Lightfoot 2006).

This lack of anthropological documentation of languages and traditions later hindered federal recognition of some Native Californian tribes. The assignment of reservation land was often limited to those groups with extant villages outside the margins of colonial settlements.

Presumed breaks with their pre-colonial pasts have had legal impacts on other tribes in the U.S. as well (Silliman 2012). Generations of Native American children were taken from their families and placed in boarding schools to learn to be maids, seamstresses, and laborers (Lindauer 2009). Mathwich 39

These programs promoted acculturation into U.S. culture, and placed Native Americans in the

U.S. working class. State or religious-sponsored programs of cultural change were often viewed as benevolent and beneficial for Native Americans, and the idea that acculturation as altruistic has been projected on histories of Spanish colonialism.

The first half of the twentieth century saw the transformation of Spanish colonialism into a romantic frontier past in mainstream U.S. histories in North America. The missionaries were viewed heroically, a marked shift from the leyenda negra (Black Legend). Anglo historians in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries portrayed Spaniards in the Americas as greedy and ruthless (Bolton 1916; Gutfreund 2010). Bolton (1916) and his students attempted to correct this problematic portrayal and glossed over much of the negative Indigenous experiences of colonialism. The Black Legend and Boltonian mission romanticism placed Europeans as central actors in colonial activities and marginalized the roles of mestizo and native peoples at missions and presidios. The emergence of heritage tourism of mission sites helped solidify the romantic view of the Spanish colonial period in the mainstream imagination.

After WWII, interest in visiting historical sites grew in the 1950s and 1960s. Many mission and presidio sites were subject to restoration and interpretation through the romantic narratives dominant at the time (Gutiérrez 2004, Thomas 1991). These narratives continue to be taught in schools today in many parts of the country (Gutfreund 2010). Heritage tourism and colonial archaeology prompted the creation of historical archaeology as a way of ground-truthing historical sources. The discipline has gradually shifted, however, to pursue lines of evidence that are independent of the written historical record (Deetz 1963; Nöel Hume 1963; Little 2009). In the U.S. Southwest, archaeologists investigated the colonial settlements of the Pimería Alta and

New Mexico (Fontana 1961; Fontana et al. 1962; Kidder et al. 1932; Robinson 1963; Vivian Mathwich 40

1964). Spanish colonial archaeology followed the track of U.S. historical archaeology and aimed to collect descriptive information such as size, duration of occupation, construction materials used, and activity locations (Fontana 1965). Interpreters romanticized mission sites with heroic narratives about the missionaries, and focused restoration and visitor materials on the padres’ quarters, the quadrangle (the buildings around the church that served as the priests’ quarters), and the church. Indigenous housing, workshops, and outlying agricultural areas were sometimes excavated but rarely reconstructed. Conflicts at the missions between padres and native communities were downplayed in museum exhibits in favor of narratives showing how native peoples benefited from European technologies (Pedelty 1992).

Voices critical of acculturation as an interpretative approach emerged in the 1960s in anthropology, and these ideas later became influential in archaeology. George Foster (1960) introduced the concept of conquest culture as a simplified version of the “donor” culture, wherein recipient cultures accepted and integrated aspects of other cultures based on their utility

(Deagan 1998:28). This implies that not all aspects of the donor culture were useful, and recipient cultures had some choice over what entered their cultures, opening up the research possibilities into resistance and agency (Foster 1960:232). Spicer's (1962) survey of native

Southwestern groups broke up the linear narrative of acculturation and highlighted native persistence and resistance to the colonial project of acculturation. Spicer turned the analysis on the colonizers and explored the way Spanish, Mexican, and Anglo-American created programs for the domination of Indigenous groups. The political goals behind each colonialization varied, and Indigenous groups responses were mixed, syncretic, and frequently unanticipated (Spicer

1962:280). The unexpected results from directed cultural change would become a major research focus of archaeologies of colonialism in the following decades. Mathwich 41

Challenges to Eurocentrism

Vine Deloria, Jr.’s (1969) pivotal work Custer Died for Your Sins, among similar critiques (Grande 2004; Kovach 2010; Smith and Warrior 1996; Turner 2006), forced a reexamination of the colonial origins and practices of anthropology. These approaches emerged primarily from literary and historical disciplines and scrutinized the ways in which Western disciplines, like anthropology, were by-products of colonialism. There were political and cultural consequences of privileging colonial documents and scientific perspectives over Indigenous knowledge and values. In his seminal work Orientalism, Edward Said (1979) drew upon the ideas of Foucault and Gramsci to argue that the European colonial endeavor was powered by hegemonic ideologies. Such ideologies helped designate colonized peoples as “Orientals,” and the Other of the Occident. Said argued that all academic knowledge of these people and countries was “tinged and impressed with, violated by” the political colonial relationship (Said 1979:11).

The challenge for researchers in this new paradigm was to “decolonize” knowledge of these areas. His work became part of the basis of postcolonial studies, and researchers use this framework to examine the influence of global colonialism. The postcolonial perspective represents an epistemological critique of Western knowledge creation, and it continues to challenge contemporary researchers.

Scholars have responded to postcolonial critiques with the methods specific to their fields. Historians from colonized regions of the world have developed methods to examine

“subaltern” histories from colonial documents and highlight the actions, thoughts, and motivations of those excluded from the centers of colonial power (Chakrabarty 2000; Chaturvedi

2012). In anthropology, ethnographers shifted from a paradigm of acculturation to an exploration of how communities develop their own relationships to globalized commodities and understand Mathwich 42 them within their own cultural ontologies (Robinson 2013). Coca-Cola, for example, has myriad meanings, and one does not become “less Indigenous” through its consumption. Coca-Cola bottling plants suck wells dry in Chiapas, but the beverage has also replaced alcoholic pozol in local ceremonies (Nash 2007). The drink became associated with ancestral spirits and the kolo in one part of Papua New Guinea (Jacka 2001). Beyond the product, the Coca-Cola Company has a complex and frequently negative relationship with local communities that goes beyond the consumption of soda (Raman 2007). A wealth of evidence points to the adaptability and creativity of people in the face of colonialism (Comaroff and Comaroff 1991). The concept of acculturation and its pervasiveness in anthropology textbooks through much of the twentieth century, however, means that an entire generation in the United States understands acculturation to be the primary way that colonialism affected native peoples across the globe. Academics have moved on from acculturation, but it casts a long shadow. It remains an attractive model of cultural change in popular culture because of its neat fit into mainstream narratives of American exceptionalism and attitudes towards immigration.

Many archaeologists have taken on the challenge to “de-colonize” knowledge production and research agendas in their discipline. Rather than read between the lines of historical documents, archaeologists examine the objects that native peoples engaged with and devoted their time to creating and using. As such these objects offer a distinct line of evidence about

Indigenous colonial experiences. Equipped with the postcolonial perspective, archaeologies of

European expansion in the past 500 years centered on aspects of the social and economic realms as well as historical events as they were perceived by Indigenous peoples (Acabado 2016;

Deagan 1978, 2015; Gosden 2004b; Jordan 2009; Lightfoot 2006; Panich and Schneider 2014).

Efforts over the past thirty years have attempted to move away from the assumption of top-down Mathwich 43 approaches to power relationships, and instead highlight negotiation, resistance, and nonparticipation (Borck et al. 2015; Liebmann 2012; Liebmann and Murphy 2011; Panich 2013).

Multiple approaches to colonial politics and economies fall under the broad umbrella of postcolonialism. Each approach shifts the research focus to different aspects of the Indigenous experiences. Of these, colonial entanglement offers a valuable way of conceptualizing the colonial frontier.

Thomas (1991) offered colonial entanglement as a way to introduce symmetry into modern colonial encounters. In archaeology, entanglement may offer an alternative way of conceptualizing the false binary of the colonizer and colonized (Jordan 2009:33). The concept of entanglement attempts to address assumptions of power asymmetries and expose the agency and negotiation of colonialism at a local level (Dietler 2005; Jordan 2009). Simply put, entanglement does not assume power asymmetry when people of different cultures interact in colonial contexts. In this view, colonial ideology is not uncontested, but is an actively negotiated process which has as much to do with local contexts as with imposed power structures. While Europeans imposed certain socioeconomic structures, the choices, patterns of consumption, and use of materials were often influenced by pre-existing cultural values (Martindale 2009:63; Robinson

2013). Power remained central, however, and in some colonial situations, Europeans had considerably less power than in others (Sheridan 1992). Entanglement is particularly useful as an analogy for frontier situations. For instance, the Spanish approach to missions in the Pimería Alta was not the same as that of New Mexico. The political situation in Spain had shifted greatly in the time between the two colonization efforts, and the Bourbon Reforms of the eighteenth century altered the relationship between the church and the state, even on the empire’s frontiers.

The differences between O’odham and Pueblo groups social structure shaped colonization Mathwich 44 strategies as well. O’odham society had also undergone major societal shifts after 1450, and these historical contingencies influenced all that followed after Kino entered the Pimería Alta.

Colonial entanglement provides a different way of imagining power relationships at

Spanish colonial sites because it does not assume power asymmetries and thus opens the possibilities of negotiation, non-participation, and contestation. This is not to diminish the physical and psychological violence or the suffering from epidemic disease that took place at the missions. Rather, I want to provide the theoretical framework for understanding the O’odham’s mixed responses to colonial intrusions. Some O’odham became officers for the mission priests and could administer corporeal punishments to their own community members, while others avoided the missions entirely except when they needed extra seed for planting. Violent coercion was an important component of colonialism in the Pimería Alta as Spanish control of the area was patchy and incomplete (Sheridan 1992). Material goods could be deployed as coercion in addition to violence. The Spanish reduced Apache raiding on colonial settlements in the late 18th and early 19th centuries not through military subjugation but through treaties and pay-offs in material goods (Officer 1987). As I present my research on landscape and animal use in the colonial Pimería Alta, I view the relationships among Spanish officials, pobladores (settlers), missionaries, and O’odham societies as discrete groups. These groups become more interdependent over time as their material culture increasingly overlapped, as with the production and trade of wool textiles (Radding 1997), but important distinctions remain.

Multi-vocality in practice

While postcolonial approaches provide the critical theory for my research, explanatory mechanisms are still needed to explore the motivations behind O’odham participation or nonparticipation at colonial settlements. Ecological systems, self-organization, and broader patterns Mathwich 45 in human behavior, viewing humans as parts of systems rather than historical actors, are frequently seen as anathema to critical theories, which privilege difference and exceptions to patterns. It would seem systemic views of colonial period would be at odds, however a variety of work from across the globe has begun to illustrate the importance of how systemic self- organization in shaping political responses to colonial intrusions (Acabado 2013, 2016). In fact, as I will examine in this dissertation (Chapter 5), it can be difficult to interpret archaeological patterns without viewing human-environmental interactions as a system.

The integration of concepts from complex adaptive systems offers a way to model and integrate ecological, historical, and archaeological evidence. I draw upon concepts developed within complex systems theory to help model the mechanisms behind colonial entanglement.

Complexity theory, in tension with postcolonial critiques, can offer a fruitful shift in perspective.

A complex system is a system with many interacting components that behaves non-linearly. At this point, it has not been empirically demonstrated in the Pimería Alta that aspects of colonial interactions represent a complex system. This dissertation uses the qualities of complex systems to evaluate archaeological and historical data, and examine their usefulness in data interpretation.

Complexity in archaeology

Complex adaptive systems (CAS) are approaches to the study of non-linear relationships in systems. Knowledge of how a system’s individual parts interact does not necessarily lead to a understanding of the whole system's behavior (Page and Miller 2007). Instead, individual components may interact locally in random and unpredictable ways, but broader patterns are observable and emerge from these interactions. A system is neither static nor does it exist in equilibrium, and its individual components can alter their behavior when the context changes

(Lansing 2003). This allows a system to adapt to change, and how it adapts is connected to how Mathwich 46 simple rules shape the interaction between components. CAS has been relatively underused in archaeologies of colonialism, primarily because many of the approaches used by historical archaeologists come from critical theoretical traditions. Critical theories such as Marxist, feminist, postcolonialism, and queer theories help researchers ask new questions, alter the types of data collected, and reorient interpretations in light of the theoretical perspective. These approaches however, do not for the most part force drastic changes to archaeological methodology, which remains the same: excavation, analysis, and interpretation. CAS approaches, in contrast, involve computer simulation that may unconsciously incorporate the researcher’s cultural background and assumptions about the world and be used to reify power inequalities (Helmreich 2000). At the same time, CAS approaches offer important tools for understanding how small-scale independent components interact to produce big patterns that change history. If archaeologists and Indigenous scholars view CAS as another research tool, one of many, it can offer new insights into the human past when wielded by different hands.

Bentley and Maschner (2003:3) imagined complexity theory as an answer to the post- processual critique of scientific approaches to archaeology—in their view, complexity was a way of weaving the disparate strands of unwieldy, unpredictable history and patterns into larger scales. Complexity theory describes “phenomena that are unique in particular and similar in general,” and begins with the assumption that human societies are never in equilibrium (Bentley

2003:9). This is an important point from a political perspective, because it means that prior to colonial intrusion, Native American population sizes and social structures were not fixed or immutable, but were in constant flux, responding to environmental and social pressures of the region. There was no ahistorical traditional culture from which Indigenous peoples became separated as a result of colonialism. While archaeologists are aware of the false binary posed by Mathwich 47 the division of sites into prehistoric and historic in North America (Lightfoot and Martinez

1995), it remains the most common way to discuss and classify sites. Archaeology needs theoretical concepts that can truly transcend this boundary in practice.

Colonialism assumes unidirectional power asymmetries, but with complex systems the conceptual exercise of interpretation comes from a place and theoretical tradition without a priori assumptions of community size, structure, and directionality. In practice, it means

Indigenous ontologies can be used to guide the structuring of models instead of relying on the researchers’ categories (Hopkins et al. 2015). Within complexity theory, archaeologists can build null models of Indigenous and colonial interactions, eliminating an important theoretical bias toward assigning power to state societies. This does not ignore the issues of power difference, but sets up a basis from which to understand cultural contact and exchange. Postcolonial archaeologies call for a focus on local and regional differences, rather than sweeping narratives of inevitable change that erase how different groups of people navigated emerging multicultural societies and withstood some of the most harrowing population declines in human history.

The ability of cultural communities to survive and rebuild is one of the most fascinating features of human history. The capacity of a group to manage and mitigate hazards intersects with resiliency—a concept derived from complexity theory and ecology. Resiliency generally refers to the ability of a system to absorb and change with a disturbance without collapsing or shifting phases to a new state (Holling 1973). In human terms, resiliency may indicate a resistance to change, gradual change, or changes at the margins that eventually affect the whole system (Dovers and Handmer 1992:270). Gaillard (2007) examined the characteristics of modern

Indigenous groups that contributed to resilience or vulnerability—the tendency of a society to experience damages resulting from hazards, stress, or disturbance. The ability of a small Mathwich 48 community to recover from a major natural disaster depended on how specialized and integrated a group was with its landscape and the prevailing legal policies toward the communities

(Gaillard 2007:522). Through the study of resilience, the generalizable aspects that enhance or detract from a system’s ability to reproduce itself may be of value to the challenges faced by modern societies. Systems, however, are not resilient forever, and can collapse under external pressures. The question here is whether resilience is truly applicable in explaining mechanisms behind Indigenous persistence as political and cultural entities.

In contrast, persistence emphasizes the creativity and the endurance of Indigenous peoples in spite of disruption, while acknowledging their ability to creatively adapt to new circumstances within their own cultural framework. Recent approaches in complex systems have begun to distinguish between resilience and sustainability. Sustainability, both as a concept and policy goal, is distinct from a system’s capacity for resilience and failure (Folke et al. 2016;

Marchese et al. 2018; Redman 2014). Sustainability is often situated in relation to human economies or human relationships with the environment. In contrast, resilience is an aspect of sustainability, but it is measured independent of human needs and instead reflects systemic trends. An energy system dependent on fossil fuels may be resilient economically and resistant to alteration. As a fuel source, however, fossil fuels are ultimately unsustainable because the fuel supply is limited and the deleterious effects are increasing. A related distinction may be applied to resilience in relation to colonialism. The persistence of native groups under colonialist regimes is not the same as the resilience of these groups in relation to their subsistence, economies, or social interactions. Systems can adapt, collapse, and reorganize. Persistence is connected to these systemic features but is independent of these in key ways. Mathwich 49

Persistence, like sustainability, is a concept defined by human needs and experiences, and is discrete from neutral complex-adaptive systems. O’odham experiences of colonialism and their persistence as a community is not equivalent to the resilience of certain subsistence practices or cultural practices. Throughout the colonial period O’odham groups incorporated new practices such as animal husbandry, European crop cultivation, and elements of Catholicism.

Complex-adaptive systems alone is an insufficient framework to address the disturbances created by political policies on a local level. Spanish colonialism in the Americas was never neutral and had directed and exploitive goals. The consequences of colonialism persist within Native

American communities in the modern era. Any examination of the colonial period must be conversant with the historical effects of the missions on Indigenous descendants through a postcolonial archaeological perspective.

Examining the Pimería Alta through persistence

The Columbian Exchange and Spanish colonialism created significant disruption within the Pimería Alta. The capacity of a system to absorb or adapt to disruptions is pivotal to understanding colonial interactions in the Pimería Alta. Systemic views are not the whole story.

It is only in tension with postcolonial theory that complexity theory in archaeology can offer nuanced insights into the dynamics of the colonial period. The two theoretical traditions are not mutually exclusive, and they need each other in order to move forward. In this dissertation, I demonstrate pragmatic approaches toward weaving the two theoretical traditions together. I explore how Tohono O’odham ancestors responded to the disruptions of Spanish intrusions and the new economic pressures by shifting resource use. It is a circular argument to state that a cultural group persisted because they still exist. Persistence is politically and systemically complex because it is a process and its pathways inextricably linked to what came before. An Mathwich 50 approach that tacks between different methods and theories offers different facets of the same phenomenon, and together, each provide new insights into Spanish colonialisms.

Mathwich 51

CHAPTER 3. SPANISH COLONIALISM IN WESTERN NORTH AMERICA

Every single night my Indians are accustomed to carrying on monstrous screaming, dancing, and singing until morning, without my being able to find a means to stop it. As a result, I cannot sleep in peace. It is necessary to win their hearts little by little with love so that they do not become annoyed at the Father and attack and kill him, although such a death would be desirable to me if I did not believe I could do more good through my presence. For where will one find another missionary in these lands? Little by little, one accomplishes much. Father Segesser to his brother from San Xavier del Bac, June 8, 1732 (Segesser and Classen 2012:152).

Swiss Jesuit missionary Father Philipp Segesser wrote to his family about his experiences in the Pimería Alta, and his perspective on the delicate project of evangelization of the O’odham.

Segesser did not understand the reason behind the singing, and being helpless against the late- night activity, he was resigned to bear it. Much of what scholars know about the Pimería Alta comes from writings of missionaries, soldiers, and officials. These writings originate from a colonial perspective and logic, and from a different culture. There is very little documentation from the perspective of the O’odham, and this is true for much of the Indigenous New World.

Over the past thirty years, scholars have recognized this gap and directed inquiry toward

Indigenous perspectives on colonialism. Research on colonialism has turned to the voices and experiences of the subaltern groups—those groups excluded from the geographic, social, and political colonial power structure (Chakrabarty 2000; Chaturvedi 2012; Silliman 2010). These approaches reject sweeping narratives, which downplay the native alliances and interpreters who aided Spanish success in Central and South America (Restall 2004). Through engagement with subaltern histories, scholars revised and replaced models of cultural change. Models of acculturation oversimplified how native peoples negotiated the complex pressures within multicultural colonial settlements. “Big history,” Guns, Germs, and Steel, and other broad Mathwich 52 narratives explain the global and inevitable nature of colonialism. Big History, as it has come to be known, does the greater disservice of downplaying the local circumstances and developments and ignores the autochthonous, local conditions that drove regional decision-making.

In this chapter, I examine the motivations behind Spanish colonialism in the Americas and the role of livestock in the process. The chapter outlines the trajectories of colonialism in the

North American Southwest with an overview of the three regionally and temporally distinct

Spanish colonial efforts. I frame the Pimería Alta within the larger context of its neighboring frontier colonial regions—New Mexico and Alta California—and situate each region’s ecology and history. I draw on historical, ethnographic, and archaeological information to examine how livestock became integrated into the cultural landscapes of the Pimería Alta.

Waves of colonialism

Exploitive sociopolitical and economic relations characterize the process of colonialism.

One society expands its control of territory and attempts to impose its ideology and economic structures on the territory’s residents (Lyons and Papadopoulos 2002). In this definition, colonies may exist without colonialism (Gosden 2004a). Refugees from a natural disaster or trade enclaves, for example, create diasporic communities without attempts to take over of the host economy or government. The intention to transform the host society and territory for the benefit of the colonizing group represents a fundamental component of the process of colonialism.

Colonialism may be found in a formal state colony, as well as through informal private economic or evangelical ventures. The inequality and exploitation of colonialism can come from multiple, overlapping sources with different rationales.

Spanish missions provide examples of these mixed rationales. Imperial ideologies and economic goals shifted in the centuries after Columbus’ arrival in the Bahamas, from the end of Mathwich 53 the encomienda to the Bourbon Reforms. Evangelical fervor compelled many missionaries to leave Europe to spread Christianity. Upon arrival, that zeal was tempered by the material realities and politics required to sustain a mission community. Secular colonists left Europe and sought opportunities in New Spain for land ownership and social mobility that were not possible in the feudal land system of Spain. Different motivations brought these people to a new continent, but secular colonists became consumers, tax payers, and labor for the Spanish empire. What united the religious and lay alike, however, was the belief that Europeans had the right to come and to impose their social structure, beliefs, and economies on others.

The legal foundation of this right is based on the 1493 Doctrine of Discovery, and subsequent laws and policies stemmed from the doctrine (Miller 2005). The Laws of the Indies established in 1573 were supposed to be an improvement of the Requerimiento laws, which permitted outright annexation of Indigenous lands and enslavement. The Decrees of 1573 were marginal improvements and glossed over the forced labor in the interest of evangelization, the purported purpose behind colonialism. Native peoples who would be offered the gospels should be located in prime agricultural real estate:

And they[lands to be occupied] should be in fertile areas with an abundance of fruits and fields, of good land to plant and harvest, of grasslands to grow livestock, of mountains and forests for wood and building materials for homes and edifices, and of good and plentiful water supply for drinking and irrigation. And that they should be populated by Indians and natives to whom we can preach the gospels since this is the principal objective for which we mandate that these discoveries and settlements be made.”= Laws of the Indies, Decrees of 1573 (Crouch et al. 1982:251). The wedding of evangelism and economic interests meant that a mission had to be a multi- institutional system. A mission required sustained alliances among Spanish military officers and mine and ranch owners, with the support of the religious bureaucracy. The Roman Catholic

Church honored both Father Junipero Serra (canonized as a saint in 2015) and his predecessor in Mathwich 54 the Pimería Alta, Father Eusebio Kino, for their dedication to Christian evangelism. Missionaries may have truly believed that they were doing good works, but their efforts were inextricably tied to a global economic empire. Their missionary success, however, was possible only through skilled maneuvering of the Spanish bureaucracy. Serra led the mission-founding efforts in

California in 1775, and he was adept at navigating independent and sometimes conflicting

Spanish interests.

The realities of the Americas also demanded alliance building and cooperation with local peoples. Spanish control on the frontiers was slow to spread and tough to maintain because of the diversity of Indigenous groups that they encountered. Each native group worked for their own agendas and alliances, which were sometimes aligned with or indifferent to or against colonists’ aims. The frequent lack of personnel and material support meant missionaries and soldiers on

Spain’s northernmost frontiers struggled to hold a small part of the territory they claimed

(Sheridan 1992). The slow expansion involved waves of colonization and distinct “frontiers,” the forefronts of which were the mission and ranching frontiers (Guy and Sheridan 1998). Contact was not a before-and-after phenomenon, but a long process that unfolded over decades.

Eurasian livestock were integral to that process along the mission and ranching frontiers.

In terms of social and material power, livestock were a valued portable resource. Their value lay in a combination of mobility, use as draft animals, and as a rich source of meat, hides, and grease. They were utterly essential to the sustainability of religious, military, and mining colonial settlements, and they accompanied missionaries seeking to establish new missions on the frontier

(Dunmire 2013; Kessell 1976). Indigenous societies adapted quickly to their presence, sometimes even ahead of contact with Europeans. How these animals became incorporated into native cultures varied, however, in response to local politics and ecological constraints. Mathwich 55

The Columbian Exchange

A core feature of colonialism in the Americas was the Columbian Exchange. The impacts of biological exchanges between Eurasia and the Americas were immense. A great deal of research has been devoted to understanding the effects of epidemic disease on native populations and landscapes ( Crosby 2004; Dunmire 2004; Jackson 1995; Jackson and Castillo 1996; Larsen et al. 2001). Researchers have also investigated the landscape-level changes that accompanied the Columbian Exchange on a qualitative level (Barrett 2012; Dunmire 2013; Trigg 2005;

Sheridan 2007). More recently, archaeologists have applied quantitative methods to these ecological changes in order to understand the repercussions in Indigenous societies (Arendt

2010; Edwards 2015; Jones 2015; Reitz 2004). One fascinating element to emerge is how introduced plants and animals came to fit into long-term uses of local landscapes (Curry 2017).

These introductions affected fire maintenance of grasslands (Lightfoot et al. 2013) and seasonal gathering of shellfish (Schneider 2015a) in California. Hunting practices and diet shifted in New

Mexico following the introduction of livestock (Jones 2015; Spielmann et al. 2009; Tarcan

2005). In cases across North America, despite the disturbances from livestock and colonial agriculture, native hunting, gathering, and farming practices continued well into later historical times. This fact testifies to the social and ecological resilience of native landscapes.

Europeans arrived with a set of plants and animals that had co-evolved with humans for thousands of years in the Old World. In Europe and the Middle East, human agro-pastoral communities created and managed patches of resources for grazing, hunting, gathering, and farming (Blondel 2006). Mediterranean and Irano-Turanian plants such mustards, amaranths, and thistles evolved to take advantage of areas recently disturbed by human activity and grazing. So rapid is their germination and growth that they can out-compete other plants (Guillerm 2008; Mathwich 56

Ornduff et al. 2003:278). Mediterranean weed species, simply by virtue of their presence near human agro-pastoralist habitats over many thousand years, evolved to take root and adapt to disturbed soils of any kind. When Europeans arrived in the New World, they inadvertently brought those seeds with them in the hair and feces of livestock. The weeds had evolved to

“colonize” areas recently disturbed by livestock grazing and human activity, and some were able to adapt to multiple ecozones in the Americas.

The invasion of the Americas by Old World plants and animals was evidenced most in

New World regions that possess Mediterranean climates, namely California and Chile (Groves

2008), but other American regions were also affected. Eurasian plants and animals are found today across North America in large numbers, and invasive species are a large threat to native flora and fauna. During the Spanish colonial period, the Mediterranean climates were the first to be affected by invasive species. Livestock populations in California, for example, increased over time and resulted in heavier grazing and disturbance of native coastal prairie vegetation (Curry

2017; Lightfoot 2015). Historical accounts note the disappearance of native flora and the proliferation of European weeds, a phenomenon that remains a persistent problem today

(Minnich 2008). Other areas of the arid New World were severely impacted by livestock grazing; sheep, in particular, contributed to erosion and desertification of areas of Central

Mexico (Melville 1994). Livestock grazing, even at low intensities, can substantially alter local ecology ( Flieschner 1994; Goguen and Mathews 2000). Over the past century, land managers and environmentalists struggled to balance the economics of ranching with watershed health and native species’ habitats in the American West (Charnley et al. 2014; Curtin et al. 2002; Sayre

2003). Livestock grazing in the colonial period was thus not a neutral or harmless activity.

Grazing produced landscape-level impacts, which prompted Crosby to label it a type of Mathwich 57 ecological imperialism (Crosby 1972a, 2004). Beyond livestock’s ecological impacts, the social impacts of introduced livestock were far-reaching as well.

The introduction of European livestock altered the lives of native peoples in profound ways, even prior to direct contact with Europeans. Animals such as horses and cattle spurred the creation of new Indigenous lifeways. The value of livestock’s mobility and use as beasts of burden were soon apparent to native peoples. Livestock offered a way of tapping into colonial networks without having to deal with missionaries or soldiers with great frequency. Horses, sheep, and cattle could be raided or reared independently of the colonists. Europeans would trade metal, glass, and other objects for the animals and their products. Bison-hunting groups of the

Great Plains, for instance, obtained horses without being missionized and quickly adapted horses for their own needs. These groups imbued horses with new meanings and shifted their settlements to accommodate their new animal companions (Bethke 2016; Mitchell 2015). Horses and mules spread quickly through colonized areas, but ecological constraints in other locations resulted in the differential success of domestic species. In southeastern North America, pigs became the dominant domestic animal, being well-suited to the wetter, forested environments.

Cattle and sheep were more amenable to the semi-desert grasslands of the Southwest (Pavão-

Zuckerman and Reitz 2006). For many native groups, cattle, pigs, chickens, and sheep represented new sources of meat, hides, textiles, and grease, as well as new forms of social capital.

People and landscapes experienced the Columbian Exchange in diverse ways, and these experiences were predicated on local cultural and ecological realities. Within western North

America, the regions of New Mexico, Alta California, and the Pimería Alta are characterized by distinct landscapes, ecologies and cultures. All of these regions experienced Spanish colonialism Mathwich 58 but sustained Spanish influence in each area began at different times. Moreover, each region supported diverse linguistic groups, with their own social dynamics. In order to set the Pimería

Alta and the role of livestock within larger imperial developments, I first examine the case studies of New Mexico and Alta California. The initial conditions of environment, Indigenous social dynamics, and shifting Spanish political and economic goals converged to form different historical patterns for each region.

New Mexico

New Mexico and the Pimería Alta are part of the "greater Southwest" (Plog 1997), or the

Northwest of Mexico. Stretching roughly from Las Vegas, New Mexico, to Las Vegas, Nevada, and from Durango, Colorado, to Durango, Durango (Mexico). In terms of colonial influence, the region encompassed what was northwest New Spain and later became Mexico. This region was closely connected to Spanish, Mexican, U.S., Pueblo, Dineh, and Comanche spheres of influence. New Mexico was the earliest region of the Southwest to be colonized by the Spanish.

The densely populated Pueblo agricultural communities were attractive sources of tribute and labor in the Spanish encomienda system. Franciscans were the primary missionary religious order working in the area, but the colonization of New Mexico was predominantly secular in nature and soon resulted in the creation of Spanish towns and government. The original 1598 military expedition, led by Juan de Oñate, brought livestock, seeds, and other European items as well as missionaries in accord with the 1573 Decrees. Early colonists relied heavily on native resources, and this reliance brought the Spanish into frequent contact with Indigenous communities (Barrett 2012). The Spanish used violence and retaliation to ensure tribute under the encomienda system. Violence escalated to such a degree that Oñate’s actions eventually were condemned by Spanish authorities. Oñate led a massacre in retaliation for an earlier deadly Mathwich 59 skirmish at Acoma when residents refused to supply Spanish expedition. He was banished from

New Mexico in 1599 for destroying Acoma Pueblo and nearly a thousand people. Five years after the massacre, Oñate was recalled to Mexico City for trial. In Mexico City in 1606, Spanish abuses, desperation, and extreme violence from the first years of the colonization of New Mexico were recorded, and this beginning shaped Pueblo and Spanish interactions in the following decades

The Spanish invasion of New Mexico impacted Pueblo communities directly and altered the dynamics between Athabaskan speakers and Plains groups. Pueblo groups lived in sedentary agricultural communities linked by language, trade, and kin. Archaeological evidence suggests that settlements shifted every few decades and long-term studies indicate settlement populations fluctuated between episodes of aggregation and dispersal (Adams and Duff 2004; Mills et al.

2013). Ethnographic and archaeological evidence show the depth of the material and social connections between Pueblo settlements (Borck et al. 2015; Peeples and Haas 2013; Roberts

2004; Spielmann et al. 1990).

Within the pueblos, missionaries established what were virtual theocracies, and they wielded corporal punishment for a variety of offenses (Torrez 1994). Franciscan missionaries lived in Pueblo villages relatively far from the Spanish government settlements, limiting communication. Missionaries thus possessed a high degree of independence, and cultural norms of the time permitted corporal punishment. The long distances and isolation, allowed some missionaries to abuse this power with little fear of repercussion. Pueblo oral histories and

Spanish historical documents recorded missionaries using beatings, destruction of ritual objects, and murder to suppress Pueblo religious practices (Preucel 2007; Roberts 2004; Sheridan et al.

2015). The encomienda allowed Spanish colonists to use forced native labor for mining and Mathwich 60 building. They extracted tribute from pueblos in the form of agricultural products, animal hides, and woven items, and pueblos began specializing in specific products (Spielmann et al. 2009).

Tribute demands combined with the suppression of religious practices drove most Pueblo communities to unite in a coordinated revolt in 1680 led by the religious leader, Po’pay. The revolt drove the Spanish out of the region for a decade. The success and duration of its effects makes the Pueblo Revolt unique in the history of colonialism in North America. As part of a return to pre-contact Pueblo religious practices, villagers removed European material culture and domesticates from their world. Po’pay asked communities to burn the peppers, fruits, and wheat introduced by the Spaniards and plant only native crops (Roberts 2004:139). For those in revolt,

European domesticates were inextricably tied to a religion and a way of government that had to be exorcised from their villages.

In 1691, the Spanish returned and fought to regain control of New Mexico. Following the

Reconquista, some reforms were put in place, and the encomienda system was not reestablished in New Mexico (Weber 1992). Pueblos received land grants that gave them legal control over their own land, and the villages could appoint representatives to advocate for and protect their interests. The reforms did not erase racialized hierarchies or the conflicts over Pueblo and

Spanish control of arable land (Barrett 2012). Over time, a colonial economy emerged, but it was profoundly influenced by Pueblo culture and logics, growing both native and European domesticates and rearing livestock (Barrett 2012; Dunmire 2013; Trigg 2005).

Zooarchaeological evidence indicates significant continuity in animal use from the prehistoric period through the colonial period, suggesting that livestock grazing was not so disruptive to local landscapes (Jones 2015:5). Colonial New Mexico was bounded by other powers, however.

Groups such as the Utes, Navajos, Apache, and Comanche shaped the New Mexican colonial Mathwich 61 landscape. Horse-mounted raiders ensured that New Mexico remained the northernmost frontier of New Spain. The Comanche were especially influential in this regard, extracting tribute from the Spanish and controlling the Southern Plains until the 1860s (Hämäläinen 2008).

While this overview cannot begin to encompass the diversity of individual Pueblo responses to the Spanish, a few things are worth noting. First, the secular occupation led by soldiers resulted in extremely violent encounters, but these took place when the Spanish

Empire’s laws condoned the extraction of large amounts tribute and labor. In contrast, the

Spanish who colonized Alta California and the Pimería Alta entered with laws and policies shaped by failures and conflicts in other parts of the Spanish Empire such as New Mexico.

Lessons learned from these conflicts were integrated into future colonization efforts. Second, horse-mounted raiders in New Mexico and the Pimería Alta wielded enormous influence and kept the Spanish from expanding. Third, despite their cultural and linguistic differences, the different Pueblos had strong social networks and maintained many of their landscape practices.

The endurance of these social connections enabled Pueblo settlements to mount a coordinated, successful rebellion 80 years after the initial conquest, to continue many of their pre-contact practices over centuries of colonization.

Alta California

Seventy years after the colonization of the Pimería Alta, Juan Bautista de Anza and his party traveled north from the Presidio of San Miguel de Horcasitas to California. The 1774 expedition brought soldiers, native allies, missionaries, and livestock from Sonora and the

Pimería Alta (Officer 1987). In contrast to the Pimería Alta and New Mexico, California has a

Mediterranean climate with an extensive coastal prairie. Alta California as a region was a

Spanish creation, not a reflection of any cultural or environmental homogeneity. The region was Mathwich 62 known for its linguistic diversity, and the native peoples there were organized into bands and tribelets with a variety of different social structures (Bettinger 2015; Haynie 2012). Throughout

Alta California, complex hunter-gatherer groups managed local landscapes through fire and small-scale horticulture (Lightfoot and Parrish 2009:129). Groups in the region employed burning to create grassland and oak patches, and they collected wetland and marine resources such as shellfish, fish, aquatic birds, and marine mammals (Hylkema and Allen 2009; Keeley

2002; Lightfoot et al. 2013). Inland peoples gathered acorns in vast quantities, and the practice of maintaining acorn-producing oak patches required extensive landscape management

(Wohlgemuth 2004). While sometimes not considered agriculturists a traditional sense, triblets and chiefdoms in central and southern Alta California intensively managed the productivity of the landscape for their benefit.

Alta California, unlike the Pimería Alta and New Mexico, has seaports, making it strategically valuable to imperial trade. The Manila galleons linked the Spanish empire to Asian trade in the Philippines, and ships followed the California coast en route to the west coast of central Mexico (Skowronek 2016). Gaining control of the coast became a Spanish political strategy following the expansion of other colonial empires into the northwest coast of North

America. Russian fur traders and Aleut hunters were quickly expanding south to hunt sea otters

(Lightfoot 2006). Spanish presence began with the de Anza Expedition in Alta California and helped secure the safety of the galleons and new ports. Later, the port of San Francisco would provide an outlet for cattle hides and tallow exports from the region (Skowronek et al. 2006).

The establishment of a Spanish presence in Alta California shifted Spanish priorities in other provinces. Tucson Presidio was established in 1775 as several presidios in the Southwest were relocated to accommodate and protect an overland route to Alta California (Officer 1987). Mathwich 63

Missions were an important component of the colonialization of Alta California. The

Franciscan missionaries who entered Alta California drew upon 300 years of missionary experiences from European religious orders throughout New Spain. Isolation contributed to religious abuses of power, which was an issue in New Mexico. Some missionaries were aware enough of the dangers of isolation to select mission placements carefully. Father Junipero Serra located missions within a day or so ride from each other (Serra 1966). The missions’ close proximity allowed Serra to foster greater degree of communication between the missionaries.

Physical and psychological abuse, physical confinement, and epidemic disease were a part of mission life (Panich 2016). New identities formed around missions because of a population decline and the concentrating policies of reducción, or the forced consolidation of native settlements into a mission settlement (Ginn Peelo 2011; Jackson and Castillo 1996; Voss

2008). The other effect of reducción and epidemic disease was the disruption of O’odham landscape management, and this may have had broader ecological consequences. The flexible diets of cattle and sheep quickly adapted to the coastal prairies of Alta California, but these ecosystems were unaccustomed to these grazers. Livestock grazing disrupts native plant communities, and heavy grazing can facilitate the spread of invasive species (Curry 2017).

Eurasian weeds such as black mustard (Brassica nigra) and sow thistle (Sonchus asper) out- competed native plants wherever humans and livestock disturbed the soil; these species were even found in California mission adobe bricks (Guillerm 2008; Ornduff et al. 2003:278). The disruption of traditional maintenance of landscapes through depopulation and aggregation of native groups at missions may have aided the invasion of Irano-Turanian and Mediterranean weeds. The disruption of traditional landscape management along with grazing may have contributed to changes in vegetation structure (Curry 2017). Interference with seasonal Mathwich 64 subsistence in California affected native peoples’ ability to reproduce their cultural traditions and ways of life.

The native peoples of colonized areas of California did not go extinct, but their political status is complicated. Certain cultural practices and languages of many groups persisted long after the missions were secularized (Panich 2013), but many were also lost. Missions in

California actively altered the landscape, introduced a new agropastoral way of life, and disconnected people from their cultural landscapes. These changes have made it extremely difficult to reproduce many traditional cultural patterns in new generations. The duration and political consequences of colonialism for Native Californians are distinct from Pueblo groups and the O’odham (Silliman 2008). Tribes in the Southwest face many challenges today, but the

U.S. government recognizes many of them. U.S. courts have resisted many of the “missionized”

California tribes’ efforts to gain legal recognition and its associated benefits. California tribes are recognized at a state level and continue to petition for recognition at a federal level.

Pimería Alta

Intermediate to the colonization of New Mexico and Alta California are the experiences of colonialism in the Pimería Alta. Because the focus of this dissertation is on the Pimería Alta, more attention is given here to the prehistoric and historical background of Spanish colonial influence in the region.

Prehistoric overview

The area known during the colonial period as the Pimería Alta, and later as Sonora and southern Arizona, has been occupied by people since Paleoindian (11,500?–7500 B.C) and

Archaic (7500–2100 BC) times (Figure 3.1). Early Paleoindian occupations associated with

Pleistocene fauna are documented in the San Pedro Valley in eastern Arizona, the Tucson Basin, Mathwich 65 and at Fin del Mundo in Sonora (Sanchez et al. 2014; Thiel and Mabry 2006). People began to cultivate domesticated plants in the region during the Early Agricultural Period (2100 BC–AD

50). Groups began making ceramic figurines and crude pottery in the Early Ceramic period (AD

50–500) (Diehl 2005; Thiel and Mabry 2006). Health and social structure shifted with the introduction of agriculture at sites such as La Playa, Sonora (Watson et al. 2010), and farmers began to coalesce into larger settlements. The Hohokam sequence began around AD 500, and the period is characterized by more intensive cultivation of maize, larger populations, and the construction of platform mounds. This material tradition disappeared around AD 1450 (Fish et al. 2008). Further south, in Las Trincheras, Sonora, a different agricultural group relied on defensive architecture built on volcanic hills (McGuire and Villalpando 2015). Modern O’odham speakers are considered the descendants of the archaeological group that is called the Hohokam by archaeologists (Loendorf and Lewis 2017). Huhugam is an O’odham word that refers to all ancestors, not just those from the archaeologically recognized period (Lewis 2008). Akimel

O’odham oral traditions suggest that the large settlements dispersed and reformed into smaller groups along the Gila, Salt, Santa Cruz, and San Pedro drainages around AD 1450 (Bahr 1994).

Subsistence and settlement

The Sobaipuri people lived along the San Pedro River, and the Tohono O'odham and

Akimel O'odham lived along and to the west of the Santa Cruz River. The Spanish referred to these groups as the Sobaipuri, Pápago, and Pima, but these terms are now shown to be both derogatory and inaccurate (McIntyre 2008). Movement and transition characterized lifeways in the two centuries prior to the 1690s, and multiple modern populations have connections to the archaeologically defined groups of the past (Jelinek 2012). Despite prehistoric shifts in population density, O’odham groups in the region maintained a variety of social and economic Mathwich 66 ties with different groups. They collected salt and shell from the Sea of Cortez (Darling 2011;

Lyons and Clark 2008), and they maintained material and kin connections with western Puebloan groups to the north. The people in the Salt River, Santa Cruz River, and San Pedro River Valleys were the most closely connected linguistically, and they share similar oral traditions (Bahr 1994).

Early Spanish accounts of the region indicate the existence of multiple cultural groups, delineated, at least in the eyes of the Europeans, by their subsistence practices and location

(Jelinek 2012). The Sobaipuri lived in the San Pedro Valley, and eventually moved west to the

Santa Cruz Valley as raiding pressures increased (Seymour 1989). The people who the Spanish called Pima were O’odham speakers who lived and farmed by the rivers (riverine O’odham).

Those people who the Spanish called “Papago” were O’odham speakers that lived in the western desert, and who depended more on dry farming methods rather than river irrigation (McIntyre et al. 2008). In the early historical period, from AD 1450 to 1690, several new groups also appeared in the area, including Western Puebloans, Jacome, and Athabaskan speakers such as the Apache.

The Apache put pressure on early historical O'odham settlements and later Spanish settlements through persistent raiding.

The arid environment of the Sonoran Desert fostered a variety of landscape management strategies. Ak-chin farming, which relied on seasonal washes, and river-irrigated farming of corn, beans, and squash, required careful organization of human labor and water resources.

Irrigation and water storage has a long history in the Pimería Alta (Bayman 1997). European missionaries may have reused or restructured existing pre-Spanish irrigation and water diversion structures (Bahr 1994). Water storage features used in in prehistoric agriculture also were later adapted for livestock use (Grimstead and Pavão-Zuckerman 2016). Archaeological and Mathwich 67 ethnographic evidence point to the importance of irrigation as significant to social organization

(Fish and Fish 2012).

Throughout the historical period, O’odham-speaking groups employed a mix of subsistence strategies, including seasonal movement to make the most of the desert resources.

Variable rainfall during the summer monsoons meant that farmers also cultivated and collected wild resources such as goose foot, cholla, prickly pear, saguaro fruit, agave, yucca, and mesquite pods. Additionally, all O’odham groups made use of local game such as deer, bighorn sheep, pronghorn, rabbits, and rodents (Kessell 1970:13). O’odham lived in multiple family ranchería settlements with dome-shaped brush and earth houses, storage huts, outside cooking areas, and sometimes a larger ceremonial or council house (McIntyre et al. 2008). Documentary evidence suggests these groups continued ceremonial gatherings and feasts through the colonial period, much to the frustration of Jesuit and Franciscan missionaries (Kessell 1970; Segesser and

Classen 2012). However, few archaeological sites date clearly to the time between AD 1450 and

1687. Researchers know about the diversity of groups in the Pimería Alta from the extensive accounts of Jesuit missionaries and other Spanish documents and from modern ethnographies

(Jelinek 2012). The limits of archaeological data, the colonial origin of historical documents, and the application of assumptions from modern ethnography on past peoples present challenges to the interpretation of historical landscapes (Sheridan 1988). These interpretive challenges are well worth navigating, but require careful and critical consideration of each line of evidence.

The diversity of subsistence and land use strategies permitted a certain amount of flexibility. In times of drought, crop failure, and hardship, groups altered their gathering practices and relied on kin connections and raiding to deal with shortages (Brenneman 2004;

Radding 1997; Segesser and Classen 2012). Spatially variable rainfall in the region meant that Mathwich 68 drought in one area may have not been as severe in a community in a neighboring area. Mission communities were created with the aim of generating and controlling agricultural surplus, with an eye to provisioning secular settlements and controlling distribution of agricultural products.

Missionaries appointed local Indigenous officials to regulate access to the granary and take charge of distribution. Mission crop surplus could be used to barter for iron tools and other goods that attracted people to the mission (Radding 2001). The other aspect of centralized control was storing surplus against bad years in a single location, albeit under a new social hierarchy. This practice likely undermined the traditional flexibility of moving on when local conditions deteriorated to take advantage of another communities’ prosperity (Brenneman 2004).

Alongside water, the threat of violence shaped much of the Pimería Alta settlement.

Apache groups from the mountains (Jastrzembski 1994) raided O’odham and Spanish settlements. These settlements in turn raided Apache communities. O’odham and Spanish groups eventually worked together to retaliate against raiders. Several different groups of Apache lived in the region—these groups are known to be ancestral to the modern Chiricahua and White

Mountain Apache peoples. Apache groups were not the only parties raiding Spanish and

O’odham settlements, and groups displaced by colonial incursions such as other O’odham groups and Seri conducted raids. As colonialism disrupted communities throughout colonial

Sonora, violence and the threat of violence reconfigured the social landscape.

Colonial intensification and revolt in the Pimería Alta

The Pimería Alta (Figure 3.1) did not have the same Spanish tribute arrangement applied to them as Pueblo communities experienced, but colonial demands on social structure and labor were still sources of conflict. Missionaries selected their own Indigenous officials to control resource access, often introducing tension with traditional leadership roles. Communal mission Mathwich 69 fields and the repartimiento system (the right of mine owners to use native labor from missions) imposed labor demands on communities that became increasingly problematic when crops failed.

Demands on local time and resources were compounded by a series of droughts, fomenting resistance. Localized disturbances and organized uprisings in Sonoran and Sinaloa occurred in

1725, 1729, 1737, and 1740. The uprisings, while extensive, were responses to food shortages and the rise in conflict among missionaries, local Indigenous leaders, and the Spanish government. Spanish officials and missionaries blamed each other for the conflicts, and local

Indigenous leaders used these divisions to their advantage (Brenneman 2004). O’odham communities with missions often had intermittent contact with missionaries in the first few decades, and continued their flexible settlement patterns. Conflict, however, increased as more colonos, or colonists came into O’odham homelands. Mathwich 70

Figure 3.1. Map of Pimería Alta colonial settlements around 1710 from Spicer (1962:122, Fig. 9).

Mathwich 71

Organized resistance to the Spanish in the Pimería Alta developed a decade later.

Increasing labor demands and loss of land to mixed-heritage pobladores, cultural suppression, and continued dissatisfaction with local leadership drove the Pima Uprising in 1751 (Salmón

1988). The revolt was coordinated and led by the local leader, Luis Oacpicagigua. As Salmón

(1988) notes, however, no more than half of O'odham speakers in the region were ever under mission authority, and no central leadership tied all of the groups together. Luis Oacpicagigua did request the help of communities outside of the missionized area to coordinate a widespread expulsion, but only a third of O'odham communities participated. In 1748, three years prior to the Pima Revolt, the Seri successfully expelled Jesuit missionaries, and the Seri found allies among the Pima. The uprisings kicked off a 20-year period of guerilla warfare that involved people from Seri, Tiburón, Sobaipuri, and Papago groups (Sheridan 1999). The Spanish-led campaign to pacify the frontier helped further militarize.

In addition to regional raiding and turmoil, a global shift occurred within the Spanish

Empire. In 1767, the Jesuits were expelled from the New World in a secret order issued by

Charles II. The Expulsion was part of a wider European suppression of the Jesuit Order related to broader efforts known as the Bourbon Reforms. The reforms sought to centralize and secularize areas of the Spanish Empire (López Mañon and Río 1993). In the Pimería Alta, the government aimed to secularize missions in Sonora and Sinaloa. Spanish officials wanted to reduce missionary control over Indigenous labor and open up native settlements to wage labor and the purchase of private property. The expulsion caught many Europeans in New Spain by surprise, and it took several years to replace the Jesuits with Franciscan missionaries (Kessell 1976).

Franciscans entered the territory with reduced powers and arrived at missions that had already been converted to parishes. Herds and fields were no longer controlled by the missionary, Mathwich 72 although some communal lands were retained by missions into the Mexican period. The communal ownership of lands tied to the missions was distinct from peasant corporate lands known as ejidos, which are part of twentieth-century Mexican land tenure (Sheridan 1996:161).

Despite the push to secularize mission settlements in southern Sonora, the Pimería Alta was deemed too unstable to support much secularization (Fontana 1977). In that regard, the power system in the north was distinct from that of southern Sonora. Missions remained prominent in the region until the 1820s when Mexican Independence forced the secularization of the missions.

In the middle of the eighteenth century, presidios such as San Ignacio de Tubac (1752) were established in the Pimería Alta in response to the increase in raiding and Indigenous resistance. Bureaucratic upheavals and raiding pressures forced residents living at Pimería Alta missions such as Guevavi to move closer to presidios. In the third quarter of the eighteenth century, presidios were moved, and new forts built in response to the colonization of Alta

California and its increasing importance to New Spain’s politics. These new presidios included

Tucson and Terranate in the Pimería Alta. The Presidio de Tucson was established to protect a long overland route to Alta California. Mission San Xavier del Bac gained prominence due to its proximity to the Tucson presidio (Officer 1987). Presidios and their native warrior allies were not effective deterrents to Apache raiding, however. It was only in the 1790s that hostilities between Apache groups and colonial settlements subsided toward relative stability (Sheridan

2012). The Spanish government paid Apache groups in food and other supplies, setting up settlements, or peace camps, near the presidios (Officer 1987). The mission system continued until the time of Mexican Independence in 1821, when many Spanish priests were expelled, and former mission and church holdings could be bought and sold. The Apache peace camp arrangement ended with the Mexican Revolution, in part because funds were diverted to fighting Mathwich 73 the internal civil war. Raiding on farms and ranches commenced once again, forcing the abandonment of several former missions and ranches such as Calabazas and Tumacácori.

Throughout this tumultuous period, O’odham living at the missions continued to farm both native and European crops, gather wild foods, raise livestock, and participate in native and

Catholic ceremonial life. Not all O’odham experienced mission life, and those that did still occupied a familiar landscape shaped by traditional social ties and seasons.

Conclusions

The Pimería Alta was located at the edge of the New Spain's “control” and was added at the end of the 1600s. O’odham responses to colonialism were shaped by different policies and regional dynamics from those of New Mexico and Alta California. Missions were an integral part of bringing the O’odham into the Spanish economy. Missions developed slowly in the

Pimería Alta compared to other regions of New Spain due to low investment, the difficult climate, and the threat of violence.

Some long-term trends do seem consistent among the Pimería Alta and New Mexico and

Alta California regions. The arable and grazing lands of native communities held in common by the mission were gradually seized by vecinos (Radding 1997; Sheridan 2007). In New Mexico and the Pimería Alta, however, livestock grazing did not fundamentally alter native subsistence practices for many decades. Grazing in Alta California, in contrast, was combined with the cessation of traditional land management practices and population decline. The people of the

Pimería Alta had a different experience with the Columbian Exchange than Alta California or

New Mexico. Various historical contingencies, local conditions, and Spanish policies contributed to these distinct colonial experiences. Mathwich 74

Archaeological and ecological evidence support the observation that livestock can fundamentally alter economic, ecological, social relationships. The Spanish came from an integrated agropastoral system, and all of their colonial efforts included a package of plants and animals from their own culture. This biological package integrated relatively well with agriculturally based communities in New Mexico, and mixed farming and gathering practices in the Pimería Alta. The outcomes for Alta California were more complex because of the cultural and environmental diversity and the impact of disease. As flexible farmers, gatherers, hunters, and later ranchers, O’odham did not live in the dense New Mexican pueblo communities or as complex hunter-gatherer groups in Alta California. O’odham colonial experiences were profoundly shaped by their political structure and subsistence practices. Mathwich 75

CHAPTER 4. GEOLOGY, HYDROLOGY, & ECOLOGY OF THE SANTA CRUZ BASIN

The previous chapter presented an overview of the major similarities and differences between the Pimería Alta and two other Spanish colonial frontier regions in North America. This background historical research reflects the importance of temporal and local processes in colonial interactions. This chapter surveys the hydrology of the Santa Cruz Basin and shows how the basin’s geology and ecology affected subsistence practices. This chapter also examines how precipitation and local geochemistry affect the stable isotopes that plants and animal incorporate into their tissues. The aim is to provide sufficient background to understand the underlying biological and geological factors that influenced the findings in Chapters 5, 6, and 8. The possibilities for and constraints on people living along the river shaped their responses and adaptations to colonial contact.

Geology

The Basin and Range geologic province of the North American Southwest consists of north-south mountain ranges interspersed with narrow desert basins, and the province is typical of much of the western United States and northern Mexico, south of the Mogollon Rim. The basin-range topography is not a result of up-thrust, as in the case of the Rocky Mountain Range, but basins formed from deep valleys were created by broken mountain blocks and were filled in through erosion. Much of the basin-range orogeny (structural deformation of the earth's crust), was formed by tectonic "pulls" resulting in block faults (Nations and Stump 1996:108).

The portion of this terrain examined here is known as the Santa Cruz Basin, and is composed of 66 miles of river valley from Nogales to the Tucson Basin. The Santa Cruz Basin is one of these block fault valleys located in the northeastern portion of the Sonoran Desert and is bounded by a series of ranges: the Tortolita, Santa Catalina, Rincon, Empire, and Santa Rita Mathwich 76

Mountains on the east side of the valley, and the Tucson, Atascosa, Tumacácori, and Sierrita mountain ranges on the west side (Chronic 1983). The deep basin formed by block faults has been filled with various sediments eroded from the mountains, resulting in sloping bajada plains along the edges of ranges. The highest mountains in these ranges are Mt. Lemmon and Mt.

Bigelow, both in the Santa Catalinas, at 2,766 and 2,608 m above sea level, respectively

(Whittaker and Niering 1965). At its lowest points, in Tucson, the basin is 850–980 m above sea level. The basin is slightly higher to the south at 994–1,097 m above sea level in Tumacácori

(National Park Service 2013). The region has a diverse geological history, which has shaped the movement and settlement of people in its valleys.

Mountain range composition and soil

The Santa Cruz River Valley has a complex geological history, which contributed to its economic importance. This area of Arizona is part of the porphyry copper belt that stretches northwest-southeast into Mexico, and metal deposits of gold, silver, and copper have been found in the mountains historically. The Santa Ritas east of Tubac were known by the Spanish for silver deposits, and today the Sierritas are open-pit mined for low-grade copper deposits

(Chronic 1983). The precious metal deposits originate in granite intrusions into Paleozoic limestone and quartzite, enriching and altering these deposits.

The Tucson and Tumacácori Mountains are volcanic in origin and are linked to the presence of copper, gold, and silver deposits in surrounding ranges. Porphyry copper deposits, and to a lesser degree gold and silver, are the result of fluids from a crystallizing magma reservoir, and are found in association with faults and volcanic activities (Berger et al. 2008).

The Santa Rita range has placer gold mine deposits and an active marble mine, which were formed through the same geological processes. These metals generated colonial interest, drawing Mathwich 77

Spanish, Mexican, and Anglo miners, and precious metal ores became the economic foundation of many modern southern Arizona and Sonoran towns.

The basin and range topography is characteristic of much of the Pimería Alta, and has influenced human interaction and resource availability. Elevation change results in shifts in plant and animal communities, or ecozones. The proximity of high mountain ranges also meant that resources such as timber, mammals, and plants from other ecozones were available to people in the valleys. For farmers in the valleys, basin and range geography narrowed the quantity of arable land to water available in river corridors, permanent springs, and seasonal washes. River floodplains, the site of many prehistoric and historic farming communities, were created from

Pleistocene terrace gravels, sands, and clays. Block fault basins in-filled with sediments that eroded from the mountain ranges during periods of glacial melt over the past several hundred thousand years (Scarborough 2000). In the historical period, basins became the strongholds of farming communities of O’odham and Spanish, while the nearby mountains were favored by

Apache groups because of their inaccessibility and resources (Jastrzembski 1994). The basin and range topography structured people’s physical interaction with the landscape.

Hydrology

Hydrology and the distribution of water in the Santa Cruz Basin is closely related to its geological history. When the block fault basins first formed, rivers did not drain the basins.

Subsequently, lakes were formed, but over time, erosion and shifts in the water table formed a network of washes and rivers. One of those rivers is the Santa Cruz River, which connects several drainages. The river headwaters originate in the San Rafael Valley in what is today

Sonora, and flows north toward the Gila River Basin (Error! Reference source not found.).

Prior to the 1950s, the Santa Cruz was an intermittent stream. Only during periods of high Mathwich 78 precipitation did surface water connected the headwaters to its confluence with the Gila River

(Wood et al. 1999). North of the Tucson Basin, the Santa Cruz flowed intermittently over adobe flats, or flood plains, north toward Phoenix. In certain areas along the river, volcanic development and shallow bedrock drove the bedrock closer to the surface, pushing the groundwater toward the surface and created reliable springs of freshwater. The river's sub-flow reached ground level and created marshes, known locally as cienegas, and these locales include

San Xavier del Bac, Sentinel Peak, and what is present day Valencia Road in Tucson (Figure

4.1). Perennial surface supported riparian vegetation, which attracted migratory birds, fresh water fish, and deer. The Santa Cruz River represented an invaluable resource for hunter- gatherers and later farmers. Mathwich 79

Figure 4.1. Map of the Santa Cruz Watershed boundaries (Norman et al. 2012:Figure 1).

Cienega locations in the Santa Cruz Basin were so important to human settlement that their traditional names have entered modern parlance. These sites include Mission Guevavi (gi vavhia) meaning "big well/water" (Kessell 1970:21), San Xavier del Bac or Wa:k, whose name is a reference to water, and Tucson (Cuk Şon), which means "Black Base," and perhaps refers to the dark basalt deposits at the base of Sentinel Peak, or "A" Mountain (Zepeda 1983). Each site possessed a reliable water supply, and people settled in and around the springs repeatedly over Mathwich 80 thousands of years. San Agustín and Tucson Presidio, for example, have Archaic, Hohokam, and historical occupations (Thiel and Mabry 2006), and Mission Guevavi has occupations which span AD 800–120, and later post-1450 occupations (Thiel and Pavão-Zuckerman 2016). These sites and their environs remain occupied today by modern groups, but twentieth-century groundwater pumps lowered the water table and destroyed many of the wetlands these springs once supported. Subsurface water and perennial springs favored by prehistoric and historical settlements originated from seasonal precipitation. As central as groundwater was to human settlement, agriculture and gathering depended on seasonal precipitation.

Climate

Human subsistence practices in the Santa Cruz Basin became adjusted to the realities of the Sonoran Desert climate. The Sonoran Desert is a horse latitude desert, which are common in regions on the western edges of continents around 30-degrees latitude (Dimmitt 2000a) . Unlike deserts formed by mountain range rain shadows, horse latitude deserts do not have prevailing winds, and this lack of circulation creates a high-pressure zone that keeps moist air out (Dimmitt

2000b). Moist air and precipitation can only enter the region when this high-pressure zone weakens. Regional climate shifted from wetter and cooler in the Pleistocene to hotter and drier in the Holocene, with seasonal rains. The Tucson Basin today has a bimodal precipitation pattern, and precipitation averaged 11.15 inches per year from 1894 to 2005. Over half of the yearly precipitation falls in July, August, and September as part of the North American Monsoon

(Sellers and Hill 1974). The spectacular, high-energy monsoon systems sweep across the southern Arizona region. The monsoon arrives in late June or early July and brings humidity and precipitation for a roughly two-month period. These rain cycles helped define planting and gathering seasons for human groups in the Santa Cruz Basin. Mathwich 81

The North American (NA) Monsoon derives its moisture from both the Gulf of California

(Pacific) and the Gulf of Mexico (Atlantic). This moisture is transported north along the Sierra

Nevada Occidental to northwestern Mexico and southern Arizona (Adams and Comrie 1997).

The NA Monsoon in Arizona is the northern extension of a phenomenon that primarily occurs in

Mexico. The monsoon reaches as far north as the Mogollon Rim, which receives more moisture than the desert lowlands (Adams and Comrie 1997). The NA Monsoon is locally variable, unpredictable, and geographically limited (Whittaker and Niering 1965). In a year, some areas receive nothing, while other areas can receive up to 15 in of rain in a season (Comrie and

Broyles 2002). Animals and plants have adapted to the variability of rainfall and time reproductive cycles to the occurrence of rainfall rather than chronological seasons, waiting until enough rain has fallen to reproduce (Varady et al. 1995). People living in the basin timed both their gathering and planting in response to local rainfall. The Santa Cruz Basin’s growing season is long, from April 1 to November 15 (Sellers and Hill 1974). Maize agriculture traditionally depended on summer rainfall, and the variability of the monsoon rains would have been a challenge for desert dwellers. Strategies emerged to mitigate the monsoon’s inherent unpredictability, including irrigation, scattering fields among multiple washes, and sometimes not planting some fields in bad years. Other strategies involved ritual maintenance, and historical and ethnographic accounts document the ways O’odham speakers used ceremonies and gatherings to invite rain and manage precipitation (Kessell 1970; Underhill 1940).

Winter rains, in contrast, arrive as storms originating from the Pacific Ocean. These storms tend to cover larger areas and be more reliable. Colder winter temperatures and the occasional frost meant that these rains could not be harnessed prehistorically for agricultural production of Indigenous frost-sensitive crops. This changed with the introduction of winter Mathwich 82 wheat, following the arrival of the Spanish. Winter wheat spread quickly throughout O’odham speaking communities, including those north of the Tucson Basin that were never missionized or conquered by the Spaniards, and changed how O’odham farmed in the Santa Cruz Basin.

Farmers could take advantage of the mild winter months with this frost-tolerant crop.

Periodic wet cycles and droughts

Beyond the annual cycle of temperature and precipitation there are longer climatic cycles that researchers are now beginning to understand in relation to human historical experiences. The

Santa Cruz Basin, along with the rest of North America, experiences the El Niño Southern

Oscillation (ENSO) phenomenon, linked to wetter winters and springs (Andrade and Sellers

1988) and greater precipitation during the monsoon. La Niña climatic years generally follow El

Niño years, resulting in drier summers in a year after the onset of El Niño (Harrington et al.

1992). ENSO cycles have occurred every 2–7 years for several thousand years, going back to the mid-Holocene (Carre et al. 2005). Other Southwestern terrestrial phenomena are linked to these decadal climate cycles, including synchronized regional fires and insect outbreaks (Swetnam and

Betancourt 1998). Widespread fires can occur when a very dry cycle follows a wet cycle, which spurs vegetation accumulation. Southwestern fire cycles occur about every 7.5 years (Swetnam and Betancourt 1998). Wet and dry cycles can have political and social consequences, but they are not the sole cause of shifts in human population and settlement in the region.

Tree ring data show that several dry years occurred prior to the Yaqui uprising in 1740, making many resources scarce. Brenneman (2004) argues that colonial control of labor and movement undermined traditional strategies for mitigating limited desert resources, including raiding, movement, and dispersal. In the case of the Yaqui, drought compounded with political, social, and ecological disruption related to colonialism and fomented social unrest. Mathwich 83

While the scarcity of water in the arid Southwest is often emphasized, too much water can also be problematic for agricultural communities. The Hohokam population fluorescence within the Tucson and Salt River Basins was tied to irrigation and water control (Fish and Fish

2012). Tree ring data suggests that a period of destructive flooding between AD 1350 and 1420 destroyed much of the canal infrastructure along the Salt River (Graybill et al. 2006). Physical archaeological evidence in the Gila Basin of these canals’ destruction at a particular time is more difficult to identify (Fish and Fish 2012). Oral histories suggest that political discord during this time lead to the overthrow of leadership (Bahr 1994). This period also corresponds to a dispersal and transition to lower population density (Mills et al. 2013). People did not leave the area, but they changed how they interacted and organized themselves, opting for smaller groups and settlements. Weather is not the reason remembered for the social unrest that appears in oral traditions about these events. While a series of bad years may have contributed to the Hohokam dispersal and the transition to historical O'odham groups, it is likely only one of many social contributors to the social tension and subsequent dispersal.

Prior to the O'odham revolt in 1751, for example, there were some wet years and some drier ones, but no sustained drought pattern (Krusic and Cook 2004). As mentioned earlier, monsoon rainfall can be variable and intense, and even a few bad storms in a more populated area could make life difficult in any given year. These challenges are amplified without the ability to raid, beg food from relatives, or move away from neighbors into smaller family groups that are easier to support. While environmental factors may have added to the social burden that triggered revolts, the political context produced sustained tensions among O’odham villagers and mission priests. Mathwich 84

Limiting social mobility and keeping Indigenous people from leaving missions was one goal of mission colonialism during the colonial period. Jesuit, and later Franciscan, priests were tasked with the reducción, or concentration of dispersed desert population into large settlements.

The missionaries’ goal was to bring Indigenous souls to the mission, convert them, and keep them there. The aim was to turn the O'odham into farming and ranching, god-fearing, peasant- subjects of the Spanish Crown. This ideal conflicted with many of the strategies that the

O'odham employed for living in the water-scarce and somewhat unpredictable desert environment; however, archaeological and ethnohistorical data have yet to be synthesized to explore this argument. What is known, however, is that decadal climatic variation added an additional rhythm and challenge to regional society and ecology, and the Santa Cruz Basin was no exception. To cope, Indigenous groups required multiple, flexible strategies. Precipitation patterns are one aspect the Santa Cruz Basin’s climate, and seasonal temperatures also influenced how people managed their water needs and usage.

Seasonal temperatures

The precipitation extremes in the region are mirrored by temperature extremes over the course of a year. Southern Arizona's mild winters range from 0 to 2 ℃ (30s ℉) to the 18–20 ℃

(High 60s ℉) lows in mid-winter. Below-freezing temperatures are infrequent but do occur. The summers average 37–38 ℃, (98–100 ℉), but night temperatures can descend 40 ℉ lower in a single day. Higher elevations have cooler temperatures, and the average temperature decreases

0.55 ℃ (1 ℉) per 71 m (235 ft) increase in elevation (Sellers and Hill 1974). Humidity varies by season and remains low during April, May, and early June.

As temperatures rise and humidity decreases, humans and animals need more water. This is a particular challenge for livestock at the hottest times of year in the Santa Cruz Basin. Modern Mathwich 85 beef cattle need 23‒78 L (7–20 gallons) of water per day depending on age and temperature

(National Academies of Sciences 2016). Sheep consume between 1 and 5 L (0.25–4 gallons) of water per day (Midwest Plan Service 1982). The heat and aridity of summers in the region increase water requirements for native animals as well as introduced Eurasian animals. At the hottest times of year, a herd of 200 sheep would need 3,000 L (792 gallons) per day, while the same number of cattle would need 15,600 L (4,121 gallons), which would fill a 4.5 m (15 ft) diameter above-ground swimming pool. Daily water requirements for livestock would necessitate access to predictable water sources, such as irrigation water stored in ponds, or the presence of natural wells and springs such as those found at Tucson and Bac. Plant water requirements also increase with heat and aridity. The pressure on water supplies for livestock may have conflicted with the needs of traditional agriculture. Stable oxygen isotopes in this dissertation will be used to evaluate this potential conflict. What stable isotopes can contribute to this investigation of resource management is influenced by environmental factors.

Stable oxygen isotopes in water

Multiple factors affect the isotopic composition of water sources for plants, animals, and humans. Studies of stable oxygen isotopes from an animal’s body water require an understanding of the ways local factors influence the isotopic composition of body water. These include season, evaporation, and topography.

Seasonal rains come from different bodies of water, and thus exhibit different isotopic values. Winter rains originate from the Pacific Ocean and must travel further to reach the Santa

Cruz Basin. As weather systems move across the continent, the heavier oxygen isotope is precipitated more readily than the lighter isotope (Winnick et al. 2014). Winter precipitation in the Santa Cruz Basin tends to have more depleted δ18O values because its moisture originates Mathwich 86 further away, occasionally as far away as the Pacific Northwest. Summer rains are more enriched in δ18O for two primary reasons. First, water sources of the monsoonal system form closer to

Sonoran Desert in the Gulf of California and Mexico. Enrichment of summer rains is typical of temperate latitudes. Second, summer water sources evaporate more in the heat, and the evaporation leads to δ18O enrichment. Standing water, such as reservoirs for irrigation and livestock use, are also subject to this enrichment due to evaporation. The origin of weather systems and seasons influence oxygen isotope ratios, but physical geography also contributes to local isotope values.

The Basin-Range topography alters stable isotopes in the Santa Cruz drainage. Ground water from springs and water in washes are both subject to altitude effects, where higher elevation waters have more depleted (lighter) isotopic ratios, as heavier isotopes precipitate at lower elevations (Gonfiantini et al. 1998). Due to this effect, water catchments that drain areas with higher elevation will have more depleted oxygen ratios than those that drain lower elevations. Modern precipitation averages of δ18O for the Tucson Basin are −6.0‰ VSMOW

(Vienna Standard Mean Ocean Water) for summer, −8.9‰ VSMOW for winter, and −7.3‰

VSMOW overall (Eastoe and Dettman 2016). Groundwater sources reflect an average of seasonal precipitation, but are often more variable due to recharge from higher-elevation sources

(Eastoe et al. 2013).

Water storage and evaporation

In addition to choosing settlement locations near perennial surface water, water storage was another survival strategy in the Santa Cruz Basin. Archaeological and historical sources point to a long history of extensive and complex water systems for irrigation and water storage

(Bayman et al. 2004). The Spanish missions also employed extensive acequia (canal) systems, Mathwich 87 but also likely relied on O’odham knowledge of canal-making and water storage. In areas with a long cultural history of water management such as the Santa Cruz Basin, the differences between

Indigenous and European practices at the mission are difficult to distinguish. Evidence for water storage comes from ethnographic sources, backed up by observation of contemporary landscapes

(Castetter and Underhill 1935; Underhill 1940:8). Ethnographic observations document water storage and redirection during the summer months using earthen berms, and movement of much of the community to spring-fed wells during the winter. Other researchers have questioned the uncritical application of the ethnographic record to the archaeological record, and have found that larger water storage features may have permitted more sedentary communities in the

Hohokam period than have been recorded historically (Bayman 1997; Bayman et al. 2004). The intensity and scale of these practices were likely related to community size and land productivity and arability, and may have been larger in the past. These features can be difficult to date, and many were reused in subsequent periods by ranchers. The broad patterns of water management, however, are consistent: shallow ponds or charcos, acequias, and multiple plantings in different watersheds (Underhill 1940:8). Sedentism depended on the reliability of water, and larger water storage features would have permitted a more sedentary community. It is not always clear from colonial documents how well European colonizers understood the seasonal movements of the

O’odham. Ethnographic sources from the twentieth century reflect a time when Tohono

O’odham groups were already pushed out of their traditional farming areas close to the river by

Mexican and Anglo immigrants, and groundwater wells were in use. The colonial period occupies a difficult space in between modern ethnographic observations and the archaeological record, making interpretations of water resource use during this time difficult. Mathwich 88

Plant communities

The Santa Cruz Basin is part of the area known as the Arizona Uplands, the highest and coldest part of the Sonoran Desert. In comparison to other parts of the region, it is a biologically rich area characterized by woodlands, chaparral and grassland communities. This diversity is in part due to the higher average annual precipitation of 305 mm (12 in.) that falls on the Arizona

Uplands (Dimmitt 2000b). The river valleys are characterized by a strip of riparian vegetation with a cottonwood and willow gallery, and permanent water supports a wide range of waterfowl and plant resources (Mauz 2006). Desert scrub and semi-desert grasslands form the base ecozones of the Southwest (Brown 1994a), and became grazing range once livestock were introduced. At higher elevations, montane conifer forests and madrean pine-oak forests grow best in cooler mountain temperatures. The basin and range topography results in drastic elevation changes within small geographical areas. In terms of cultural adaptation, the Tohono O’odham and their ancestors cultivated agaves and cacti in rocky, steep areas, and used the river plains and drainages for cultivation, harvested wood from high-elevation forests, and gathered creosote, cactus fruits, and mesquite from upper and lower Sonoran biozones.

Over the past 150 years, mesquite and desert scrub have gradually replaced the historical riparian vegetation (cottonwoods, sycamores, willows, and palo verdes) (Allen 1989; Logan

2002, 1999). During the historical period, the riparian corridor would have supported a greater diversity of fauna than what exists in modern rangelands (Popotnik and Giuliano 2000).

Ecologists have long made the connection between introduced grazers and reduced biodiversity of both plants and native fauna (Flieschner 1994; Popotnik and Giuliano 2000; Tewksbury et al.

2002). Grazing habits of livestock are distinct from the native deer species that browse vegetation and clip parts of plants, and thus impact the ecology of an area in different ways. Mathwich 89

Cattle and sheep are both browsers and grazers, cutting the plant closer to the root and often pulling up shallow rooted plants and destroying them entirely (Flieschner 1994). The large-scale pumping of water for agriculture in the last century led to a massive drop in the water table, which has also contributed to disappearance of riparian areas and wetlands. This impact continues to be a major challenge to the modern Santa Cruz Basin community (Norman et al.

2012:114).

The presence of water and biotic transition zones in rural areas of the Santa Cruz Basin supports a modern population of cattle, gopher snakes, pocket gophers, coyote, javelina, mule deer, cottontail rabbits, jackrabbits, kangaroo rats, wood rats, quail, red tail hawks, various lizards, horned lizard, Couch's spade foot toad, turkey vultures, pronghorn, and wild turkey

(Davis 1982), all of which have also been found at Spanish colonial sites. The Santa Cruz River once supported populations of fish, including native cyprinids and catostomids such as Gila suckers and Gila chubs that are still present in connected downstream drainages. Migratory ducks, geese, and Sandhill Cranes winter in local marshy areas, and may have been more numerous and accessible to mission communities because of the higher water table and increased surface water.

Mission priests introduced Eurasian animals including chickens, cattle, sheep, mules, burros, horses, sheep, and goats. Cattle, in particular, became vital to the Tohono O’odham economic base by the first part of the twentieth century (Castetter and Underhill 1935; Underhill

1940), however cattle were not always the animal of choice. Until the middle of the nineteenth century cattle and sheep were both raised in high numbers in the Pimería Alta (Kessell 1970;

Pavão-Zuckerman 2008). These herds may have relied on a specific biozone, which may be observable in isotopic ratios (Chapter 8). Mathwich 90

In addition to riparian areas, semi-desert grasslands were important ecozones during the colonial period. These grasslands are dominated by C4 grasses, including warm/wet season grasses associated with the monsoon. C3 plants include cool-season grasses, trees, and shrubs and are found throughout the landscape, but dominate riparian and higher elevation biozones.

Crassulacean acid metabolism (CAM) plants include cacti, and these plants have flexible photosynthesis pathways that can fractionate carbon isotopes in a similar way to both C4 and C3 plants, and this can pose potential problems to interpretation of stable isotope ratios. In the Santa

Cruz River Valley biotic communities are composed of lowland Sonoran and Chihuahua desert scrub (mixed C4, C3, and CAM), riparian woodland galleries (C3 shrubs and trees), and semi- desert grasslands (predominately C4) (Brown 1994a; Dimmitt 2000b). Plants with C3 pathways range isotopically from −22‰ to −30‰ and C4 from plants −10‰ to −14‰. Thus, animal diets can be discerned from isotopic ratios of the animal’s tissues (Cerling et al. 1997). CAM plants, including cacti, have the ability to fix carbon using both systems, switching strategies depending on environmental conditions (Szarek and Troughton 1976). CAM plants are common in the

Sonoran Desert, however, these plants tend to fix carbon at the C4 end of the isotopic range and are thus distinguishable from C3 plants (Orr et al. 2015:1049). Livestock consume cacti, including prickly pear, and these plants are considered forage resources for livestock herds in the arid and semi-arid parts of the United States. (Hanselka and Paschal 1990).

Grasses comprise the largest portion (>50%) of cattle and sheep diet in the region, but the animals may add woody C3 browse depending on the availability of forage (Sprinkle et al. 2002).

Higher C3 plant consumption can indicate grazing within specific biotic zones because these animals prefer grasses. This dietary preference affects the isotopic ratios in archaeological bone and teeth, and can serve as proxies for resources use in the colonial period. High proportions of Mathwich 91

C4 indicate heavier grazing on the semi-arid Sonoran grasslands, and lower proportions may indicate that livestock were kept in areas with more C3 browse and made do with what was available. Both possibilities serve as proxies for human and livestock behavior. The first suggests that livestock were removed from riparian and nearby cultivated areas and as well as from higher elevations. The second implies that O’odham ranchers brought the animals into higher-elevation grazing areas or riparian areas. Oxygen isotopes from bone and tooth carbonate may be used to estimate the elevations at which these animals consumed most of their water. The choice of range and the storage of water were connected to both ecological and colonial contexts.

Livestock bone and teeth offer a way to explore the use of these resources in the colonial period.

Conclusions

Human activity has generated long-term changes in the Santa Cruz Basin. The grazing of cattle and sheep reduced ground cover and contributed to soil erosion and degradation during the historical period of the Santa Cruz Basin, diminishing habitat and species diversity. As urban and suburban communities in southern Arizona and northern Mexico grow, rangelands have become a bastion for wildlife and habitat preservation, providing wildlife corridors and protecting native landscapes from development Water extraction from 1852 through the present also transformed the landscape over the past one hundred years and eliminated what had been perennially available surface water (Curtin et al. 2002; Sayre 2003). The creation of agropastoral colonial settlements may come at certain ecological costs to native flora and fauna.

O’odham groups responded to economic and ecological changes spurred by colonial intrusions in diverse ways. Over time, European domesticates became more integrated into their daily life and thus altered their relationship to the landscape. As native and European practices became entangled through colonial intrusion, new ways of interacting with the landscape Mathwich 92 emerged that were both continuous with traditional practices and linked to larger economic networks. Conditions within the Santa Cruz Basin’s geography and ecology created the possibilities O’odham ancestors and later Europeans about where and when to live, plant, gather, hunt, and graze their livestock. O’odham and Europeans often arrived at similar conclusions about how to survive under the same environmental conditions and variability. These practices reflect adaptive and dynamic interactions between humans and local ecology.

Mathwich 93

CHAPTER 5. LONG-TERM ANIMAL USE IN THE SANTA CRUZ RIVER VALLEY

When I was on a debate team in high school, it felt like manna from heaven when the opposing team “dropped” an argument. When one side failed to respond to one or more of the other side’s claims, that claim would be automatically conceded as “true,” no matter how strange or poorly evidenced. A dropped argument was a valuable opening because it forced the opposition to accept one more aspect of the other side’s reality as fact in the artificial structure of the debate. The dropped argument, or the passive acceptance of one approach to elements of reality, remains a powerful rhetorical tool. Successful refutation requires that no aspect of the debate is taken for granted. Indigenous scholars have increasingly called out “dropped” arguments in archaeology—assumptions about the world that have been naturalized over time— and shown the limits of Western paradigms of knowledge toward non-Western cultures.

One response to Indigenous critiques has been to fragment and demolish assumptions of cultural unity and cohesive narratives of colonialism by focusing on individual sites and small- scale colonial interactions. These narrower perspectives allow historical archaeologists to parse intra-site dynamics and activities and to structure projects focused on the local dynamics and responses to colonialism. Studying how colonial interactions played out in different locations helps researchers avoid collapsing the diversity of native groups and colonial politics into mainstream narratives of settler-colonialism. Single-site projects permit personal, in-depth explorations of Indigenous experiences of colonialism that run counter to a Western culture which privileges scientific, material observations and generalizable conclusions. Local approaches persist as an excellent way to study archaeologies of colonialism.

Increasingly, however, a narrow site-specific focus needs to be tempered with research at a medium and large scale, or archaeologists working to decolonize the discipline’s practices will Mathwich 94 risk dropping an important argument. This tempering of approaches is all part of a long dialectic in the history of anthropology between the comparative and the unique, evolutionism vs. historical particularism, structural functionalism vs. thick ethnography. The distinct aspect at this time is that archaeologists are taking Indigenous perspectives seriously for the first time, but this requires a careful re-examination of all methods and approaches. Archaeologists sit on decades of literature collected within a materialist, scientific paradigm. Without meaningful engagement with problematic data and active reinterpretation through new perspectives, those data are conceded to a Western paradigm. This historical precedent does not preclude the reclaiming of legacy data, or that the data are unworthy of reinterpretation. Data aggregation offers new opportunities and challenges to how archaeologists conceptualize and study multicultural interactions (Atici et al. 2013; Graham 1994; Mills et al. 2013; Pavão-Zuckerman et al. 2011). In this chapter, I argue that historical archaeological studies limited to small scales may isolate these historical periods from the rest of archaeological inquiry and unnecessarily cede decades of data to a single perspective. I explore the practical challenge of reinterpretation through a case study of data aggregation at a regional level.

This chapter investigates how data aggregation in tension with postcolonial perspectives might be conducted using basic zooarchaeological data. One goal of this faunal analysis is to integrate the colonial period faunal assemblages within the larger body of research in southern and northern Arizona. Doing so requires eliminating the artificial barrier between prehistoric and historic time. These temporal boundaries are social constructs, and their relevancy has been questioned for decades (Lightfoot 1996). The chapter investigates how the introduction of livestock changed long-term human-animal relationships among groups living in the Santa Cruz

River Valley. The central question is how did livestock fit into long-term socioenvironmental Mathwich 95 strategies in the Sonoran Desert, the assumption being that there would be continuity in the population and environmental factors that shaped decisions. Data were collected from published zooarchaeological sources of sites occupied from AD 500–1912. Major shifts in small and large animal use and shifts in assemblage diversity through time were observable using taxonomic categories. The two indices derived from aggregated data from published sources and tracked human-animal relationships beginning with the rise of the Hohokam archaeological complex through the American Territorial period. Animal use through time intersects with issues of data aggregation, temporal boundaries, and narratives of persistence.

Decolonizing archaeology

Scholars across the globe have explored and developed Indigenous methodologies in the social sciences (Devy 2013; Harris 2005; Kovach 2010; Nakata et al. 2012; Struthers and Peden-

McAlpine 2005). Indigenous methodologies are a range of practices that structure non-Western knowledge and worldviews into project design and data collection and interpretation. Integration of Indigenous worldviews and successful collaboration in archaeological practice, however, has been mixed. Archaeologists are still working on how best to weave field and lab practices with

Indigenous knowledge (Atalay et al. 2014; Cipolla and Quinn 2016; Jordan 2016). Several researchers have called for movement away from critique and observed there has yet to be a sea change in the way archaeology is practiced (Atalay et al. 2014:10). How knowledge is created in archaeology, who creates it, and who benefits from that knowledge remain necessary reflections in the discipline.

Within this larger discussion, archaeologists also grapple with the challenges and potential of broad, comparative approaches using big data. Database projects such as

FAUNMAP and FaunAZ (Graham 1994; Pavão-Zuckerman et al. 2011), and digital data Mathwich 96 repositories such as tDAR and Open Context encourage analysts to share data with larger communities of researchers. Data sharing has thus spurred calls for greater standardization, and an awareness of the ethical and practical problems associated with data sharing (Atici et al. 2013;

Cooper and Green 2016; Hauser 2012; Kansa and Kansa 2013). Differences in data collection, such as butchering and portion documentation, and variability among analysts has long been an issue in zooarchaeology, and thus aggregated data sets can exacerbate these issues (LeFebvre and

Sharpe 2018; Lyman 2008; Peres 2010).

The development of large databases nonetheless offers the opportunity to both rethink the standards of data collection, and to engage with community stakeholders in new ways. Instead of tracking down reports, scholarly journals, and archives, Indigenous researchers can now access original data in large databases and collect and interpret data in projects guided by non-Western perspectives. One hopes that accessibility will lead to greater engagement and conversations about data sensitivity and incorporation of new collection methods. However, decades of older data must continue to be brought into shared digital databases. Legacy data were collected by various researchers at different points in time in the discipline’s history, and bring with them all the assumptions from those periods. The data archaeologists collect remain its most powerful tool, and are foundational to the culture of the discipline. While archaeology continues to wrestle with decolonizing archaeological practice, there continues to be a tendency to cleave to the original categories used by the analyst. Practical possibilities for reinterpretation of legacy data must include reevalution of basic levels of organization.

New chronologies

The way time is delineated and the creation of chronologies is a formative aspect of archaeological research. Accurate chronologies chart the emergence and dissipation of cultural Mathwich 97 developments and serve as the foundation for further interpretation. Intellectual communities, including archaeologists, assign categorical time units to aid analysis and discussion. While the practice is not problematic in and of itself, time categories may create artificial barriers to new interpretations. The reification of boundaries in practice mutes new conversations, particularly with groups outside of the field. Cultural differences in the organization of time intervals may amount to a type of colonialism (Rifkin 2017). Chronologies are a consistent feature of archaeological data collection, particularly in legacy data, but their organization and delineation can embed problematic assumptions about Native American interactions with colonists and

Western goods.

The prehistoric-historical archaeology divide in North American has been issue of ongoing debate and methodological review (Scheiber and Mitchell 2010). The historical period marks the appearance of European plants, animals, objects, and pathogens, but these are materialist definitions of the period concerned with the interpretative potential of these artifacts.

The historical period is a moving target because contact between Europeans and Indigenous groups occurred earlier than some of these signature materials appeared at sites. In other cases, introduced materials and animals appeared before direct contact, traveling through Indigenous trade networks before face-to-face contact with Europeans (Mitchell 2015). Indigenous groups across North America have extensive oral traditions, many of which do not mark a break between the “prehistoric” and “historic.” In the Pimería Alta, various O’odham oral histories mark the arrival of the Spanish but view the events of the colonial period within their longer history (Bahr 1994; Loendorf and Lewis 2017). Lightfoot and Martinez (1995) noted over two decades ago that the divide between historical and prehistoric periods was artificial at best

(Lightfoot and Martinez 1995; Silliman 2012). At worst, the division of the periods as two Mathwich 98 separate fields of study disconnects contemporary Indigenous peoples from their precontact ancestors. Alienation from the past has political ramifications for legal claims to land and cultural objects (Panich and Schneider 2014). For the most part, archaeologists recognize the artificiality of the boundary, and the limitations of binaries inherent in terms such as “precontact” and “postcontact” (Schneider 2015b; Silliman 2005). Yet, researchers persist in separating historical from prehistoric materials for methodological reasons.

Methodological segregation

Researchers have asked different types questions of historical and prehistoric sites, and as a result, data collection and analysis follow consistent divisions and cannot always be compared easily. Methods should fit research goals, and certain aspects of globalized economies, such as prices, pair well with materialist studies. Prices of ceramics, materials, and meat cuts have all been used to understand the effects of consumer choice and international trade (Baugher 2010;

Day 2008; Majewski and Schiffer 2001; Scott 1994). Prices and costs used in this way make sense in contexts with currencies of the time. Meat cut prices, however, will likely not shed light on Paleoindian hunter-gatherer economics. Conversely, re-fitting bones identifies activity areas at early prehistoric sites, but this tool is of limited utility in historical assemblages where there can be over 30,000 specimens or where meat cuts are distributed through markets. The exclusiveness of these methods exacerbate the differences between societies and their levels of social complexity, concealing interactions between states and hunter-gatherers and transitional periods.

Methodological exclusiveness exaggerates the conception that capitalist contexts possess an aura of historical exceptionalism. Some scholars argue the Industrial Revolution, driven by

European colonialism, marked the beginning of a new geological epoch called the Anthropocene Mathwich 99

(Crutzen 2006). The challenge for archaeologists, with their long view of history, is where to draw the start line of the Anthropocene. Humans have altered their environment for thousands of years (Crosby 2004; Folke 2006; Graybill et al. 2006; Thompson et al. 2013; Smith and Zeder

2013; Szabo 2015). The underlying question is whether or not the past 250 years are drastically different enough from the previous centuries or millennia to warrant special methodological treatment in the majority of cases. The continued segregated treatment of materials from global economies and smaller societies contributes to the maintenance of the prehistoric/historic divide.

The Pimería Alta as a case study

The Santa Cruz River Valley offers an excellent case to examine the possibilities of desegregating methods and chronologies through the combination of prehistoric and historic datasets. In this region, the Spanish were present in low numbers for many decades, making population replacement less pronounced than other parts of New Spain, and social dynamics such as raiding existed prior to Spanish presence. O’odham groups lived in the valley continuously before and after the foundation of missions and presidios, under both Mexican and

Anglo political control of the valley.

The continuity of O’odham occupation of the valley from the prehistoric to the historic periods frames the analysis of this case study of zooarchaeological assemblages in the Santa

Cruz River Valley. O’odham groups had subsistence and hunting practices that, while dynamic and responsive, were well-adapted to local ecological conditions. If subsistence was the only consideration, there would be very little incentive to alter time-tested hunting practices. If

O’odham groups were conservative in their subsistence strategies, then they would be slow to integrate pastoral practices. Following the foundation of the missions, the transition from reliance on lagomorphs (Dean 2003) toward livestock would be gradual, if present at all. Wild Mathwich 100 animals would be present in greater proportions than in later parts of the colonial period.

Alternatively, if colonial market demands for livestock and grazing introduced new ecological and social disruptions, additional pressures would be placed upon traditional O’odham hunting and labor. This would increase settlements’ reliance on livestock and decrease reliance on wild animals, resulting in a more rapid shift in animal use. Greater homogeneity in genera frequency might be visible as two different subsistence practices coexisted and became entangled—Spanish agropastoral practices and O’odham agricultural and gathering practices. If one pattern of animal use becomes more prevalent over time, there might be a corresponding change in the distribution and diversity of taxa. A few animals would form the bulk of later assemblages, resulting in decreasing levels of genera richness, as well as a decrease in lagomorphs in proportion to other categories through time.

Methods

This chapter compares taxonomic data from zooarchaeological analysis using the

Shannon-Weaver Index and the Artiodactyl Index. The analyzed site assemblages span a wide range of periods from AD 500–1912 in the Santa Cruz River Valley. The archaeofauna assemblages examined here come from 31 sites with 46 periods and cultural contexts (Appendix

A). The study sample was limited to sites within a single drainage with shared ecological zones.

All of the sites were excavated and sifted through ¼” screen mesh. Some sites did have portions that had been screened with finer mesh or flotation, however for comparison in this analysis, these specimens were excluded.

The range spans the prehistoric Pioneer phase through the American Territorial period

(Majewski and Jelinek 2017) (Figure 5.1). Sites were selected based on period, proximity to the

Santa Cruz River, and data quality. O’odham groups lived in river valleys across southern Mathwich 101

Arizona, and they primarily interacted with the Spanish in Sonora. The Santa Cruz River Valley represents the northernmost extent of colonial settlements, but the data set gathered here was likely influenced by multiple cultural interactions. Multiple groups lived in and migrated through the Santa Cruz River Valley prior to Spanish, Mexican, and Anglo presence (Lyons and Clark

2008). Anglo and Mexican households dating to the American Territorial period were included along with mission, presidio, and Hohokam sites to capture the full breadth of human-animal interactions in the valley. The modern Tohono O’odham Nation emerged from these historical interactions, and the Nation considers the Santa Cruz River Valley as part of their traditional Mathwich 102 lands (McIntyre et al. 2008).

Santa Cruz River Valley Site Timeline

AZ BB:13:401(ASM) AZ BB:13:13(ASM) AZ BB:13:117(ASM) AZ BB:13:505 (ASM) AZ BB:13:160(ASM) AZ BB:13:13(ASM) AZ DD:8:3(ASM) AZ BB:13:16 (ASM) AZ BB:13:13(ASM) AZ DD:8:3(ASM) AZ EE:9:1(ASM) AZ BB:13:14 (ASM) AZ AA:12:57 (ASM) AZ BB:13:68 (ASM) AZ AA:12:10(ASM) AZ AA:12:120 (ASM AZ BB:13:15 (ASM) AZ AA:12:57 (ASM) AZ AA:12:384 (ASM) AZ AA:12:285 (ASM) AZ AA:12:484 (ASM AZ AA:12:149(ASM) AZ AA:12:285 (ASM) 0 500 1000 1500 2000 2500

Figure 5.1. Timeline of Santa Cruz Valley sites in analysis. Time designations prior to AD 1690 come from ceramic seriation cross-referenced with radiocarbon and dendrochronological methods. After 1690, date ranges were based on artifact styles and written documents about site occupation.

The data sources from prehistoric sites came from published reports and the Hohokam

Faunal Database (Dean 2003). NISP (Number of Identified Specimens) is the primary quantitative unit for this analysis. Using published data from site reports and publications, I took Mathwich 103 the authors’ reported NISP (Number of Identified Specimens) for species, analysis categories, and genera.

NISP is consistently reported primary data among analysts, however there is variation in how NISPs are calculated. Common variations include which taxonomic levels are incorporated in totals, how isolated teeth are counted compared to teeth found in situ in the maxilla or mandible, and how cross-mended specimens(two bone fragments that fit together and were part of the same element) are counted (Lyman 2008). Researchers’ access to comparative collections and skill level varied as well. A great deal of analyst variation originates from size categories used for unidentifiable mammals and birds. These higher taxonomic categories were excluded from the analysis. I accommodated researcher differences by using the more conservative taxonomic category of genera for the indices instead of individual species. A genus consists of several species grouped by shared, diagnostic characteristics. Members of a genus are closer to each other in their characteristics than they are to other genera and often share the same broad adaptive zone. If specimens were tentatively identified (“c.f.” from the Latin confere), they were conservatively assigned to the next highest taxonomic level.

Dean (2003, 2005) noted that artiodactyl bone tools such as awls, hairpins, and antler flakers may be curated rather than thrown in food dumps and further suppress measures of foraging efficiency. The focus on subsistence rather than tool use means that worked bone tools were excluded from this analysis. Shell in archaeological contexts raises a similar issue. There is a long tradition of Hohokam and O’odham visits to the Sea of Cortez (Mitchell and Foster 2000).

Imported marine species are often present at Santa Cruz River sites because of their value as a raw material for jewelry and other items. Mollusk shell, primarily from saltwater species from Mathwich 104 the Sea of Cortez and California coast, were present throughout all periods but are not included in the analyses because they do not reflect local subsistence.

Measuring diversity

The animal genera present at colonial sites arrived there as a result of human activity.

Knowing the diversity of species at a place and time provides information about the type and intensity of human activities in a given period. Biological diversity can be measured through various methods but should consider the abundance of a particular species as well as the evenness of the sampled community. Abundance refers to the number of individuals of the same taxon present in a sample. Taxonomic evenness refers to how close in numbers each species in an environment is to other taxa. A standard way to evaluate diversity is the Shannon Index (SI), or Shannon-Weaver Index. The index was originally developed for research in information science, but since has been applied widely in ecology and zooarchaeology. This index takes into account taxonomic abundance, or number of taxa in a sample, and the proportion, or evenness of a taxon in relation to other taxa in the sample (Biofilms and Biodiversity 2015; Lyman

2008:192). The Shannon-Weaver index thus gives a relative measure of heterogeneity. The index is calculated as:

where Pi is the proportion of a (P) taxon in an assemblage and is then multiplied by the natural log of pi. and summed together for the index (Lyman 2008:192). A higher value of the index would mean that many taxa are present in more equal proportions. If livestock figure more into colonial subsistence, these animals will comprise a much higher proportion of the assemblage of

NISP, making for a more uneven or heterogeneous distribution, and resulting in a lower Shannon index value (SI) consistently at historical sites. Mathwich 105

Beyond the original differences in data collection, researchers’ approaches early in the analysis toward how data are cleaned and how certain categories are interpreted shape later fine- scale interpretations such as age at death, taxon proportions, and butchering (Atici et al. 2013,

Lyman 2008). For these reasons I have tried to be as explicit as possible in my decision-making and provide the rationales behind the exclusion of data from this analysis.

Artiodactyl Index

The relationship between artiodactyls and lagomorphs in the Southwest has long interested zooarchaeologists, and reflects an important aspect of prehistoric hunting and landscape use (Dean 2007; Schollmeyer and Coltrain 2010; Szuter 1991a). The artiodactyl

(artiodactyl/lagomorph) index is an important proxy for shifts in hunting intensity in western

North America (Broughton et al. 2007; Dean 2001; Reynolds 2012; Szuter 1991). Most wild animals exploited for food in the Santa Cruz Valley after the Paleoindian period were smaller than deer (Dean 2001). The artiodactyl index (AI) measures changes in foraging efficiency and can serve as an indication of resource depression from climate or human-induced changes to environments (Broughton 2002; Szuter 1991). AI is calculated as:

∑

∑ ( )

AI is essentially the percentage of artiodactyl remains in a combined pool of artiodactyl and lagomorph remains from the same archaeological site and horizon. The AI produces a value between 0 and 1. Higher values indicate larger proportions of artiodactyls to lagomorphs, while lower values indicate greater proportions of smaller-bodied lagomorphs. Eurasian livestock were reportedly treated like wild animals and hunted in the Pimería Alta for a number of decades after their introduction (Bolton and Kino 1919; Officer 1993). Cattle and horses could survive in a Mathwich 106 feral state and thus be hunted as prey animals. For that reason, AI is used in order to structure the analysis without the assumption that Eurasian domesticates were always treated differently from native fauna. In this study, I used the AI as a marker of socio-ecological shifts in subsistence, a demarcation of both political and ecological change.

Results

In statistics, larger samples often capture rarer events. The larger the area sampled, the more likely it is a rare species will be present in the assemblages. Sample size thus affects the composition of assemblages, with rarer species appearing more frequently in larger assemblages.

In this case, however, neither index seemed particularly affected by total sample size (Figures

5.2 and 5.3). The largest samples from all periods have SI and AI values comparable to samples half the size. Using Pearson correlations, NISP had no correlation with the SI (0.087) and only a weak, positive correlation with the AI (0.27) (Table 5.1). SI is more sensitive to the overall shape of the distribution, and it is less affected by sample size variation. Smaller prehistoric assemblages tended to have higher AI values, indicating that larger assemblages had more lagomorphs in relation to artiodactyls (Dean 2003). The Hohokam sites from the database were agricultural and residential sites in the Santa Cruz River Valley, where garden hunting and rabbit drives were locally common. Artiodactyl hunts required stalking and travel, leading to decisions to leave more of the butchered animal at hunting sites, and likely contributed to greater proportions of lagomorphs in large residential assemblages.

Table 5.1. Pearson correlations

NISP Shannon-Weaver 0.087 Artiodactyl 0.27 Mathwich 107

NISP vs. Shannon Index 2 1.8 1.6 1.4 1.2 1 Prehistoric 0.8 0.6 Historical 0.4 Shannon-Weaver Index Shannon-Weaver 0.2 0 0 2000 4000 6000 8000 10000 12000 14000 NISP

Figure 5.2. NISP plotted with the SI.

NISP vs. Artiodactyl Index 1.2

0.8

0.6 Prehistoric 0.4 Historical Artiodactyl Index Artiodactyl 0.2

0 0 2000 4000 6000 8000 10000 12000 14000 NISP

Figure 5.3. NISP plotted with the AI.

Index by period

Two clear AI chronological groupings appear across time (Figure 5.4). The Spanish colonial, Mexican, and American fauna all have high AI values and cluster together. While the

Spanish colonial sites have lower AI values than the other historical sites, prehistoric values Mathwich 108 never exceed 0.52, approximately half lagomorphs and half artiodactyls. Artiodactyl usage throughout the seventeenth century appears to be substantially higher than all earlier periods. The

SI values of historical sites have similar SI values to the prehistoric sites, and similar range. In general, lower SI values indicate lower diversity in both the number of taxa and evenness of each category. The greater homogeneity in some American Territorial sites may be attributable to the representation of fewer species, but who are present in more equal proportions.

Artiodactyl Index vs. Shannon Index 2 Pioneer 1.8

1.6 Colonial

1.4 Sedentary 1.2

1 Classic

0.8 Shannon Index Shannon Spanish colonial 0.6 Spanish and Mexican 0.4

0.2 Mexican and American Territorial 0 American Territorial 0 0.2 0.4 0.6 0.8 1 Artiodactyl Index

Figure 5.4. AI plotted against SI.

In eighteenth-century assemblages, there is a major increase in the relative abundance of artiodactyls relative to the prehistoric period. Sites dating before AD 1450 have a higher abundance of lagomorphs with a general upward trend in both artiodactyl use and assemblage diversity as measured by SI (Figures 5.5 and 5.6). AI values in the AD 1700s group tightly near a value of 1 and reflect very high proportions of artiodactyls, predominately cattle and sheep. AI Mathwich 109 values cluster especially tightly after 1700, because lagomorphs are virtually absent from assemblages. Faunas are dominated overwhelmingly by Eurasian domesticates by this period.

Shannon Index over time 2 1.8 1.6 1.4 1.2 Prehistoric 1 Historical 0.8 Linear (Prehistoric) Shannon Index Shannon 0.6 0.4 Linear (Historical) 0.2 0 0 200 400 600 800 1000 1200 1400 1600 1800 2000 Years (A.D.)

Figure 5.5. SI through time.

Artiodactyl Index over time 1.2

0.8 Prehistoric 0.6 Historical 0.4 Linear (Prehistoric)

0.2 Linear (Historical) Artiodactyl Index Artiodactyl

0 0 200 400 600 800 1000 1200 1400 1600 1800 2000 Years (AD)

Figure 5.6. AI through time.

Genera diversity varies more after AD 1780 than in the long prehistoric period before it

(Figure 5.7). A drop is observable in the average SI value in the Mexican period, but there are site identification issues to consider (Figure 5.8). The transfer of Spanish to Mexican political Mathwich 110 control of the Santa Cruz River Valley may represent a historical event, but the material culture of the 1820s to 1852 is rarely distinguishable from late mission and early American territorial contexts. Only one report identified a faunal assemblage from Mexican period context in the

Santa Cruz Valley, which lasted from the 1820s to 1852. This small sample likely is behind the drop in average SI value. Later American Territorial period faunas have various domestic birds such as chickens and turkeys, as well as wild water fowl and native freshwater fish.

Average of Shannon Index 1.4 1.2 1 0.8 0.6 0.4 0.2 0 Pioneer Colonial Sedentary Classic Spanish Spanish and Mexican and American colonial Mexican American Territorial Territorial

Figure 5.7. Average SI value by period.

Mathwich 111

Figure 5.8. Average AI value by period.

Discussion

While there was cultural variation among Euro-American populations, Spanish colonial sites were more similar to later Mexican and American Territorial patterns of animal use. Early mission sites and subsequent periods have high proportions of artiodactyls, all over 0.5. Site occupations older than the early mission period do not have AI values higher than 0.5. The SI values demonstrate that sample size did not affect the diversity, and so the changes observed in

AI are not based on sample size alone. The differences between artiodactyl and lagomorph use prior to and following the arrival of Spanish missionaries are stark nonetheless, and suggest livestock quickly found a place in O’odham landscape use in the Santa Cruz River Valley.

I argue that the shift toward artiodactyl use in the colonial period, represents a systemic state-shift in subsistence. This may be a case where a system was not resilient and collapsed. The shape of the transition reflects that of a critical transition, or threshold, which is a tipping point where conditions cause a shift in the stability of a complex system. Regime shifts in ecological systems can be caused by an external shock or, alternatively, a gradual pressure that pushes the system into a critical transition (Scheffer et al. 2012). Instead of adapting slowly to the Mathwich 112 introduction of livestock, the O’odham experienced a tipping point toward a new regime of human-animal interaction, which converged on a new, stable subsistence pattern. State shifts such as these typically occur in highly connected, interdependent systems, which are locally resistant to change (Figure 5.9). For perspective, it is important to highlight that state shifts of this kind are not observed in all colonial contexts.

Figure 5.9. The connectivity and homogeneity of the units affect the way systems respond to changing conditions. Networks in which the components differ (are heterogeneous) and where incomplete connectivity creates modules have a higher adaptive capacity. While there might be local “losses,” these systems are able to adjust to change more slowly. Highly connected networks, in contrast, repair local losses until conditions reach a critical stress level. At this critical transition, system collapses. Figure 2 from Scheffer et al. (2012:344). The outcomes from the Santa Cruz River Valley correspond generally with those for earlier colonial sites in northern New Mexico but occurred more rapidly. Seventeenth-century

Rio Grande pueblo assemblages after Spanish contact were more similar in species composition Mathwich 113 to Pueblo IV assemblages than to nineteenth century assemblages, although the relative abundance of artiodactyls increased (Jones 2015:5). Jones (2015) examined fauna evenness and the number of taxa at nine sites in the Middle Rio Grande Valley from Pueblo IV through the twentieth century, encompassing the colonial through American periods. This shift in diet toward greater proportions of European livestock occurred more gradually in the Middle Rio Grande

Valley in the late eighteenth and nineteenth century and well over a century after the beginning of Spanish colonization in New Mexico (Jones 2015:7). This progression is consistent with a system comprised of loosely connected, module-like components with higher adaptive capacities

(Scheffer et al. 2012). In the Pimería Alta, a similar increase in artiodactyls was observed, but the transition was swifter.

The contrast between the northern New Mexico and Pimería Alta cases likely emerged from differences in the mobility of native populations in the two regions. Pueblo communities along the Rio Grande lived in large, aggregated farming communities. O’odham and

Euroamericans lived at Spanish colonial and Mexican period sites, but most O’odham lived outside of, or moved away from, the mission quadrangle for part or most of the year and lived in small family groups. These short-term habitations can be difficult to spot archaeologically

(Seymour 2009), as few historical O’odham houses have substantial artifact assemblages, and even fewer contain faunal remains. Small, connected local family groups may have been more susceptible to external shocks than module-like, connected Pueblo villages, but further investigation is needed into the social network dynamics of these communities.

Taphonomic considerations

Systemic explanations are not the only ones to consider for AI shift in the Santa Cruz

River Valley. It is possible that the animals in the mission and presidio middens are only part of Mathwich 114 a larger pattern of prey and landscape use. Thus far, the other half of that pattern has been difficult to locate despite decades of archaeological survey and excavation in the Santa Cruz

River Valley. That does not mean these sites do not exist, but they might be located in areas outside of immediate Spanish influence. Ethnographic accounts indicate that villages in the western part of the Papaguería disposed of deer, bighorn sheep, and javelina bones in separate areas from other refuse (Rea 1998:256). These practices might explain their absence from the residential sites in this analysis. The colonial faunal assemblages likely represent a significant portion of human-animal interactions, but only certain parts of those involving O’odham groups.

The cultural contexts of the bone disposal differ between periods and cultures and may have contributed to the large shift in AI. The Spanish colonial, Mexican, and American

Territorial faunal assemblages came from refuse features such as middens, trash pits, and privies and include sites that are not from O’odham households. The prehistoric assemblages may reflect a wider range of disposal contexts because they come from the total site, including middens, houses, ritual features, and storage pits. This difference might skew eighteenth and nineteenth century assemblages toward subsistence activities of non-O’odham groups in the valley.

Finally, the ecological dynamics of livestock may have influenced the assemblage structures. Wild ungulates tend to avoid areas grazed by cattle and sheep, which may have limited the availability of these animals to hunters. The overall biodiversity of the ecoregion to which the Santa Cruz Valley belongs is quite high, and the variety of mammal species found there is comparable to other regions of the Southwest (Ricketts et al. 1999). Modern studies of livestock and wild ungulates in western North America indicate that wild ungulates and livestock partition grazing seasonally and tend to avoid competition (Ager et al. 2004; Salter and Hudson

1980; Stewart et al. 2002; Torstenson et al. 2006). In addition to economic pressures at colonial Mathwich 115 sites to produce herds, encounters with wild ungulates likely decreased following the introduction of horses, cattle, and sheep.

Lack of systemic resilience and postcolonialism

How does this potential lack of resilience in animal use mesh with the modern reality of

O’odham persistence as a political and cultural community? Systemic collapse as a concept from complexity theory need not undermine political and social claims of Indigenous persistence.

Cultural persistence and systemic resilience should not be equated. The state shift found in this study is more a consequence of the ecological effects of colonial expansion, rather than a marker of change in cultural identity. The ethnographic record demonstrates how livestock became integrated into O’odham hunting, rituals, and social gatherings. While human-animal interactions shifted to a new normal, there appears to be no cultural “break.”

Livestock became incorporated into O’odham life because the animals fulfilled and expanded O’odham dietary needs and promoted social cohesion through feasting, gift-giving, and trade. Most historical evidence points to Tohono O’odham taking up formal cattle ranching at the end of the nineteenth century, but generally at a small scale (Kozak and Lopez 1999; Sayre

1999). Tohono O’odham previous experiences with cattle were extensive but of a different character from modern ranching. Ethnographic accounts confirm both lagomorphs and deer were present in the study area but made up a small part of the twentieth century diet (Castetter

1942:58). However, capturing and butchering jackrabbits and cattle were both communal activities for different native groups throughout the Southwest. Among O’odham groups, men and boys would flush out jackrabbits toward large nets, and other group hunting methods could be used to flush out deer (Szuter 1989:51). Tohono O’odham men also tracked and hunted deer alone, in pairs, and occasionally in larger groups, and took part in rituals associated with Mathwich 116 preparation prior to the hunt (Rea 1998:63). Livestock were introduced into this context of hunting practices. Eurasian animals became integrated into ritual life as payment for shamans, subjects of blessings, and elements of feasts (Rea 1998; Underhill 1946:277).Tohono O’odham identify a malady called devil sickness associated with the mistreatment of horses and cattle, and this spiritual affliction is similar to staying sicknesses which are said to originate from mistreating wild prey animals (Kozak and Lopez 1999).

Grease was valuable to Spanish mining, but it also had trade, dietary, and social value within O’odham communities. Colonial mining markets drove tallow, wool, and hide production in the Pimería Alta and exploited O’odham labor (Pavão-Zuckerman 2011; West 1949), and this pressure accounts for the high frequency of livestock during the colonial period. Grease and protein from livestock were also an important dietary complement to an otherwise plant-based diet. For Akimel O’odham, fats were important for treating leather and covering skin in cold weather, and desert groups historically traded grease with river-based groups (Rea 1998:110). At the missions, Catholic feast days were celebrated by the slaughter of cattle for festivities (Rea

1998:111). The butchering of large animals required multiple people, as did the process of grease rendering. These activities would have brought people together regularly. Ethnographic and historic evidence point toward a continuity in Tohono O’odham hunting and ranching practices.

Conclusions

Periods of time used in archaeology are social constructs and reflect the culture from which they emerged. If not continually reexamined, chronological categories can bias impressions of the past. This chapter examined how key variables in faunal assemblages were distributed through time independent of a prehistoric/historic break. I examined the faunal evidence from prehistoric and historical contexts in the Santa Cruz River Valley. Overall, the AI Mathwich 117 values cluster tightly after 1700, when lagomorphs are virtually absent from assemblages and were virtually replaced by livestock. Spanish colonial sites are more similar to later Mexican and

American Territorial patterns of artiodactyl use than to that of the prehistoric period, likely reflect the shift toward animal husbandry. The faunal assemblages show broadly consistent, multicultural patterns in historical animal use in the Santa Cruz River Valley.

Examining the zooarchaeological data through complexity theory and Indigenous persistence is a practical way to approach large amounts of data while keeping larger issues of inequality and postcolonial perspectives in mind. The next steps in this research will be to explore the changes in species composition over time in other ways, and how these changes relate to measures of diversity and prey importance. Sample size variation does not explain the wide range of SI values across the Santa Cruz River Valley chronology. More Santa Cruz River

Valley faunal analyses from sites from all periods in the chronology would further augment the findings of this study. Future studies should explore the frequency of species with cultural significance or that serve as indicators of landscape use. The AI emphasizes artiodactyls and lagomorphs, but waterfowl appeared in every period surveyed, and it is not clear how wild bird use changed as a result of contact. This study would also benefit from comparisons with other drainage systems and O’odham seasonal camps, to see if the state shift was a local phenomenon at colonial settlements or part of a regional pattern. Historical O’odham camps have not frequently been excavated, and this will be an important future research direction.

Changes to subsistence practices may appear as breaks in the material record, but in daily practice, these changes can be incorporated within traditional logics (Panich 2013; Robinson

2013). This flexible, cultural template is an important component of persistence (Arkush 2011).

In the Santa Cruz River Valley, artiodactyl use after the seventeenth century is dramatically Mathwich 118 different from previous usage. From a material standpoint, there appeared to be drastic subsistence shift in the colonial period. This “break” seems to justify distinct treatment between the “prehistoric” and “historic” periods in the Santa Cruz River Valley. When compared with ethnographic and historical accounts, however, some aspects of O’odham animal use may be missing from the archaeological record. The focus on the break in subsistence practices ignores the well-documented importance of livestock in Tohono O’odham culture and how these animals fit into broader traditions and formed the basis of new ones.

Mathwich 119

CHAPTER 6. MISSION RECORDS AND O’ODHAM LANDSCAPE USE

Indigenous negotiations of Spanish colonialism in North America are more complex than models of domination and resistance can alone reveal. Indigenous populations experienced different forms of European colonialism, ranging from religious missions to military garrisons.

As Rubertone (2012) notes, a twentieth-century historical archaeology focused on colonial settlements. By overlooking the persistence of links to cultural landscapes, researchers potentially miss connections of past practices to cultural landscapes practices to historical-period cultural that persist today. In other words, colonial sites are only one part of the story.

Outside the adobe walls

Recent research directed toward refuges, hinterlands, and groups on the fringes of colonized regions has aimed to elucidate the effects and responses to colonialism within a broader landscape (Montgomery 2015; Schneider 2015b; Silliman 2008; Sunseri 2014).

Substantial consideration has been given to continuity of beliefs, practices, and identities.

Stimulated by postcolonial critiques and decolonizing methodologies (Atalay 2006; Colwell-

Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008; Oland et al. 2012; Watkins 2005), approaches that center on native peoples within archaeology generate more nuanced theoretical and methodological applications and long-term collaborations. As part of the effort to include more Indigenous perspectives, research emphasis can be relocated to the larger cultural landscape. I use cultural landscapes following the usage from Zedeño (1997:71) where cultural landscapes are spatial units that result from cumulative use of resources through time, incorporating less-bounded uses such as trade routes, oral traditions, and shrines. These broader definitions of cultural landscapes put researchers in a better position to study how colonialism fit into the Indigenous imagination and interaction with places. Mathwich 120

This chapter focuses on the inventive and persistent relationship between native peoples and cultural landscapes. I employ a resilience framework to understand how Tohono O’odham in the Pimería Alta integrated traditional and colonial rituals and labor demands into their annual cycles during Spanish missionization (ca. AD 1685–1820). Seasonal movement was an important force in the lives of Tohono O’odham as they navigated religious oppression, reducción (bringing small, dispersed settlements to a single mission), and loss of land. Seasonal movement was a sensible ecological strategy that helped diversify risk in food supplies, and in colonialism, it became one way to leave mission communities. Any time away from the missions was a refuge from colonial labor and religious demands and provided opportunities to sustain traditional subsistence and cultural practices. Colonial refuges can be loosely defined as places sought by people to avoid or limit contact with colonists and their allies on a temporary or permanent basis. The challenge becomes identifying those times of year from historical sources.

Here, I examine mission register entries from nine colonial sites in the Pimería Alta, and discuss how the frequency of event recording may reflect the presence and absence of native peoples at the mission sites. Absences and clusters of events may in fact indicate the persistence of semi-sedentary movement as well as traditional social gatherings important for the maintenance of communal identity. I suggest that these presences and absences fostered opportunities to integrate traditional and novel economic strategies to cope with colonial pressures. Farming and ritual cycles gleaned from historical documents have great potential to elucidate the connections between Native American communities and their cultural landscapes.

They may also bolster links between modern tribes and their ancestors by identifying the origins of some syncretic practices. Mathwich 121

Resisting binaries

For many years, researchers have examined Native American responses to European colonialism through oppositions, primarily domination and resistance (Schneider 2015b).

Indigenous resistance in archaeology attends to the unexpected examples that diverge from the presumed dominant colonial occupation. In this schema, native peoples are either resisting or losing cultural influence, and the measure is always in relation to European colonialism. This binarity encompasses the broader ways resistance can be practiced (Scott 2000), but fails to capture the local conditions and contingencies that shape historical events. It is also an inadequate framework for understanding the diverse and innovative Indigenous responses to

European colonialism, which range widely from collaboration to avoidance to outright hostility.

The Spanish mission was a conceptual space where commercial interests, the Spanish government, and religious orders projected their hopes for the replication of their economic and spiritual practices. Through the rhythms of feast days, physical confinement of Native

Americans, disease and death, and the threat of violence, missions were used as spaces of domination. Missions were designed to transform Native Americans into European peasants.

This directed aspect of cultural interaction is a defining component of colonialism. Indigenous peoples certainly resisted many of these attempts to control their behavior.

The clearest historical examples of resistance were the uprisings and revolts that occurred at mission sites around Spanish colonial North America (Blair and Thomas 2014; Brenneman

2004; Mills 2007; Salmón 1988). More attention, however, is now being paid to how connections among communities and places influenced participation in resistance actions, and how places reinforced Indigenous identity through traditional foods, materials, and spiritual links. Researchers recognize that Indigenous peoples lived in well-connected and broad cultural Mathwich 122 landscapes. Colonialism in New Mexico and Alta California offer important parallels to the dynamics in the Pimería Alta in this regard.

Conflict and resistance have too often been glossed over in mainstream narratives of

Spanish mission history (Gutfreund 2010; Gutiérrez 2004). Utilizing postcolonial critiques, researchers have begun the process of reassessing historical events and archaeological assemblages from these sites. In New Mexico, reexaminations of the 1680 Pueblo Revolt reveal the social network behind communities’ decisions about whether or not to participate in the uprising (Giomi 2015). Historical Pueblo society did not have a centralized leadership over all communities, and thus the decision to participate and the degree of involvement in the Revolt was shaped by clan, family, and local connections (Liebmann 2012). Alliances and struggle against Spanish incursion into New Mexico were founded on networks built long before the revolt, and these networks are evidenced in materials and oral histories (Dongoske and Dongoske

2007; Preucel 2007; Roberts 2004). Maintenance of alliances required visits, trade and kin ties, which built a high degree of trust reinforced over many years. The 1680 Revolt was a powerful moment in New Mexican history, but it was made possible by the actively maintained social relations. After the Reconquest, Spanish colonists and Pueblo tribes engaged in a lengthy, daily negotiation where they worked, traded, and lived together for centuries. The resultant communities went beyond resistance and compartmentalization of Pueblo beliefs toward the

“Pueblofication” of Spanish culture (Brown 2013). In order to understand acts of resistance, researchers must first understand the long-term patterns of movement and connections among

Indigenous groups.

Archaeological research on the colonial period in Alta California has shifted to areas outside of the mission quadrangle and surrounding areas of refuge (Allen 2010; Panich and Mathwich 123

Schneider 2014; Schneider 2015a). At California missions, native groups who entered mission communities faced a variety of hardships, such as epidemic disease, forced labor, and corporal punishment. Schneider argues that the focus on the severity of these challenges, however, places native Californians in a state of fixed opposition to Spanish efforts and leaves little room to examine actions without reference to colonialism (Schneider 2015b:697). Certain social complexities are ignored within the resistance narrative, such as the creation of refuge communities and missionary-sanctioned time away from missions known as paseos (Arkush

2011). Setting up native peoples in continual antagonism to European colonialism misses important local dynamics (Schneider 2015b).

Postcolonial theory has been the primary way of addressing archaeologies of colonialism over the past few decades (Deagan 2015; Jordan 2016; Panich 2010; Silliman 2012; Sunseri

2014). Critiques of these approaches, however, note that postcolonial research tends to downplay conflict and slavery among colonized peoples (Acabado 2016). The colonial structure permitted acquisition of authority outside of traditional Indigenous hierarchies, and Spanish missions and presidios could bolster or weaken Indigenous adversaries. Missionaries appointed native negotiators, translators, and officials, providing men in mission communities with new powers that bypassed traditional paths to authority. In New Mexico and Alta California, soldiers and native warriors also fought together against the shared threat of raiders on horseback. Alliances and friendships among the Spanish and some Tohono O’odham groups emerged during the eighteenth century (Martínez 2013), even as other O’odham and Athabaskan groups continued to raid colonial sites. Postcolonial mission archaeology therefore must move toward research models that can encompass Indigenous autonomy within the broader cultural landscape (Panich and Schneider 2015), without perpetually referencing European colonialism. Mathwich 124

Colonial refuges

Refuges and movement away from colonial communities were a common response, and examples are found in many times and places. These cases range from the formation of villages by runaway African slaves to camps of refugees who have fled from political or environmental upheavals (Graham et al. 1989; Langfur 2002; Panich 2010; Price 1996; Schneider 2015b; Usner

1992; White 2017). Schneider (2015b:699) defines refuges as “familiar and unfamiliar places, such as villages and other landscape features, to which people return to evade and maintain physical separation from persecution.” The physical separation and the departure as a response to outside pressures are both parts of this definition.

Colonial refuges permitted Indigenous practices which missionaries prohibited.

Traditional practices fostered social interactions that helped perpetuate an interlinked cultural landscape. Visits to sacred places are still an integral part of modern Native American identity in the Southwest (Ferguson and Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2006; Zedeño 1997). The resilience of traditional communities in the face of disruption and a community’s ability to reproduce its culture relate to how closely tied it is to a specific place, as place links both subsistence and spiritual practices (Gaillard 2007). Thus, the capacity for resilience is correlated with access to cultural landscapes. Colonial refuges, as part of this cultural landscape, became a component of the resilience and survival of Indigenous cultures.

Subsistence-based seasonal movement had both pragmatic and religious importance.

Resources became available at different times of year, and some physical movement occurs even in agricultural societies that are considered sedentary. The mission was geographically limited but belonged to a larger cultural landscape. In the Pimería Alta, I argue that seasonal movement of mission-connected people should be considered a periodic form of refuge from colonialism. Mathwich 125

While in other contexts, subsistence practices and survival would be considered through an economic lens, in the colonial Pimería Alta, absences from communities occupied by the missions take on new meanings. As disease decreased the size of Indigenous communities in the

Southwest, communities were forcibly removed from their settled areas to other mission sites or went independently in response to threats of raids. Spanish officials often complained about the persistent nomadic practices of mission Indians, not understanding that Spanish policy went against desert subsistence strategies (Radding 1997:156).

Seasonal landscapes in the Pimería Alta

The desert dwelling O'odham speakers, whom the Spanish referred to as “Papago,” lived in a two-village system, shifting from summer to winter villages, which were located near permanent springs (Fontana and Schaefer 1989). This information about two-village systems originates from modern and historical ethnographic information and may not reflect past conditions. The water table was significantly higher prior to the twentieth century and water storage features were more extensive in the past (Bayman 1997). More water may have enabled the existence of more or larger single-village communities and allowed for more sedentary agricultural communities in the colonial period than observed in the twentieth century. Work in in the west of the Santa Cruz River Valley, in what the Spanish called the Papagueria has found prehistoric evidence of prehistoric two-village occupations (Altschul and Rankin 2008). While larger water features could have supported more sedentary prehistoric occupation, two-village seasonal movement was an important strategy for ancestral O’odham.

While only some groups may have relocated seasonally, many collected seasonal plant resources such as mesquite beans, goosefoot, prickly pear, cholla buds, agave, acorns, and saguaro fruit. Saguaro fruit, for example, ripen just before the monsoon in late June (Table 6.1). Mathwich 126

Harvesting saguaro involves a group leaving the rancheria to visit stands of saguaro. The fruit was then collected and fermented in order to produce an alcoholic beverage. This beverage was imbibed as part of ceremonies at the end of June to bring down the monsoon rains. The O'odham continued saguaro harvests throughout the colonial period (Kessell 1970), and the practice persists into the twenty-first century. In colonial mission records, one would then expect to see a drop in late June in recorded births, deaths, and marriages during the saguaro harvest as people left the missions to collect fruit. Other important times of year were the July planting and harvest of maize and tepary beans (primarily in October) (see Error! Reference source not found.).

Table 6.1. Sonoran Desert harvesting times from (Hodgson 2001).

Species Harvest time Mesquite (Prosopis spp.) Mid-late June-September Prickly pear (Opuntia spp.) August-September Desert Ironwoods (Olneya June-July tesota) Cholla (Cylindropuntia spp.) April-May Saguaro (Carnegiea Late June gigantea) Amaranthus spp. May-June Tepary beans (Phaseolus October spp.) Maize (60 day with monsoon October rains)

Seasonal movements were and continue to be important to keep a connection to places and to meet annual subsistence needs in a context of uneven local precipitation. Irrigation is one way to mitigate that unevenness. Another way to hedge bets is to move to other areas and plant crops in different washes. Gathering wild plant seeds and fruits reduce dependence on agricultural products. Doing all these activities ultimately spreads risk and offers flexibility when one resource fails in a particular year. Arable washes and patches of seeds and fruits are not evenly distributed on the landscape. These resources ripen at different rates, and require Mathwich 127 movement to patches. Washes and irrigated fields need maintenance as well, as the violence of the summer rains can wash away planted seedlings or irrigation structures, requiring replanting and rebuilding. If the conditions were favorable, fields could be planted twice. Planting and harvesting must thus be staggered from late June to November and these activities require travel and work. Over the course of a year, O’odham had to leave the mission communities to gather, hunt, plant, monitor fields, and collect the harvest. The question I seek to answer in this chapter is whether or not those movements are visible in the mission records?

Mission registers

Over the past decade, the National Park Service at Tumacácori National Historic Park has digitized many Southwestern mission records to aid historical and genealogical research. Mission records were used to explore the broad demographic patterns in the Pimería Alta between the

1690s and 1848 (Jackson 1982) and the effects of the Jesuit Expulsion on the mission economy in Sonora (Radding 1997). Historians and genealogical researchers rely on church registers for ancestry and demographic information. Church register metadata (e.g., month and day) have shed light on the seasonal experiences of people in the past (Burgess 2006, 1988; Hutton 2005).

This application has been primarily limited to historians, but archaeologists are now applying it alongside archaeological data (Schneider 2015a).

Metadata are simply data about other data. In contemporary terms, metadata may be the server from which an email was sent, the time signature of a text, the file’s size, or the last time a database entry was edited. Metadata are not primary pieces of information but are used to search or contextualize the primary data.

Mission registers record culturally important events in Catholic and Spanish cultures.

Baptisms, marriages, and last rites/burials represent three of the seven spiritual sacraments Mathwich 128 administered by the Roman Catholic Church. What these Catholic rituals meant to the O'odham living at missions is not entirely clear. Their relationship to these rituals was likely complex, with layered, multiple meanings, as in other parts of the Spanish borderlands based on historical and ethnographic observation (Liebmann 2015; Spicer 1962). What is apparent from mission records is that these events required a community member and a priest officiant. Multiple people are listed on each record of these events: baptisms needed parents and godparents; marriages required the bride and groom and at least two witnesses; burials required a recorder who had witnessed the death. These events also needed certain ritual materials in addition to the presence of a priest. Deaths, births, and marriages could, theoretically, occur throughout the year. As I will show in the following results, however, mission events were recorded in higher frequencies at certain times of the year.

Methods

The mission records used in this study were compiled into a relational database by

Tumacácori National Historic Park. Researchers and volunteers gathered these data from multiple archives located in Spain, Sonora, Chihuahua, California, and Arizona (National Park

Service 2015). The relational database containing the compiled information was provided to me by the park rangers as Microsoft Excel tables. I used Microsoft Access to reestablish relations between tables. I then used the relational database to generate the summary information and analyses presented below.

The Mission 2000 database contains information on 10,023 events, and 27,918 individuals were identified as participants in those events. In the database, 98.8% of the events fall into the categories of marriage, burial, or baptism. The NPS database also includes 23 events that do not fall under the categories of marriage, burial, and baptism, or are a variation of other Mathwich 129 kinds of rare events (1.2%), and these were excluded from the analysis. Multiple actors were listed at each event because of Church requirements for witnesses, but it is likely that all the family and friends who were present were not recorded. For example, each baptism involved the priest, the parents, and the sponsor or godparent. The same priest often oversaw multiple events in the same day, which implies a larger gathering. Because I was interested in participation, my study counts the number of recorded individuals involved at each event as well as the number of events.

Participation is one of the major units of analysis because it reflects a gathering of individuals. If a high count of participants occurred in certain months or clustered around certain days, that may indicate a gathering or feast situation. By grouping or concatenating events, priests made more efficient use of their time and those of the community. The result is that there are many repetitive participants in the query, mostly priests. One priest at Guevavi, Jose de

Torres Perea of Guevavi, oversaw 109 marriages, burials, and baptisms between 1721 and 1744 at sites throughout the region. Torres Perea conducted 7 baptisms on January 7, 1742, meaning that he is represented 7 times in the database, but 22 other people were involved that day as parents, the baptized, and godparents. Because priests had to be present for these rituals, they are overrepresented in the participation query. To correct for this, I removed priests from the analyzed data set. Most people only appear once or twice, and without priests, the average appearance at an event is much lower (Error! Reference source not found.). The averages were the total number of participants divided by total number of events. Marriages were slightly better attended than baptisms and burials. Overall, the removal of priests had little impact on the sample size but removing one person from each event did lower average participation. This, Mathwich 130 however, provides a more accurate reflection of native people’s participation in these Catholic rituals.

Table 6.2. Average number of participants per event.

Average # Average # of Average # of Average # of of # of people participants participants participants participants for all events for baptism for marriage for burial With priests 26,822 1.89 1.66 1.74 1.82 Priests excluded 26,525 1.54 1.40 1.18 1.55

Sites chosen for analysis

The research emphasis of this dissertation is on the experiences of missionized native peoples of the Pimería Alta, and my analysis focused on mission contexts, although other sites were recorded in the database. The majority of mission residents were known to be Indigenous.

Missions were the primary context in which Europeans interacted with Native Americans in the first decades in the Pimería Alta. The consistent presence of missions makes them ideal sites for examining how seasonal movements were affected by reduction policies. Secular towns and mining communities became more common throughout the eighteenth century, and their populations were diverse and included O’odham, Opata, mestizo, and Yaqui. Presidios maintained their own herds and lands but had a distinct military purpose and appeared in the region 60 years after the first missions were established. The missions also represent a “cultural program” for Spanish colonialism, a place where Indigenous peoples’ lives became visible to the colonial government, as major events such as births, sexual partnerships, and deaths were translated into Spanish culture through baptisms, marriages, and burials. Mathwich 131

While the focus is on mission sites, I included one mining town as a point of comparison to see if any of the patterns observed at the missions held up in a more secular, profit-driven setting. At the mining towns, Indigenous peoples lived and worked alongside mestizos and transplants from other parts of the Spanish empire. Travel may not have been as confined in the towns as at the missions, thus there were more possibilities of pronounced absences at certain times of year. The diversity of the population at the mining town of Ciéneguilla, located 90 miles south of the modern international borders in the Altar Valley, may limit the visibility of specifically O'odham movements. The mining town provides a useful contrast to the other sites.

Table 6.3. Summary table of event and participant counts by site.

Site Event Count Participant Count Baptism Burial Marriage Total Baptism Burial Marriage Total Calabazas 35 57 46 138 217 102 122 441 Ciéneguilla 1 6 46 53 6 12 252 270 Cucurpe 114 - - 114 508 - - 508 Guevavi 625 298 227 1150 2663 530 902 4095 Ímuris 33 75 1 109 140 144 3 287 Pitiquito 52 58 39 149 253 128 170 551 San Ignacio de Cabórica 840 649 70 1559 5381 1069 276 6726 Sonoitac 77 78 60 215 319 150 206 675 Tumacácori 514 600 267 1381 2296 1293 1679 5268 Total 2291 1821 756 4868 11783 3428 3610 18821

I selected mission sites based on total participants (>250) and whether or not a site had events recorded for seven or more months. Sites with recorded events seven or more months of the year were chosen because they have over half the year represented, and likely represent sites that a priest visited regularly. This restricted the usable sample from 35 to 9 sites (Table 6.3).

Most sites in the database were listed only a few times, and the statistical tests were not Mathwich 132 appropriate for those smaller sample sizes. I used chi-square analysis to test for the goodness of fit of monthly distributions of events and participation at each of the 9 sites analyzed.

Results

In this study, 4,868 events were attended by over 18,821 recorded participants. The number of events recorded at individual missions varied widely, from 53 to over 2,000. Although the counts of events and participants are related, larger events, such as multi-person baptisms, may be recorded as a single event. The locations of the nine sites in the Pimería Alta are shown in Figure 6.1. The cabeceras San Ignacio and Guevavi have the largest samples. Pitiquito and

Cucurpe have the smallest samples, as they were visitas without a resident priest. These sites were located further south at the southernmost range of the Tohono O'odham traditional lands, and overlap with Opata territory. The best recorded site by far is San Ignacio de Cabórica, which had a priest in occupation consistently throughout the Jesuit and Franciscan administration of the region. Mathwich 133

Figure 6.1. Map of the colonial settlements. Map by Katie MacFarland.

Mathwich 134

Many of the sites listed here do not overlap substantially in time (Error! Reference source not found.2). These records represent a careful gleaning of known, extant records, and the record is spotty at best. Not all records survived over the past three hundred years. The information recorded by priests thus reflects different points in the colonial process. Event recording also depended on factors such as whether a site was a cabecera or visita. Visitas had no resident missionaries, and the missionary at the cabecera would visit periodically or visita residents would come to the cabecera mission. Guevavi and San Ignacio have the highest participant counts because they were cabeceras in the first half of the eighteenth century when the missions were most populous. While the lack of consistent recording at the visitas may affect interpretation of seasonality as specific sites, when gathered together the data form clearer patterns.

Event records timeline

Calabazas Ciéneguilla Cucurpe Guevavi Ímuris Pitiquito San Ignacio Sonoitac Tumacácori

1680 1690 1700 1710 1720 1730 1740 1750 1760 1770 1780 1790 1800 1810 1820

Figure 6.2. Event records timeline.

Next, I tested for the strength and direction of the relationship between sites. Because these data are organized by the ordinal variable of months, I employed the non-parametric

Spearman’s Rank Order correlation to test the strength and direction of relationships between the Mathwich 135 sites’ distributions. Standardized proportions between 0 and 1 for event and participation counts were used to compensate for the different sample sizes. I have separated the correlations into event counts and participation counts (Table 6.4). The intensity of the color signifies the strength of the relationship. Cool blue colors mean the relationship was negative. Warm colors indicate the relationship was positive. The more saturated hue of the color the stronger of the correlation following quartiles: 0.00–0.25; 0.26–0.50; 0.51–0.75; and 0.76–1.0. Guevavi and San Ignacio contribute the largest samples to the study, and thus the have strongest correlations to the total sample. Because these sites have the most events and participants, they have a larger influence on the monthly proportions. Ímuris and Calabazas have relatively weak relationships with the whole sample, meaning that the monthly distribution of events and participants at these sites do not appear to correlate with the whole sample.

Table 6.4. Spearman’s rank order correlation of events and participants

Events

Standardized Spearman's Rank Order Calabazas Ciéneguilla Cucurpe Guevavi Ímuris Pitiquito Ignacio San Sonoitac Tumacácori Total Calabazas 1 Ciéneguilla 0.405 1 Cucurpe 0.162 0.04 1 Guevavi 0.208 0.24 0.032 1 Ímuris -0.41 -0.168 0.146 0.079 1 Pitiquito 0.113 0.081 0.784 0.058 0.079 1 San Ignacio 0.389 0.603 0.627 0.419 0.116 0.513 1 Sonoitac 0.18 0.447 -0.071 0.666 0.172 -0.039 0.413 1 Tumacácori 0.676 0.22 0.471 0.583 -0.054 0.266 0.596 0.263 1 Total 0.388 0.507 0.499 0.711 0.266 0.46 0.89 0.622 0.737 1

Participants

Standardized Spearman's Rank Order Calabazas Ciéneguilla Cucurpe Guevavi Ímuris Pitiquito Ignacio San Sonoitac Tumacácori Total Mathwich 136

Calabazas 1 Ciéneguilla 0.116 1 Cucurpe 0.051 0.291 1 Guevavi 0.325 0.298 0.165 1 Ímuris -0.095 -0.221 0.021 0.17 1 Pitiquito 0.126 -0.007 0.448 -0.098 -0.109 1 San Ignacio 0.028 0.502 0.704 0.53 0.205 0.046 1 Sonoitac -0.039 0.2 -0.123 0.55 0.406 -0.385 0.396 1 Tumacácori 0.306 -0.011 0.13 0.681 0.095 -0.021 0.421 0.27 1 Total 0.267 0.347 0.605 0.747 0.281 0.116 0.874 0.42 0.733 1

It is interesting that Ciéneguilla has a moderately positive relationship to the whole sample and moderately strong correlation with San Ignacio, despite being a mining locale whose purpose and economic activities were distinct from the missions. Pitiquito had the weakest correlation with the overall event sample, but had a moderately positive correlation to the total participation sample. This suggests that event frequency does not necessarily reflect a high participation rate. A visita might have fewer recorded events, but the monthly participation will mirror the broader population sample.

Guevavi had moderately strong positive correlations with Tumacácori and Sonoitac, but not with the site closest to it, Calabazas. When compared to Guevavi, Tumacácori has a similar moderately strong correlation to the whole sample. Tumacácori was a visita of Guevavi, and then became cabecera after Guevavi was abandoned in 1775. The similar correlations between the first cabecera and the subsequent one suggests continuity between the sites. One would also expect a negative correlation between visitas and their cabeceras if pilgrimages occurred and people left visitas to take part in seasonal events like Christmas and Easter at cabeceras. For the most part, however, the correlations between Guevavi/Tumacácori and Calabazas are weak but positive. Because there is no clear negative relationship in this visita and cabecera system and there was only one vista/cabecera that fit the sampling criteria, it is difficult to say if there was a Mathwich 137 negative flow away from the visita. Also, a priest can only be in one place at a time, which would make it difficult to reflect the flow of people out of a visita to the cabecera for something like a festival.

Chi-square tests were conducted on both event and participant samples to test the frequency of each category independently. Chi-square tests the goodness-of-fit to a particular distribution, in this case whether or not the results resemble an even distribution (null hypothesis). The p-values here represent the probability that the samples are the same. For evenness, a p-value greater than 0.05 means that the null hypothesis is supported. Observed values (Oi) came from the counts per month. Expected values (Ei) were generated from the total number of events or participants from each site divided by 12 months. These values were then summed based on the chi-square equation (Figure 6.3. Chi-square equation.

All sites’ distributions were significantly different from an even distribution of events and participants throughout the course of the year. The exception was Tumacácori, which had a p- value of 0.1212, or no statistical difference between the observed distribution and an expected even distribution. This means that for the most part major life events were not recorded evenly throughout the year.

Figure 6.3. Chi-square equation.

Table 6.5. Chi-Square Test: goodness-of-fit to an even distribution. Mathwich 138

Goodness of fit to an even distribution Site Event Participation Calabazas 0.0000 0.0000 Ciéneguilla 0.0244 0.0000 Cucurpe 0.0000 0.0000 Guevavi 0.0000 0.0000 Ímuris 0.0000 0.0000 Pitiquito 0.0000 0.0000 San Ignacio 0.0000 0.0000 Sonoitac 0.0000 0.0000 Tumacácori 0.1212 0.0000 Total 0.0000 0.0000

Finally, on a daily level, some days were busier than others (Figure 6.4). There were upticks in participant counts for major Catholic feast days such as Holy Week in late March and

April. Christmas, and the June 24 Feast of San Juan, which corresponds to the beginning of monsoon season and O’odham rain ceremonies. While the timing of Holy Week changes from year to year, event participation was generally high in April, when 75% of Easter Sundays occur on the Julian calendar. Other upticks in participation appeared to be single, local events. The participant count uptick on December 8 corresponds to the Feast of the Immaculate Conception.

This spike, however, only appears at Guevavi and is almost entirely the result of a mass baptismal event in 1753. A similar baptismal event is behind the uptick in participation on All

Saint’s Day on November 1 at Calabazas in 1759. While major feast days help to explain some aspects of participation frequency, they do not account for the broader observed patterns. Mathwich 139

Figure 6.4. Daily frequency of participants, all sites.

Discussion

Once I visited a neighboring missionary who was indisposed. While I was with him two of his Indians wished to be married. As was customary, the church warden notified the missionary of this fact the evening before the marriage. I was present and the missionary requested me to unite them. The following day I saw with amazement not one, but five couples who asked to be married… (Pfefferkorn 1989:168).

The information recorded by missionaries about the O’odham have a great deal of historical value, but likely overlooked, suppressed, or misunderstood a great deal of Indigenous social life and subsistence strategies. These mission records were created through the perspective of European colonialism (Atalay 2006; Chakrabarty 2000; Chaturvedi 2012; Little 2009).

Historical data in this study form a distinct line of evidence and are often in tension with archaeological data, ethnographic data, and models. The sample sizes make this data set statistically robust. Below, I discuss the observed patterns, and the interpretative limitations of this data set. Mathwich 140

Marriage, births, and deaths ostensibly occurred throughout the year, but it does not necessarily follow that they were recorded immediately after they occurred. I began this study with the assumption that people were going to be born and die and marry independent of the

Church, and that they would report or formalize those events when it was convenient.

Inconvenient times include gathering, planting, and harvesting. Written accounts observe that mission Indians left with relatively frequency (Radding 1997). At Guevavi, for example, residents were known to leave but were often coerced back by priests with the promise of food, gifts, and/or the threat of violence from the presidio captain (Kessell 1970:92). “After Kino’s death, when the people of Guevavi felt the urge for a change of scene or were hungry, they came to [Father] Campos and were baptized and married and fed” (Kessell 1970:34). Kessell made it sound as if Guevavi residents would leave on a whim. Perhaps it seemed that way to the missionaries, however, the mission record data suggest that there were some monthly patterns to the movements of mission residents.

Returning to the question of seasonal movements of the O’odham during the mission period and possible factors that account for their mobility, both Spanish Catholic festivals and local seasonal variables are visible in the documentary record. While the feasts of Saint Francis of Assisi and Saint Francis Xavier were important feast days for the Tohono O’odham people in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries (Fontana and Schaefer 1989:103), the mission registers do not show any corresponding increases in marriages, burials, or baptisms around these times of year. Christmas and Easter appear to have been the most important gathering times for these life- stage events, rather than Catholic feast days or solemnities. The absence of feast days from the event counts in the mission records does exclude the possibility that the Catholic feasts currently celebrated in Tohono O’odham and Sonoran culture were highly attended. Instead, it may mean Mathwich 141 that ceremonies related to birth, death, and marriage were not tied to other Catholic feast day celebrations in the same way that they were linked to Christmas and Easter. This is significant for two reasons: first, the observed pattern demonstrates an emergent syncretism. As different

Catholic feast days took on particular meanings for mission Indians, some days became connected with individual life events. Others such as saints’ feast days may have taken on a more communal meaning and became days to come together as community rather than record an individual marriage or baptism. Mathwich 142

Figure 6.5. Monthly participant count vs. average monthly precipitation

Figure 6.6. Monthly participant count vs. average monthly temperatures.

The observed patterns strongly suggest that the Tohono O’odham fit Easter and

Christmas celebrations into their traditional agricultural and gathering cycles. When the summed monthly participation rate is compared to average temperature and precipitation patterns at Mathwich 143

Tumacácori National Monument (Western Regional Climate Center 2005), the relationship between these holidays and even frequency is clearer (Figures 6.5 and 6.6). Spearman’s Rank

Order correlation was applied to average monthly temperature and average monthly precipitation

(Table 6.6), two variables integral to the planting seasons in the Sonoran Desert. There are moderately strong negative (r = -0.75) correlations between event participation and monthly temperature, and a weak negative correlation with precipitation. The rise in temperature each year corresponds with the ripening of important wild plant foods such as mesquite and saguaro fruit in late May and early June. Participation decreased in June prior to the rains coming in late

June and July. Participation stays low from June until November, and peaks in December.

Christmas celebrations likely contribute to the rise, and participation and event counts increase around December 25. These increases in the winter months could also reflect a two-village movement, where O’odham reside at perennial wells during the winter months.

Table 6.6. Spearman’s Rank Order Correlation of Participant Count and Climate Data. Avg. High Temp. Avg. Low Temp. Avg. Precipitation Participants -0.748 -0.734 -0.35 * From (Western Regional Climate Center 2005)

Temperature, precipitation, and Catholic feast days do not account for all variation, however, and there are likely other cultural or environmental factors at individual sites. One of those factors may be the phenomenon of mass baptisms. These events are visible in the mission records and were an important missionary strategy for impressing and reassuring Spanish officials and religious bureaucrats. Baptisms were also a way to introduce potential neophytes to a short Catholic ceremony. The decisions of Tohono O’odham to receive mass baptism, however, may be a response to disease epidemics (Kessell 1970:38). As traditional practices Mathwich 144 failed to protect communities from epidemic disease, there may have been a willingness to try a different kind of protection.

Seasonal shifts and availability of wild resources nonetheless account for a large component in the frequency and recording of events. These event patterns are most pronounced at sites where the data sets are larger, but even the smaller sites show a moderate positive correlation with the whole sample. When compared to annual weather data from the region, decreases in total event participation show a stronger negative correlation with temperature than precipitation. Temperature is correlated to the ripening of tree pods and cactus fruit. Higher temperatures are also tied to uncomfortable traveling conditions, higher water intake, and agricultural demands. These factors may have discouraged travel to missions for the rites of baptism, marriage, and burials at certain times of year, leading to their postponement.

There are inconsistencies in the data. The correlation of individual sites to the whole sample varied and were not always strong. Other factors, such as community size, priests’ absences, data quality, and multicultural populations with diverse seasonal practices may have affected the recording of events. Despite the strong evidence for seasonality in participation and event occurrence, these factors should be taken into consideration.

Harvesting wild foods required time away from the missions and away from European influence. Viewed through this lens, these intervals may have provided a refuge for traditional activities. Gathering wild foods and visiting family fields reinforced connections to places linked to traditional stories. These times away from the mission environment not only contributed to subsistence and survival, but also helped strengthen ties to cultural landscapes in the Pimería

Alta. In modern disaster contexts, a traditional community’s subsistence resilience in the face of catastrophe is closely tied to a group’s continued connection to its lands and capacity to sustain Mathwich 145 members through traditional foods and ceremonies (Gaillard 2007). In the mission records, there is robust evidence for the continued harvesting and cultivation of wild and domesticated plants.

Persistence encompasses flexibility, and in these records, Holy Week and Christmas celebrations became tied to the celebration of marriage, baptisms, and burials at the missions because they fit better with the traditional schedules of land use.

Conclusions

As researchers examine Indigenous negotiations of Spanish colonialism in North

America, it is worth returning to demographic data and mission register records and analyzing it from different postcolonial perspectives. Often these were the first documents examined by historians seeking to understand the impacts of colonialism on native populations (Jackson

1982), and have continued to yield new and interesting information about life in the Pimería Alta

(Radding 1997). As theoretical orientations shift through time, these documents are worth revisiting because mission registers are a significant source of information about the annual rhythms of Indigenous life in the Pimería Alta.

The resilience of Indigenous communities involved the maintenance of ties to cultural landscapes. Resilience includes both flexibility and the capacity to absorb disturbance. The counts of events and participation were not evenly distributed over the course of the year.

Distributions at individual sites conform to a broader regional pattern, because for the most part, sites ranged between moderate to strong correlations to the whole sample. This implies that other factors influenced the distribution of events. When the distributions were compared to the

Catholic calendar, some parallels were found. Holy Week and Christmas celebrations became tied to the celebration of marriage, baptisms, and burials at the missions. O’odham incorporation of new Catholic traditions at missions suggests a willingness to participate in colonial Mathwich 146 communities. The timing of these feasts happened to blend well with traditional schedules of land use. These findings do not tie in well to other important feast days in southern Arizona and northern Sonora. It will require more careful combing of historical and ethnographic sources to understand the disconnection between communal celebrations and the mission records.

Seasonal shifts and availability of wild resources account for a large component in the frequency and recording of events. The influence of seasonal foraging schedule greatly outstripped the influence of the Catholic calendar, although people gravitated to the mission for holidays when convenient to the foraging and farming cycle. Temperature influences the ripening of tree pods and cactus fruit and is strongly correlated to drops in participation at mission events. Precipitation, which one would expect to be significant to agricultural cycles, was not the trigger for absence from the mission records. When viewed in terms of refuges, these absences from mission records may be indicators of physical absence. The absences match well with ethnographic gathering and farming practices. These practices helped mission O’odham ensure their annual subsistence and survival in the desert landscape. The persistence of these subsistence practices may have helped communities absorb disruptions such as displacement, disease, and labor demands. Time away from the missions also served as a refuge from colonial pressures and helped mission O’odham renew their ties to their cultural landscapes. These annual cycles occurred at some level throughout the eighteenth century and into the nineteenth century.

For this reason, historical and ethnographic observations of farming and gathering practices have a strong basis in the colonial period. The research here highlights the inventive and persistent relationship between native peoples living at Spanish missions and their cultural landscapes.

Aspects of resilience come to the forefront. Through daily practice, the Tohono O’odham integrated, settlement by settlement, the traditional and colonial rituals into their year. Mathwich 147

CHAPTER 7. DYNAMICS OF SMALL-SCALE ANIMAL HUSBANDRY USING AGENT

BASED MODELING

Indigenous societies faced intense pressures to turn their subsistence and politics toward colonial economies. Spanish-sponsored missionaries entered with directed programs of change, using the policies of reducción, violence, and European trade goods and animals to coerce

Indigenous hunter-gatherers and farmers to adopt an agropastoral economy (Spicer 1962). The sudden entrance of animals and diseases into local ecosystems and community dynamics was another source of disruption (Crosby 2004). In the American Southwest, historical ecologists viewed livestock as agents of colonialism, because livestock disturbed local ecology, undermined traditional subsistence, and were sources of zoonoses (Crosby 2004; Melville 1994;

Minnich 2008). Archaeologists drawing on postcolonial perspectives have focused their research questions on the diversity of Indigenous responses to colonialism, prompting a critical reevaluation of how introduction of livestock played out in different parts of the Americas.

Recent archaeological studies have questioned the speed at which newly introduced livestock could change or degrade the landscape in northern California (Curry 2017), and the rapid integration of livestock into Pueblo diets in New Mexico (Jones 2015). In both cases, changes took place at slower rates observed in other locales (Melville 1994; Minnich 2008).

Despite all these pressures, Indigenous groups’ responses throughout North America to animal introductions varied widely (Pavão-Zuckerman and Reitz 2006). The adoption of animal husbandry was never automatic or inevitable. Archaeologists’ capacity to show why horses became integral to nomadic Plains groups or why the Navajo became adept sheepherders but

Apache groups did not, has relied on ethnographic, archaeological, and historical information. In this chapter, I add to the list of tools archaeologist can use to explore the heterogeneity of Mathwich 148 responses to colonialism. I use agent-based modeling to explore how community dynamics in the

Pimería Alta may have impacted O’odham adoption of animal husbandry in their farming communities.

The focus of this chapter is an agent-based simulation of adoption at different Pimería

Alta population sizes typical of O’odham mission communities between AD 1690 and 1820.

This chapter examines the local dynamics that can influence how domesticated animals became integrated into Indigenous societies. These dynamics are particularly of interest in the Pimería

Alta because, while O’odham groups in the Santa Cruz River Valley and Phoenix Basin shared related languages, environmental conditions, beliefs, and kinship, the populations had very different colonial experiences. O’odham groups in the Phoenix Basin, today the Akimel

O’odham, never experienced direct Spanish colonialism, and ranching was not as economically important to these groups as it was for the Tohono O’odham to the south in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Reports in the eighteenth century of Akimel O’odham ranching are inconclusive, but while it was likely not of the same scale as the ranching activity further south, some small-scale experimentation is suggested (Ezell 1974). At the same time, the use of winter wheat expanded into the Phoenix Basin ahead of the Spanish (Strawhacker 2017). Clearly, there were O’odham social and trade structures through which new technologies and species could travel independent of colonial coercion. But why wheat and not sheep?

Because the social, linguistic, and environmental conditions were similar, the Pimería

Alta makes an excellent test case to explore the long-term dynamics of colonial coercion compared to the Phoenix Basin. The questions in this chapter concern the 1) types of local socioenvironmental factors that contributed to resistance to livestock in the Pimería Alta and 2) under what circumstances was that resistance overcome. To examine the social contexts that Mathwich 149 encouraged ranching, I employ an agent-based model (ABM) to examine trends in the spread of animal husbandry at different human population sizes. The model is conceptually rooted in epidemic diffusion, but guided by rules inferred from archaeological and historical sources. The goal is to examine how agent interactions affect the spread of animal husbandry in small agricultural communities.

Domesticated animals and human society

Domesticated animals and humans were linked by positive and negative feedbacks in every human society that engaged in herding. How animals became integrated into human communities is a central question in zooarchaeology. The process of entanglement of animals and humans remains relevant to studies of the earliest domestication efforts as well as European colonialism in the past five hundred years. Some of these dynamics therefore should be applicable to the colonial introduction of Eurasian domesticates in the Americas.

In Eurasia, Africa, and the Americas, livestock provided predictable access to materials such as meat, fats, hides, sinew, horn, milk, wool, and bone. As domestication evolved in the Old

World, people optimized animal husbandry for the production of animal products (Helmer et al.

2007). The push toward optimization and efficiency in livestock management is often explored through the lens of human behavioral ecology (McClure et al. 2006). Providing for these animals required much labor and dedicated infrastructure, such as shelters, fencing, and special tools. As humans invested more time into animal care, they were increasingly locked into making certain future decisions over others, thus creating a dynamic feedback. The reinforcement of animal care and subsequent physical and social changes to animals and humans have led archaeologists to argue that animal domestication is an excellent case of niche construction (Laland et al. 2001;

Zeder 2012b). However, two levels of mechanics—primary and compounding dynamics—are Mathwich 150 not exclusive but complementary (Stiner and Kuhn 2016). The compounding dynamics of niche construction existed simultaneously with the short-term tendency of humans toward optimization. As people begin to integrate animals into their communities, both scales seem to apply. Deliberate decisions by people, often guided by goals of optimization, had long-term and unforeseen consequences and contributed to the feedbacks associated with niche construction.

But are domesticated livestock always the preferred way to obtain protein in human societies? The answer is likely no, and coming from a state-level late-capitalist society reliant on industrial farming may bias researchers toward assuming domesticated animals are always going to be preferred over animals procured through less-predictable process of hunting. Animal- husbandry, however, comes at a significant cost, and it is conceivable that communities are not interested in the costs of a “walking larder.” Infrastructure for housing animals, the establishment of culling strategies, and changes in human society and animal physiology are part of the process of domestication, but they happened slowly in Eurasia (Arbuckle 2012; Zeder 2008).

Communities were expected to make these changes within a few decades following the introduction of livestock by missionaries. These were broad changes that shifted land use, transhumance, and social structure. In many instances, native peoples integrated domesticated animals into their communities and economies in unique ways. All of these shifts in infrastructure appear at some level in the Pimería Alta following the introduction of livestock

(Thiel and Pavão-Zuckerman 2016), but not further north. The way people used livestock in the colonial economy varied even within communities of the same language group.

Ethnographic background

A host of local factors influenced the diversity of Indigenous responses to livestock across North America (Pavão-Zuckerman and Reitz 2011). The adoption of livestock met with Mathwich 151 mixed results, as each species presented different advantages and challenges. Horses, unlike cattle and sheep, spread ahead of and far beyond the spheres of Spanish influence (Mitchell

2015) due to the remarkable mobility opportunities they provided. Domesticated animals in the southern Southwest required specialized knowledge and time away from traditional subsistence practices such as cactus fruit and bean pod collection and planting crops. The animals were also in competition with crops and people for water. The care of these animals impacted social roles, labor organization, seasonality, and resource allocation.

Spanish missions in the Pimería Alta attempted to create self-sufficient agropastoral communities, based on a combination of domesticated plants and livestock. The introduction of these plants and animals had broader effects on the surrounding region. Some aspects of

European agrotechnologies, such as winter wheat production, expanded throughout the colonized and noncolonized O’odham settlements (Ezell 1974; Rea 1997; Strawhacker 2017). Wheat spread far beyond Spanish spheres of influence, revealing a connected and flexible O’odham network. The grain fit well with the pre-existing agrarian knowledge base and filled an important gap in the seasonal subsistence. Livestock, in contrast, were not widely accepted. In the Pimería

Alta, the Tohono O’odham developed an affinity with cattle and horses in the nineteenth century and participated in commercial ranching. North of the Pimería Alta, the Akimel O’odham, who did not experience Spanish missionization, did not develop the same relationships with Eurasian animals or practices during the same period.

Early in the colonial period, O’odham at the missions preferred to hunt free-ranging livestock (Spicer 1962:546). Pavão-Zuckerman and LaMotta (2007) argued that O’odham in the

Pimería Alta resisted adopting livestock because of the labor and resources these animals demanded. Livestock can offer various benefits, but researchers from agropastoral societies Mathwich 152 should not assume the shift to animal husbandry was natural or optimal (Pavão-Zuckerman and

LaMotta 2007:242). Adding to the sometimes tenuous relationship between Indigenous people of the Southwest and Spanish-introduced livestock, raiders targeted cattle, sheep, and horses

(Officer 1987). Concentration of these animals in a community likely attracted theft and violence. Raiding prompted the Spanish militarization of the northern Spanish frontier (Rentería-

Valencia 2014; Sheridan 1992). The need to conscript people for military service and agricultural labor created conflicts among missionaries, O’odham leaders, and Spanish officials.

Decision-making in historical O’odham groups

During the Spanish colonial period, O’odham speakers lived in small farming communities near water sources. No centralized, top-down authority united these settlements.

Kin relations, language, long-distance salt trade, irrigation organization, and belief systems tied the dispersed communities together. Evidence for flexible, small-scale organization comes from late-nineteenth and early-twentieth-century ethnographies. Tohono O’odham men reportedly divided local leadership into different roles based on context and character traits. All adult men could participate in major decisions at councils, and interactions were “democratic in the extreme” (Fontana and Schaefer 1989:47). While later historical and ethnographic observations cannot be applied to the colonial period directly, historical events take on new meanings when examined through Indigenous perspectives and interpretations (Sheridan 1988; Sheridan et al.

2015). There is evidence that O’odham decision-making was structured, but also diffuse and situational. Father Ignaz Pfefferkorn in the 1760s mentions long, late-night deliberations where each participant gave their opinion on an issue (Pfefferkorn 1989:210). The egalitarian nature of

O’odham decision-making had historical consequences. Mathwich 153

Resistance and local uprisings occurred throughout the Pimería Alta beginning in 1685, but the largest took place under the leadership of Luis Oacpicagigua. Oacpicagigua had worked with the Spanish as capitán general of the Pimería Alta, and served an important role in the

Spanish invasion of Tiburón Island (Sheridan 1999). Oacpicagigua was one of several men who led the Pima Revolt in 1751. The leaders of the revolt cited the lack of respect for Indigenous leadership and physical abuse at the mission as key motivations for the uprising (Rentería-

Valencia 2014). The uprising united a substantial group of 1,500 people (Salmón 1988:67), but there were substantial challenges to organizing resistance among the dispersed and independent settlements. Many chose not to hinder the revolt but also did not actively take part. Others left the missions, opting out. Missionaries and the Spanish soldiers understood this practice in a limited way and made attempts to coerce O’odham to go to and stay at the missions. Coercion at

Spanish colonial settlements ranged from gift-giving to corporal punishment (Segesser and

Classen 2012:199). Nonparticipation and the possibility of refusal sometimes forced missionaries and Spanish officials to negotiate agreements and provide material incentives to encourage

Indigenous participation in projects. On other occasions, legal ambiguity and conflict among

Spanish groups led to acts of violence in O’odham villages (Radonic 2014).

Independent of colonial authorities, O’odham addressed day-to-day issues locally through different degrees of group consensus. This aspect of decision-making is significant because livestock required land and labor and thus needed community negotiation. In a consensus decision-making structure, experimentation by individuals might be tolerated at small scales. The value of livestock changed through time, and increased mining activity created higher demand for livestock for food, hides, and tallow (Pavão-Zuckerman 2011). The theft of animals from colonial settlements was common, and O’odham learned ranching at the missions (Kessell 1970). Mathwich 154

The opportunity and demand for small-scale animal husbandry existed in the colonial period, however archaeological evidence of the day-to-day activities of historical O’odham rancherias in the region is currently limited. As mentioned previously, historical-period Tohono O’odham and

Sobaipuri O’odham households were often ephemeral structures on the landscape with little accumulated refuse (Seymour 1989). The identification of colonial period rancheria sites is difficult because of the ephemeral nature of the structures. The light character of occupation makes it difficult to study how individual rancherias used livestock. The identification of colonial period rancheria sites is difficult because of the ephemeral nature of the structures.

Archaeologically this means these structures can be difficult to identify in survey, and middens are often absent.

Agent-based modeling offers one way to explore small-scale experimentation with animal husbandry, particularly in circumstances where both archaeological and historical data are limited. Historical documents provide a variety of details about colonial life, but the

European authors often ignored or misunderstood a major portion of Indigenous activity. For example, Father Segesser believed something was wrong with his chickens for five months before he realized his young helpers were stealing the chickens’ eggs (Segesser and Classen

2012:200). Historical evidence is unlikely to provide many insights into small-scale experimentation with animal husbandry because documents originated from colonial perspectives (Chaturvedi 2012; Said 1979) . For these reasons, ABMs may be an alternative way to explore how O’odham social structure affected the distribution of animal husbandry in the

Pimería Alta. ABMs use individual decisions to explore large-scale patterns and can incorporate information from both archaeological and historical sources into rules about how individuals interact. Mathwich 155

Agent-based models

ABMs simulate actions and interactions between autonomous agents, and are distinct from structural models that rely on equations. Instead, ABMs show how autonomous agent responses create larger systemic trends (Gilbert 2008). The micro-level, individual decisions follow a few simple rules, and other variables are allowed to vary randomly. This can produce complex behavior and macro-level patterns. The models are run as simulations, or experiments, and multiple simulations are run to capture the emergence of broader patterns. ABMs feature five basic components: 1) agents, 2) simple rules about decision-making, 3) a process for learning or adaptation, 4) rules for how interactions are conducted, and 5) an environment. Every time an ABM experiment is simulated, the results will often vary on the micro-level, but collective behavioral patterns will emerge and be consistent across multiple experiments.

Archaeologists have valued ABMs for their ability to explore phenomena where archaeological data are incomplete or impossible to recover (Cegielski and Rogers 2016).

Researchers have used agent-based models to explore anthropological topics, ranging from emergent complexity in Mesopotamia, Maya and Pueblo societies (Heckbert 2013; Kohler et al.

2012; Wilkinson et al. 2007) to lithic technology diffusion (Mesoudi and O’Brien 2008a). Many archaeological models employ time frames of several hundred years and simulate long-term social dynamics. Only recently have these models been applied to archaeological contexts of the past 500 years (Curry 2017). ABMs present an opportunity to model social interactions at multiple scales and for that reason may provide new insights into phenomena that may be difficult to identify in the archaeological record. This chapter will examine the application of

ABMs to O’odham choices within different population sizes in the Pimería Alta. Mathwich 156

Epidemic diffusion models

Epidemic diffusion models form a subset of ABMs and examine how things spread through a system (Pastor-Satorras et al. 2015). Unlike other ABMs, epidemic diffusion models begin each experimental simulation with the same number of N individuals, or agents (Dodds and Watts 2004). Each agent can be in one of three states: susceptible, infected, or removed

(Error! Reference source not found.). At each time step, an individual (i) comes into contact with another individual (j) drawn randomly from the population. If i is susceptible and j is already infected, the probability i will become infected is drawn randomly from probability distribution (Φ) of dose size (Dodds and Watts 2004). At each time interval, the count of individuals in each of the three states changes, and the model recalculates each agent’s state based on the previous time step. At the new time step, agents respond to the changes from the previous step through set rules and randomized probabilities. The resulting graph of the simulation reflects a stochastic relationship that is sensitive to random events. Epidemic models were developed to study the spread of disease but have research value beyond that of prediction of disease virulence in a complex system.

Table 7.1. Overview of ABM Model Components

Components of an ABM Epidemic diffusion model

1) Agents Each experiment begins with N agents 2) Simple decision rules Each agent can be in one of 3 states: 1) Susceptible 2) Infected 3) Removed (immune)

If i is susceptible and j is already infected, the probability i will become infected is drawn randomly from probability distribution (Φ) of dose size. 3) Process for adaptation Some individuals can become immune or removed 4) Shape or topology to The probability of being infected interactions Mathwich 157

5) Environment How close agents are to one another can affect how often they interact and how quickly a pathogen spreads.

Models of disease spread have been deployed to study the spread of technologies and information. For decades, researchers in economics, physics, and biology have used epidemic models to follow the spread of items or innovations in a system (Geroski 2000). Diffusion models can also highlight variables or dynamics which hinder the implementation of new technologies in business (Karshenas and Stoneman 1993). In these models, only a few variables vary randomly, and the remaining variables are held constant. When applied to human societies, constants and variables may come from various sources, including historical documents.

Additionally, these models may require alteration in how they explore the network effects of collective action, protest recruitment, and the diffusion of technology (Granovetter 1978; Macy

1991; Valente 1996). Krempel and Schnegg (2005) used information from archival records to show the influence of network structure on social mobilization and the spread of unrest in the

AD 1840s within the German town of Esslingen. In the past decade, models have expanded in detail and complexity with the rise of the internet and computing power. The growth of social media has highlighted the importance of individuals with large numbers of connections within information networks to the spread of an idea or technology (Gonzalez-Bailon et al. 2011).

Epidemic diffusion models and social network analysis reveal the patterns of information and technology transmission within these networks. For the most part, these models remain an under- utilized tool, particularly in historical archaeology, which has both documentary, ethnographic, and archaeological data to draw upon. This chapter integrates these data types to explore the spread of animal husbandry on the northern Spanish colonial frontier in the eighteenth century. Mathwich 158

Methods

The epidemic diffusion model used here is an alteration of the “Virus” model in the

NetLogo program (Uri 2016). The important difference between the model presented here and the traditional virus model is the opportunity for animals to recirculate. Agents can become “reinfected” several times over their lifetime. In the model system, agents can own animals, and a small portion (10%) of the population starts out with livestock. This initial “seed” may come from payment for service, gift, theft, or exchange of stock at colonial settlements. In the model, agents with animals will attempt to grow their herds and distribute their animals over time through trade and gift giving. Herd growth is not modelled here, but rather the presence or absence of animal husbandry. Animal husbandry is defined here as the keeping, selective breeding, and caring of livestock (Clutton-Brock 1999). Agents can butcher the livestock, effectively taking them out of exchange, or keep them for the animal’s productive lifespan.

Agents can only distribute kept animals at the next opportunity, or time tick. I explain the variables and constants used for the simulations and the rationales behind those parameters

(Table 7.2).

I define retention as the agent’s choice to keep an animal, using cattle as the idealized stock animal. I selected cattle as the baseline animal for this model because of their economic importance through the colonial period and into the Mexican and American territorial periods

(Sayre 2003; West 1949). While O’odham at missions also raised sheep, goats, horses, and chickens, these other species were excluded in the model in order to create constants consistent with one species. Cattle reach physical maturity and full weight at 1.5–2 years. If the animal is raised for meat, the most efficient use of time and pasturage is to cull the animals as soon as they reach full weight (Gillespie 2004). Retention of live animals past physical maturity (after 2 Mathwich 159 years), however, is indicated for cattle kept in the Pimería Alta based on culling ages based on element fusion (Mathwich 2016). This retention past the most efficient age for butchering possibly reflects dairying, where animals are retained for years as milk producers, as well as semi-feral management, where the animals are left on the their own for large parts of the year and purposeful culling by age is not prioritized.

This model uses historical population and settlement data as constants and does not adhere to strict realism with certain assumptions. For example, I excluded the quantity of animals a person owns and the probability that family units rather than individuals may have cared for the animals. Instead the focus was on presence or absence of the animal husbandry practice. A person or family may have owned multiple animals, but for this model, I collapse single and multi-animal groups into the presence or absence of animal husbandry practice. The presence or absence of the practice reflects whether people are willing to alter their land use and foraging in order to accommodate one or more animals. This is a different pattern of interaction from letting the animals go feral or consuming them quickly after receiving them, and affects the broader cultural landscape. Animal husbandry in this model covers this suite of landscape uses and subsistence activities. Thus within the model, the retention of the animal is the important variable.

When agents choose to have animals, they gain the ability to spread ownership to others.

Whether cattle ownership is an advantage is a function of the agent’s willingness to repeat animal ownerships. An agent decides to continue ownership, or to resist ownership, based on a random selection from the set probability distribution in each time tick.

Table 7.2. Summary and Rationale of Model Variables

Type Assumption Value in Rationale model Mathwich 160

Variables The average community size in the Pimería Alta based on mission census records was 120. The Population 120 average population size of Caborca, the Pimería limit 375 Alta’s largest mission community, was 375. This N variable explores model dynamics at these two historical populations. This variable tests how an agent’s willingness to try the technology affects the spread of the technology. For example, at 25%, 1 in 4 agents Probability 25% that encountered user would be willing to take an of spread 50% animal for 3 years. These probabilities were Φ 75% chosen after exploratory experimentation with the model. An agent’s willingness reflects the strength of the incentive and/or coercion to keep animals. Constants Livestock come with new behaviors, risks, and benefits. In the model scenario, a minority of the population would be early adopters. This rate is Initial 10% of based on assumption that O’odham villages adoption rate population focused their subsistence on farming, hunting,

and gathering, and so only a small portion of the population might be motivated to experiment with animal husbandry. For this model, biannual exchanges were used, but this an arbitrary number, and meetings could be more or less frequent. O’odham likely met Opportunities 2 per year (1 throughout the year, however travel with cattle for spread of tick per presented challenges. A twice-yearly frequency livestock opportunity) of exchange was chosen to reflect that meetings to exchange animals were likely more limited than social meetings. This model gives agents the chance to opt out after having cattle for 3 years. In this scenario, only 10% of those who owned animals refuse to 10% of Opt out own them again. Agents became open to the previous users ownership again after 10 years and allowed agents reconsider previous decisions as their circumstances change. Duration of Fusion information from zooarchaeological data 3 years (6 animal suggests that cattle were culled a year or more ticks) retention after sexual maturity (Mathwich 2016). Duration captures the early dynamics of the first Duration of 200 years 100 years of colonialism (1690–1790), and later model (400 ticks) long-term dynamics. Lifespan of 50 years (100 A lifespan of 50 years, which is not based on agent ticks) historical data. Because opportunities to Mathwich 161

exchange were limited to twice a year in the model, this lifespan provides the agent with multiple opportunities to make decisions. If the population dropped below a set population limit based on historical information, agents had a 10% chance of reproducing. Offspring did not inherit their parents’ decision to own cattle nor Birth rate 10% the decision to opt out. The population does not mirror historical birth rates, but it incorporates efforts to maintain mission population size by bringing in outside groups through reducción. To calculate the number of simulations to run of the model, I followed the recommendations of Byrne (2013). I used a confidence interval (CI) of 0.95 to determine the appropriate sample size. Simulations The population coefficient of variance (CV) was 100 run around 0.25, and to achieve a confidence interval width of 0.05 with a CI of 0.95, 99 trials were required. Each combination of population and spread probability was simulated 100 times, for a total of 600 tests.

In Scenario 1 experiments, the population is 120, and 12 people initially take up animal husbandry. The rate of opting out was set at 10%. In terms of human actions, that means 1 in 10 people who tried animal husbandry disliked raising animals and avoided keeping animals for a period of 10 years. In this model, after 10 years, an agent who opted out reenters the pool of those susceptible to animal husbandry. If “infected” by the practice, the agent will keep the animals for 3 years, and then reverts to no animal ownership status, but can be “reinfected.” The probability of 0.9, or 9 out of 10, who try animal husbandry choose to keep the cattle, representing a very favorable scenario for animal husbandry.

Scenario 2 follows the same progression of rates, but the simulations start out with a higher population (N = 375) size and higher proportion of first adopters (n=37). Each simulation ran for the time equivalent of 200 years with two chances per year for animal exchange. While it is likely O’odham groups met far more often throughout the year, the required effort involved in Mathwich 162 herding animals any distance limits the frequency of exchange. If exchange occurred on a more frequent basis, the dynamics explored below would be the same but would be compressed in time. After running the simulation, the population dynamics converged on an equilibrium after

100 years. The first hundred years corresponds to the 1690–1790 period in the Pimería Alta.

Because of the redundancy of the simulation after the first 100 years, the figures display on the first century. Each figure graphs the average of 100 simulations for each time tick, which was the number of simulations required to generate a confidence interval of 0.95 (Byrne 2013).

Figure 7.1. Snap-shot of initial set up of simulation visualization (Uri 2016) “Turtle” is the software’s code term for agent. No turtles were used or harmed in this experiment. Mathwich 163

Results

Two population scenarios were tested in these experiments. In Scenario 1, the human population was set to 120, and in Scenario 2 the population was set to 375. In each scenario, 100 simulations were run at three different probabilities of the spread of animal husbandry in the population. First, simulations were run with a 25% chance someone would adopt animal husbandry for at least 3 years, meaning 1 in 4 people who encounter an agent with animals

(infected agent) will become animal owners themselves (become infected) (3). In the second simulation series, the probability increased to a 1 in 2 chance, or 50%, that a person will adopt animal husbandry for 3 years (Figure 7.2). For the third simulation series, animal ownership is more advantageous, and 3 of 4 people a cattle owner encounters are willing to try animal husbandry for 3 years (Figure 7.3). Each graph represents the average of 100 simulations at each time interval.

Population 120, 25% chance of spread 140 120 100 80 60 40 Count of agents of Count 20 0 0 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95100 Years

Opted out Users No animals

Figure 7.2. Carrying capacity is set to 120 with a 25% rate of animal transmission. Mathwich 164

Figure 7.3. Carrying capacity is set to 120 with a % rate of animal transmission.

Figure 7.4. Carrying capacity is set to 120 with a 5% rate of animal transmission. Mathwich 165

Figure 7.5. Carrying capacity is set to 375 with a 25% rate of animal transmission.

Figure 7.6. Carrying capacity is set to 375 with a 50% rate of animal transmission. Mathwich 166

Population 375, 75% chance of spread 400 350 300 250 200 150

Count of agents of Count 100 50 0 0 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95 Year

Opted out Users No animals

Figure 7.7. Carrying capacity is set to 375 with a 75% rate of animal transmission.

With the larger population, the buffering effect of those who opt out diminished as the probability animal husbandry would spread increased. With a rate of 25% (Figure 7.6), the initial seed of early adopters dies out. If there was a 50% chance of spreading—a simple coin toss—a stable situation emerged. After three decades, a portion adopted animal husbandry (26%), an equal portion opted out (27%), and a higher proportion did not have animals but remained open to adopting the practice (47%) (Figure 7.8). When the rate of spread increased to 75%, all three categories fluctuated and converged around a stable equilibrium of 125 after the first fifty years.

At the larger population size, the threshold for initial seed appears to be lower than for than for the smaller population size. Population size affects epidemic thresholds, and points to the significance of scale as a practice spreads within a group of people. The thresholds for this model reflect Dodd and Watts (2004) Class II models (Error! Reference source not found.). In

Class II models, when the initial seed is below particular proportions, an increase in the probability of spread will not result in an epidemic, no matter how virulent a contagion might be. Mathwich 167

Animal-husbandry does not last long in the small population, and the Class II dynamics help explain the long-term failure of the practice.

Figure 7.8.Dodds and Watts (2004:3) outlined three generalized models of contagion and each graph represents the thresholds for epidemic spread. Each graph describes a class of contagion models where p = the rate of infection and Φ = the number of initial infected. In Class I models (a), the line represents the threshold at which p and Φ on the left side of the line will not produce an epidemic. Values above the threshold will result in epidemic spread that will infect up to 90% of the population. Class II (b), p and Φ values below the unstable equilibrium will die out, and those above will produce an epidemic. Class III (c) represents a transitionary class between the other two classes.

The initial seed of early adopters fades out for all three rates of initial infection in the population of 120. The practice dies out even when the rate of spread was the most favorable. A small amount of resistance has a large effect in this smaller population. A 10% probability of opting out was enough to diminish the “infectiousness” of the practice by buffering susceptible agents from animal owners. In smaller communities, just a small amount of this type of resistance would have prevented the spread of the practice.

In the Pimería Alta, these model dynamics suggest that the establishment of animal husbandry in smaller communities would have been more difficult than in larger settlements. The people who opted out buffered against the adoption of cattle in the smaller population. When the probability of the spread was high enough in the population of 375, the practice stabilized and reached an equilibrium with the other categories. The continued ability to reject cattle kept the Mathwich 168 practice from becoming ubiquitous. If practiced by O’odham communities in the colonial period, a small amount of resistance would either have killed the practice after a few decades or kept the practice in circulation among a limited minority.

Discussion

The simulation results indicate that below certain thresholds in both population size, animal husbandry would cease to spread and eventual die out (Figures 7.2–5). The immunity to animal husbandry altered overall dynamics. In the smaller population, agents who were susceptible were buffered by agents who opted out (immune), and the transmission of animal husbandry failed after several decades. The buffer from immune agents decreased the probability agents spreading the practice would encounter agents willing to raise livestock. The buffer was compounded by a low probability of spread, and the general trend was the rapid "die-out" in these two population levels. Animal-husbandry only achieved stability in the larger population when the rate of transmission was quite high (0.75). These findings index the importance of both community size to the adoption of animal husbandry, and show how just a little bit of resistance to the transmission of the practice can cause it to die out. There are several implications for what this means to the differential adoption of livestock species throughout the Pimería Alta.

The failure of animal husbandry to take root in smaller populations, which were typical of many of the visitas in the mission system. Theft of livestock by Athabaskan and O’odham speakers was a common occurrence. O'odham living at missions were also the primary caretakers of livestock. Both theft and participation in mission labor suggest that O’odham groups had sufficient knowledge and opportunity to practice animal husbandry. If cattle needs conflicted with traditional agriculture, hunting, and gathering, however, there was likely to be significant social resistance to animal husbandry outside of colonial settlements. As this model shows, if Mathwich 169 there was a small amount of resistance, the practice and small-scale experimentation would die- out in smaller farming villages.

The rapid "die-out" of animal husbandry in the model’s small populations provides some insights into the dynamics of the first few decades of colonialism. At a population size of 125, the average settlement size throughout the colonial Pimería Alta, neutral agents quickly become buffered by agents who opted out. With 375, reflecting the average population at Caborca, the practice was retained in the population and reached equilibrium when probability of spread was

50% or higher. During the colonial period, theft of livestock was a common occurrence (Officer

1987). Some O’odham warriors stole cattle, and some assisted Spanish soldiers or missionaries against raiders and were paid with cattle (McIntyre et al. 2008). O'odham living at missions and presidios were the primary caretakers of livestock, and their experience at the missions implies they possessed sufficient knowledge to practice animal husbandry. Spanish mining towns valued cattle as well (West 1949), and trade for cattle and sheep may have appealed to some families.

Cattle and sheep were valuable in and of themselves as sources of protein, fat, and hides, and

O’odham hunted them.

The animal husbandry model does not incorporate the type of influence leadership decisions had within communities as part of the variables, but assumes agents are making their own choices. The animal husbandry ABM was structured so that no agent had greater influence over others. An individual’s adoption of animal husbandry, in real life, would vary within the possibilities of their social and historical contexts. The model does account for the outsized influence of a leader in a limited and indirect way. The different rates of adoption broadly incorporate influencers’ social perceptions of the advantages of the practice, and this in turn, would contribute to the overall probability of animal husbandry being practiced. Leaders would Mathwich 170 have approached the possibilities of livestock in various ways, influencing whether animal husbandry was perceived favorably and thereby affecting the rate of spread in their communities.

O’odham and other native groups in the colonial period were embedded in complex religious and kin-based relationships and obligations (Radding 1997). The 1751 Pimería Revolt demonstrated the influence of one leader’s ability to use these ties to organize a large group to collective action and rebellion. Specific information regarding the social structure of colonial O’odham communities is unknown at this time. Ethnographic and historical sources suggest that a flexible leadership system informed by situation, ability, and experience (Fontana and Schaefer 1989;

Underhill 1940). Decisions within an O’odham community, while influenced by leaders, were still made at a local or family level. The lack of central leadership may have contributed to long- term O’odham resilience. Independent communities permitted small-scale experimentation and diverse responses to economic pressures. In these larger groups, one faction’s familiarity with the practice may have eased their families’ needs if colonial pressures became significant enough to tip the threshold toward animal ownership. Missions offered long-term and reliable contact with colonial markets where conditions strongly favored the production of livestock.

"Everyday resistance" has been a significant theoretical framework for understanding the indigenous responses to colonial pressures (Brenneman 2004; Sheridan 1988). These "weapons of the weak" in peasant societies shift the focus of study to the ways people at the bottom of the hierarchy undermined and subverted oppressive systems (Scott 2000). While it has been a powerful way to examine the colonial period (Liebmann 2012; Liebmann and Murphy 2011;

Price 1996; Spielmann et al. 2009), everyday resistance has been difficult to quantify. Epidemic diffusion models do not replace the methodological importance of seeking examples of resistance, but they do offer a complementary method to other studies. Mathwich 171

The model and simulations presented in this chapter benefited from constants derived both archaeological and historical information. These small-scale dynamics, however, are not limited to the Pimería Alta and may be applicable to other groups with similar population sizes.

This method may be of use in the study of agropastoralism in Eurasia and Africa. The practice of integrated livestock and farming moved throughout Europe Asia, and Africa, and in each place, agropastoralists came across hunter-gatherer bands. Epidemic diffusion ABMs offer one way to examine these encounters and the decision-making process in these bands.

Conclusions

A small amount of resistance on the part of the O’odham could keep new practices from becoming widespread, but local experimentation provided flexibility and knowledge if conditions changed in the future. For animal husbandry to become widespread in the Pimería

Alta, strong incentives were needed to overcome the inherent labor and resource demand of certain species of livestock. This clearly did not happen beyond the areas with long-term colonial interactions. In larger human populations, animal husbandry could persist in a minority of the population, even if few were interested in taking on livestock. The flexible hierarchies and decentralized leadership of O’odham communities may have permitted the co-existence of multiple practices over long periods of time. If the practice became more favorable through time, the knowledge base already existed in the community and could allow the group to adapt faster to new pressures. Resistance, in these cases, may have contributed overall to O’odham persistence.

The process of colonialism manipulates the conditions under which Indigenous peoples made decisions about resource and land use. While this process is not unique to colonial economies, the effects on small community dynamics can be profound. This ABM helps to Mathwich 172 identify some of the Indigenous social rules that underlay the difficulties the Spanish had in implementing European ideas and practices on the northern frontier. O’odham resisted the introduction of cattle and sheep to a significant degree, presumably for social and practical reasons. The dynamics inherent in O’odham community size and structure influenced individual decisions and were capable of preventing practices from taking root, except under the most favorable circumstances.

Mathwich 173

CHAPTER 8. STABLE ISOTOPES FROM LIVESTOCK TOOTH ENAMEL

Local examinations of the Columbian Exchange have come to the fore in recent years with the rise in Indigenous political movements and historical ecology (Gaillard and Jigyasu

2016; Jordan 2016; Rifkin 2017). Colonial intrusions resulted in the massive reconfiguration of social and economic relationships, which reverberate today (Acabado, 2016; Crosby, 2004;

Deans-Smith, 2006; Liebmann and Murphy, 2011; Lightfoot, 2006; Lightfoot and Gonzalez,

2018; Lycett, 2014; Preucel, 2007; Sheridan et al., 2015; Spicer, 1962). European livestock entered the Americas as part of the Exchange and changed human relationships with the environment. Eurasian livestock transformed New World landscapes and served as a cornerstone of European expansion in the Americas and beyond (Crosby 1972a; Flieschner 1994; Jordan

2016; Le Houerou 2008). European livestock entered different ecozones, accompanied by their species’ needs and behaviors.

In this chapter, I use carbon and oxygen isotope analyses of Caprinae and cattle enamel from three Spanish colonial sites to illuminate livestock impacts on the Sonoran Desert environment. Isotope assays to place introduced livestock within colonial landscapes and reveal resource management decisions. We expect that the similar livestock management strategies were in used at all three sites because of the presence of Indigenous groups at both military forts and missions, the limits imposed by the desert climate, and the interchange of livestock among settlements.

Spanish colonialism in the Sonoran Desert Beginning in the 1790s, Spanish missionaries entered what became known as the Pimería

Alta, today northern Sonora and southern Arizona, and the homelands of several O’odham groups. The Pimería Alta was the northernmost reach of Spanish colonialism in the Sonoran

Desert, Spanish presence and populations were substantially limited in comparison to provinces Mathwich 174 further south (Sheridan 1992). Religious missions and military forts known as presidios were the primary colonial settlement in the region. Presidios were multicultural communities of Native

American, mestizo, and European soldiers, and their families. Presidios raised their own livestock from small herds purchased from nearby missions. Spanish missions occupied pre- existing O’odham villages, and O’odham people lived around and engaged in both presidio and mission activities to varying degrees. Mission and secular ranches supplied the Spanish military.

In all types of settlements, Native farmers and Sonoran colonists adapted water management, crops, and livestock to the demands of the northern desert (Sheridan 1986:12). Access to, and control of, limited water resources structured the daily life of desert peoples for thousands of years. Scarcity of this vital resource was surely a challenge, but one that Native communities met with technological innovation. Extensive and sophisticated canals and water storage features and large-scale community cooperation characterized the agricultural communities of the prehistoric

Santa Cruz Basin (Fish and Fish 2012). Spanish colonial ambitions were subject to the same constraints, but no doubt benefited from local knowledge honed over many millennia.

Colonial livestock resource use Animals such as horses, cattle, and sheep proved to be valuable resources through a combination of portability, use as work animals, and a rich source of meat, fat, hide and/or hair.

Recent studies explore the incorporation of livestock into traditional practices and how the presence of these animals altered social and economic relationships within and among Native communities (Bethke 2017; Hämäläinen 2008; Mitchell 2015; Pavão-Zuckerman 2011). In the Pimería Alta, herd sizes grew, driven by demand for animal products, such as hides and tallow. Indigenous labor created agricultural and animal products at Spanish missions, and these products came to support large mining operations in Sonora from AD 1690 to the 1820s (Pavão- Mathwich 175

Zuckerman 2011; West 1949). As part of these broader developments, livestock became agents of environmental and social changes that impacted the colonial O’odham landscape.

Mathwich 176

Error! Bookmark not defined.Figure 8.1.Map of sampled sites in relation to other sites examined in this dissertation. Map by Katie MacFarland.

The following analysis focuses on livestock remains from Spanish missions and presidios in the Santa Cruz River Valley, the northern part of the Pimería Alta mission system. The valley lies at the northernmost tip of Spanish colonial influence in the region and within traditional lands of the modern Tohono O’odham Nation (McIntyre et al. 2008). The sites selected for this study are all located in the same watershed of the Santa Cruz River: Mission Los Santos Ángeles de Guevavi (1691–1775), Presidio of San Ignacio de Tubac (1752–1775) and Presidio San

Agustín de Tucson (1775–1856) (Error! Bookmark not defined.Figure 8.1). Grimstead and

Pavão-Zuckerman (2016) focused on the continuity of water management practices at two different sites in the Pimería Alta, the missions of San Agustín and Cocóspera. Grimstead and

Pavão-Zuckerman (2016) found high levels of oxygen enrichment compared to meteoric water indicative of water storage, and carbon isotopes from both sites pointed to the significance of semi-desert grasslands to livestock grazing. This chapter expands on those original findings through the inclusion of presidio sites and goes further to examine evidence of grazing partitioning among livestock species and the implications of water storage for Indigenous communities.

Rationale

Two stable isotopes were used to evaluate the interaction of livestock with surrounding

Santa Cruz Valley landscape: carbon (δ13C) and oxygen (δ18O). Globally, archaeologists have used carbon and oxygen isotopes to evaluate diet and range management (Arbuckle 2012;

Gerling et al. 2017; Grant 2017; Miller and Makarewicz 2018), and these methods have the potential to shed light on evolving ecologies of colonialism in the Americas. The δ13C ratios offer a proxy for dietary contributions of plants with different carbon fixation pathways. The Mathwich 177

following pathways are present in the study area: C3 (cool season grasses, trees, and shrubs), C4

(warm/wet season grasses, including maize), and CAM (cacti). Crassulacean acid metabolism

(CAM) plants include cacti, and these plants have flexible photosynthesis pathways that can fractionate carbon isotopes like both C4 and C3 and this can pose potential problems to the interpretation of stable isotope ratios. The biotic communities in the Santa Cruz River Valley are composed of lowland Sonoran and Chihuahuan desert scrub (mixed C4, C3, and CAM), riparian woodland galleries (C3 shrubs and trees), and semi-desert grasslands (predominately C4) (Brown

1994b; Dimmitt 2000b). Serial and bulk sampling of tooth enamel offers information on grazed points on the landscape. Serial samples help identify the seasonal proportion of C3, C4, and CAM plants in livestock diets. Archaeological and paleontological studies of serial sampling in tooth enamel have revealed ancient foddering, transhumance, and migration (Makarewicz and Tuross

2012; Metcalfe et al. 2010; Widga et al. 2010). The serial sampling can examine the seasonal signal of shifts in oxygen and carbon values in the youngest to oldest part of the tooth enamel.

Oxygen isotopes are valuable to examine the continuity of water storage and management practices and its adaptation to livestock needs in the colonial period (Grimstead and Pavão-

Zuckerman, 2016). O'odham ancestors have a long history of water management in the Santa

Cruz Valley (Bayman et al. 2004). Oxygen form tooth enamel can be used to distinguish whether livestock were provided stored, standing water or drank from the less-evaporated riparian drainages of the Santa Cruz River. Bovid body-water tracks well with local water (Kohn and

Cerling 2002). Allowing livestock to drink from riparian areas has important consequences for vegetation cover and water quality for people and native wildlife. Evaporation of oxygen molecules occurs at an uneven rate within a body of water because fractionation of the lighter isotopes (16O) occurs more readily (Sharp 2007). In evaporated water the proportion of the Mathwich 178 heavier 18O to 16O increases. When an animal drinks that water, the oxygen and dissolved carbon in the water become incorporated into body tissue. Oxygen isotopes are sensitive to climate and geography. Altitude, temperature, continental location, humidity, season, and precipitation type and amount all affect oxygen isotope ratios (Gat 1996). The oxygen isotope ratios (δ18O) in animal body-water have a direct relationship to oxygen isotopes from the water an animal consumes. Isotopes in body-water in sheep and cattle are controlled through ingestion of water through diet and drinking (Bryant et al. 1996; Kohn and Cerling 2002; Longinelli 1984). Cattle and sheep are obligate drinkers. Animal body-water comes from meteoric water sources and from plant consumption, and has direct relationship to soil and surface water (Sponheimer and

Lee-Thorp 1999). The properties of tooth enamel make it well-suited to answer questions about diet and water consumption.

Material and Methods

The teeth sampled in this study were collected from the historical midden (trash dump) associated with Mission Guevavi within Tumacácori National Historic Park and housed at the

Western Archeological and Conservation Center (WACC) in Tucson. The teeth from Tucson

Presidio and Tubac Presidio collections are housed at the Arizona State Museum. Each tooth was identified to the most specific taxon, position, and side. The term “caprine” is used to here describe the teeth from animals that could be sheep or goat. Historical sources suggest that sheep were the most common small domestic bovid at Spanish colonial sites (Kessell 1970; Officer

1987). Goats were present historically in smaller numbers. In recognition of this possibility, I employ a more conservative category of “caprine.”

Teeth were sampled using a small drill, producing a shallow trench in the outer enamel of the tooth crown. The vertical trench for bulk samples reflects the average of what the animal Mathwich 179 consumed during the formation of the tooth. Bovid molar crowns take about a year to form

(Hillson 2005). Only adult molars were used in this study. With serial sampling, horizontal trenches were drilled in order to capture specific times in the animal’s tooth development.

Although isotopes assays are destructive, no more that 1–3 mg of enamel were drilled for each sample, maintaining the overall physical integrity and identifiability of the specimen. Teeth were mechanically cleaned, and a 0.3 mm carbide burr bit was used to extract the enamel in powdered form.

Geochemical methods

Oxygen and carbon isotopes were extracted from the CO3 component of biological apatite in the tooth enamel. All δ13C and δ18O samples were processed in the Environmental

Isotope Laboratory on the campus of the University of Arizona. Powder samples were pre- treated to isolate the structural carbonate-apatite and remove organics and secondary carbonate.

A weak solution of 0.1 Μ acetic acid in distilled water was added to the sample and soaked overnight, and then removed with a pipette. While this is no longer recommended (Pellegrini and

Snoeck 2016), this aggressive pre-treatment was standard practice at the Environmental Isotope

Laboratory when the analysis was conducted in 2015. Because the same pre-treatments were used, these analyzed samples are comparable to previous work in the region (Grimstead and

Pavão-Zuckerman 2016). Samples were then rinsed with ultra-pure water and allowed to dry overnight. The δ18O and δ13C of carbonate was measured using an automated carbonate preparation device (KIEL-III) coupled to a gas-ratio mass spectrometer (Finnigan MAT 252).

Powdered samples were reacted with dehydrated phosphoric acid under vacuum at 70°C. The isotope ratio measurement was calibrated based on repeated measurement of NBS-19 and NBS-

18 throughout the run sequence. Measurements of δ13C and δ18O are reported in parts per Mathwich 180 thousand (denoted as ‰) or per mil. Carbon isotopes and oxygen isotopes from carbonates, such as those extracted from tooth enamel, are reported relative to VPDB (Vienna Pee Dee Belemnite) global standard (Kendall and McDonnell 1998). Precision was 0.1‰ for δ18O and 0.08‰ for

δ13C (1 sigma). All per mil notations reported as:

18 13 15  Rsample  Rs tan dard   O, C, N    1000  Rs tan dard 

13 12 18 16 and Rsample and Rstandard refer to the ratios of C/ C and O/ O in a sample or standard.

The composition of stable carbon and oxygen is reported in δ (per mil) notation relative

18 to the global Vienna Pee Dee Belemnite standard (VPDB). The δ O body-water are reported in

Vienna Standard Mean Ocean Water (VSMOW), the standard for defining the isotopic composition of fresh water, and were converted from VPDB to VSMOW using the following:

18 18 18 δ O(VSMOW) = 30.92 + 1.03092 * δ O(VPDB) (Sharp 2007:39). For δ O carbonate-body-water, the fractionation from Bryant et al. (1996) of αCO3-H2O = 1.0263 was used. These conversions permit

δ18O values from tooth structural carbonate to be compared to surface water measurements.

The fractionations for bovids reported in Passey et al. (2005) were used to calculate δ13C

13 enamel-diet was αenamel-diet = 1.0146. The archaeological δ C values have been corrected for modern fossil fuel consumption, where the atmosphere in during the pre-industrial Spanish colonial period was 1.5‰ less depleted in 13C than in the modern era (Francey et al. 1999). The correction allows the archaeological samples to be compared to modern carbon values.

13 The end-member for C3 plants is derived from the mean δ CC3 equation in which resulted in a value of -24.87‰, (Kohn 2010). The C4 end-member comes from the global modern average Mathwich 181

for C4 plants (-12.5 ± 1.1‰) (Cerling et al. 1997). The mixing equation used to calculate %C4

13 from δ Cbioapatite from animal tooth enamel is:

(훿 퐶 훿 퐶) %퐶 = × 100 (훿 퐶훿 퐶)

Error propagation of %C4 was calculated using the values from Kohn (2010). Note that that some values can result in a %C4 value higher that 100% because the C4 end-member is a global average and not the lowest possible value for a plant species.

Results

Eighty-four samples, both serial and bulk, were analyzed and are reported on below. Ten were excluded because of low sample volume or high standard deviations. Original and derived ratios are reported with %C4 (Appendix B). Isotopic variation in desert environments with mixes of CAM, C4, and C3 plants is not as clear as in other vegetation communities. When paired with weak seasonality signals in δ18O from precipitation, exploring colonial range management becomes a challenge. Despite these challenges, the assay results illustrate clear overall dietary patterns between the cattle and caprines.

In addition to archaeological samples, modern water samples and hydrology studies of precipitation and groundwater were used to contextualize the δ18O from tooth enamel.

Bulk samples

Bulk sampling of livestock teeth from colonial settlements (Figures 8.2-4) shows ungulate partitioning of grazing and water resources, with caprines drinking more evaporated

13 water and consuming C3 plants as a greater proportion of their diets, with an average δ Cdiet = -

18.6 ± 0.08‰ VPDB. In contrast, cattle primarily consumed C4 grasses and cacti, and appeared

13 to have access to fresher water, with averages of Cdiet = -13.8 ± 0.08‰ VPDB. The carbon isotopes of C3 and C4 plants range from −22‰ to −30‰ and −10‰ to −14‰, respectively Mathwich 182

(Bender 1971; Cerling et al. 1997). CAM plants such as cacti are present in the Sonoran and

Chihuahuan Deserts, and livestock are known to eat them (Hanselka and Paschal 1990). Many of the cacti species that livestock consume fix carbon isotopes closer to the C4 range (Winter and

Holtum 2002). Modern cattle and sheep in Arizona show a distinct preference for C4 grasses, but cattle will include up to 50% of C3 browse in their diets if there are no other options available

(Ager et al. 2004; Sprinkle et al. 2002; Torstenson et al. 2006). Average cattle diets in the

Pimería Alta based on bulk samples were composed of 89.6% C4 plants. Caprine diets were comprised of 50.5% C4 plants. The differences in C3 and C4 proportions suggest grazing partitioning between these two species.

18 18 Cattle averaged δ Obody-water = 3.5 ± 0.1‰ VSMOW. Caprines averaged δ Obody-water = -

0.7 ± 0.1‰ VSMOW. The cattle appear to drink from multiple water sources, which are all relatively evaporated compared to modern precipitation averages of δ18O for the Tucson Basin

18 13 (Error! Reference source not found.). Cattle δ Obody-water and δ Cdiet cluster together, while caprines varied in their water sources and diet (Figures 8.2 and 8.3). The clustering of carbon and oxygen ratios in cattle was true across all three sites. Caprine body-water ratios revealed that they drank water from more enriched water sources, with oxygen ratios reflecting higher evaporation.

Table 8.1. Modern δ18O water ratios for the Tucson Basin and Guevavi.

δ18O ‰ Sample no. Date Location Grid E m N m VSMOW Santa Fe Ranch 9/5/2017 Well 1 12R 510249 3474414 -7.9 03 Santa Fe Ranch 9/5/2017 Well 2 12R 510641 3474120 -7.9 06 Santa Fe Ranch 9/5/2017 Standing pond 12R 510272 3474434 -0.8 09 Santa Fe Ranch Santa Cruz 9/5/2017 12R 509349 3474879 -6.9 12 River surface Mathwich 183

Santa Fe Ranch 9/5/2017 Well 3 12R 509321 3474831 -6.5 15 Tucson Basin long-term 1981- Summer - - - -6 amount-weight 2012 (monsoon)* averages Tucson Basin long-term 1981- Winter* - - - -7.3 amount-weight 2012 averages *Eastoe and Dettman (2016) noted a great deal of overlap between summer and winter isotope values, and found "isotope amount effects are weak to non-existent at time-scales ranging from seasons to decades" (Eastoe and Dettman 2016:87)

Table 8.2. Bulk sample averages.

18 Δ Obody 13 δ Cdiet Taxa -water % C % C VPDB 3 4 SMOW Caprine -0.68 -18.63 49.54 50.46 Cattle 3.51 -13.78 10.37 89.63

Mathwich 184

Cattle bulk samples by taxon 8 7 6 5

SMOW(‰) 4 Caprine 3 Cattle 2 body-water

O 1 18

δ 0 -25 -20 -15 -10 -5 0 δ13C VPDB (‰) diet . Figure 8.2. Carbon and oxygen isotopes from bulk samples of livestock teeth by taxon.

Bulk samples by site 8 7 6 Guevavi Cattle 5 Tubac Cattle SMOW(‰) 4 Tucson Cattle 3 Guevavi Caprine 2 body-water Tubac Caprine O 1 18 Tucson Caprine δ 0 -25 -20 -15 -10 -5 0

13 δ Cdiet VPDB (‰)

Figure 8.3. Carbon and oxygen isotopes from bulk samples by site. Mathwich 185

13 % Diet C4 and δ Cdiet -10

-12

-14

-16

-18 VPDB (‰)VPDB Caprine diet -20 C Cattle 13 δ -22

-24

-26 0 20 40 60 80 100 120 %

Figure 8.4. % C4 and diet between caprines and cattle.

Modern water samples 14

Cattle 9

Caprine 4

Modern water samples -1 O(‰)

18 Precipitation range*

δ -6

Tucson precipitation -11 average

-16

Figure 8.5. Bulk oxygen samples compared to modern precipitation. *Isotopic range of meteoric water covers 98% of recorded rainfall events (Eastoe and Dettman 2016).

When compared to modern samples and regional precipitation, both cattle and caprines oxygen ratios cluster above precipitation and groundwater averages. Oxygen from the water consumed from plant sources contributes to enrichment with the heavier isotope, which adds Mathwich 186

~7‰ (Grimstead and Pavão-Zuckerman 2016:44). Leaf water δ 13C-enrichment can be around

~8‰ for C4 plants in the Tucson area (Williams et al. 2005), and desert ecosystems have higher levels of leaf water enrichment in plants (Flanagan et al. 1991; Yann et al. 2013). Body-water values stayed within 98% of all meteoric variation but are far higher than precipitation averages.

Adjusting for leaf water enrichment, both caprines and cattle body-water oxygen ratios were higher than the summer average of -6‰ (Figure 8.5). The closest modern ratio to the archaeological material was a stock pond at Santa Fe Ranch (-0.8‰.), rather than the adjacent river surface water. While the consumption of plants will enrich an animal’s body-water, obligate drinkers such as domesticated cattle and caprines must drink water daily. Plants contribute less to body-water oxygen than in species that derive their body-water from plants.

These higher body-water values index the consumption of water from evaporated sources.

Serial samples

18 The range of cattle serial samples ranged from δ Obody-water = 1.13 to 5.96 ± 0.1‰

13 VSMOW Cdiet = -17.81 to -11.49 ± 0.08‰ VPDB. The serial samples of bovid molars reflect approximately a year early in the animal’s life. Unlike bone, stable carbon in enamel does not turn over across the animal’s life history. Weak seasonality is visible when the samples are graphed from oldest to youngest (Figure 8.6). In Tucson, isotope variation cannot be attributed to a “single and simple cause” at the seasonal time-scale (Eastoe and Dettman 2016:82). In two of the teeth, 229 and I-026, the oxygen and carbon isotopes track together. In four teeth (209, 226,

231, 245), the oxygen value peaks and then is followed by an increase in C4 consumption. In three teeth, there was no discernable relationship (247, 228, 244). There is a weak, negative correlation between the serial oxygen and carbon ratios (-0.312). This is unexpected because C4 grasses appear with the summer rains with higher oxygen ratios should be linked to higher Mathwich 187

carbon ratios from C4 plants. The consumption of cacti pads, which fix carbon at the C4 end of the range throughout the year (English et al. 2010; Szarek and Troughton 1976) may be contributing to this discrepancy. All of the oxygen ratios were far above meteoric averages for the river valley throughout the course of the year. One would expect some values to be closer to summer and winter averages if the animals were consuming water from sources closer to meteoric values, such as riverine sources (Table 8.2).

Mathwich 188

Serial sampling of Cattle teeth -10 9

-11 8 7 -12 6 -13 5 (‰)VPDB -14 4 (‰)VSMOW

diet diet 3

C -15

13 2 bodywater δ -16 1 O

-17 0 18 δ

-10 9

-11 8

-12 7 6 -13 5

-14 (‰)VSMOW (‰)VPDB 4 -15 diet diet 3 C

13 -16 2 bodywater δ -17 O

1 18 δ -18 0

Figure 8.6. Serial sampling of cattle teeth in the Pimería Alta. Each tooth sample is ordered from the oldest to youngest sample. Mathwich 189

Modern water sampling

As part of this research, I sampled modern water sources at Santa Fe Ranch, a ranch site within a quarter mile of Mission Guevavi (see Table 8.1). Three of the five locations were groundwater wells. Groundwater was not pumped during the colonial period, but this source offers long-term isotope averages and establishes some of the ranges of oxygen isotopic ratios within an area. Groundwater δ18O ratios in the Tucson Basin range from -7 to -12‰ VSMOW

(Eastoe et al. 2013). The Santa Cruz River sample was collected following summer rains. The oxygen isotope ratios from the river sample compare well with the adjacent groundwater. The run-off stock pond had a δ18O of -0.8 ‰ VSMOW, which was far higher than the river water (-

6.9 ‰ VSMOW). The stock pond sample was submitted twice to ensure this was an accurate result, as it was more enriched than the other samples.

Meteoric water in the Tucson Basin is distinguished by a slight δ18O enrichment in the summer compared to the winter, but there is substantial overlap between the two seasons. Eastoe and Dettman found significant, but slight differences between average winter and summer rains over time (Eastoe and Dettman 2016:87). The authors suggested that summer differences could be due to evaporation, whereby meteoric water becomes more enriched with the heavier oxygen isotope as the lighter isotope evaporates from precipitation and surface water (Eastoe and

Dettman 2016). In other parts of the country, snowfall, continental effects, and weather system origin produce greater seasonal variation. The pronounced isotope enrichment appeared in seasons with below average precipitation. Any δ18O values above -2‰ VSMOW, which are the highest values for summer rains, are likely the result of significant evaporation and not from any meteoric source. Mathwich 190

Discussion

This study applied a cultural landscape perspective to animal husbandry in the Santa Cruz

River Valley. Livestock products were linked to mining and distant markets, but the laborers behind these supplies were the O’odham families living at colonial settlements. There were broader social and ecological consequences to animal husbandry in the northern Pimería Alta beyond its relationship to the colonial economy. In this section I examine the results of the isotopic analysis, and the potential impacts on subsistence and traditional practices.

Water resources

18 The δ O enrichment is so high that water storage, enriched through evaporation, must have contributed to these high body-water levels. While the body-water of caprines and cattle in this study may also be partially enriched from leaf water, leaf water is only 7-8 ‰ higher than precipitation. Domestic cattle and caprines are obligate drinkers, meaning that their body water must be replenished each day from a water source and can be used as a paleoenvironmental indicator (Cerling et al. 1997). Modern stock ponds had δ18O 6‰ higher than the local river. The higher body-water values are a product both of enriched leaf water and evaporated water sources.

Water storage and irrigation has a long history in the Santa Cruz River Valley (Fish and Fish

2012), and was also an important component of Spanish mission and Sonoran agriculture

(Jeffery and Price Steinbrecher 2014). Water storage for livestock reflects a reorientation of natural resources and O’odham knowledge towards a colonial economy.

Serial samples from adult cattle molars from the three sites point to some seasonality, but

18 variability was high. There is a weak correlation between more enriched δ O values and C4 consumption. Late spring is one of the driest times of year, resulting in greater evaporation of water sources and likely pushed livestock managers toward a heaver reliance on stored water for Mathwich 191 animal consumption. About half of annual rainfall in the Sonoran Desert falls during the summer monsoon season and is slightly more enriched than winter rains. C4 grasses depend on monsoonal rainfall in the Sonoran and Chihuahuan deserts (Dimmitt 2000b; Holmgren et al.

2007). The grass growth follows the rains, thus the change in body water would appear first, followed by an isotopic shift toward C4 in grasses. The monsoon grasses, however, can be consumed long after the rains cease. C4 growth, and CAM plants, which fix carbon near the C4 range, will continue to produce fruit into the fall. These factors may offer a partial explanation of

18 the weak correlation between δ O and C4 grasses observed in some serially sampled teeth.

Future studies should explore if similar patterns are visible with serial caprine samples.

Livestock diets

The high proportions of C4 plants in cattle diets at Tucson, Tubac, Guevavi, and San

Agustín have several implications for colonial range management. First, cattle in the Santa Cruz

River Valley appeared to avoid, or were excluded from, the C3-rich riparian areas that were important to the irrigation agriculture practiced by the O’odham. The differences in elevation and location at Cocóspera (Grimstead and Pavão-Zuckerman 2016) suggest that the dietary patterns of cattle in the Santa Cruz River Valley were a local phenomenon. More sites from outside the

Santa Cruz Valley need to be sampled to establish the boundaries of the pattern.

The consumption patterns of livestock had broad consequences for local ecology.

18 Caprines consumed far more C3 plants and drank from more O-enriched water sources.

Grasslands formed the bulk of cattle diets and half of caprine diets. Cattle require between 3.2 and 10.4 kg of dry matter per day, compared to caprines, which require 0.45–1.4 kg depending on age and life stage (Gillespie 2004:911–924). At Mission Guevavi in 1761, there were more sheep (1,270) than cattle (865) (Kessell 1970:200). If the cattle from this herd ate the minimum Mathwich 192 of 3.2 kg of dry matter per day, that would be 2,746 kg. If sheep from this herd ate the maximum

1.4 kg per day, the total would be 1,501 kg, half the low-end estimates for cattle. Forage production in the Pima County, which covers Presidio of Tucson, ranges from 1.6 to 5.3 ha per animal unit month (AUM) or the amount a 454 kg cow would eat in a month (Sprinkle and

Bailey 2004). Sheep are considered 0.2 animal unit equivalent (AUE), the unit used to adjust

AUM for species. A sheep would need 0.3–1 ha a month. For a single month, the cattle herd the size of Mission Guevavi’s would require 1,400-4,440 ha. The same herd of sheep would need

411–1,336 ha a month. These numbers come from modern breeds, which may have different nutritional requirements than heritage breeds (Anderson et al. 2015). AUM and AUE calculations are tools modern ranchers use to determine stocking rates. The numbers illustrate the limits of the southern Arizona range biomass.

The nutritional needs of both species, regardless of biomass, affected local vegetation and wildlife. Livestock grazing alters the behaviors of wild ungulates. The differences in diets among caprines and cattle may reflect species-specific grazing behaviors. Caprines have more flexible diets, but averaged 50% C4 plants in the archaeological sample, suggesting summer grasses and some cacti composed half of their diets. Wild and domesticated ungulates partition grazing zones to avoid direct competition, a phenomenon often observed in the modern U.S. Southwest (Ager et al. 2004; Stewart et al. 2002; Torstenson et al. 2006). Grazing, even at low levels, creates negative impacts on local vegetation structure and habitats of native species (Curtin et al. 2002;

Flieschner 1994; Zwartjes et al. 2005). In terms of social impacts, O’odham hunters of wild ungulates such as deer and antelope needed to travel longer distances to find game deterred by livestock. It is unclear at this time whether this partitioning resulted from human decisions or Mathwich 193 reflected a natural division to avoid competition. Partition of grazing areas are behaviors observed in modern livestock and wild species, and can occur without human management.

Meeting the daily water requirements for livestock requires access to reliable water sources. In the Santa Cruz Valley, these include irrigation, catchment ponds, and natural wells such as those found at Tucson and Bac. For perspective, modern beef cattle need 23–78 L of water per day depending on age and temperature (National Academies of Sciences 2016). Sheep consume between 1 and 15 L of water per day (Midwest Plan Service 1982). The heat and aridity of summer increases water requirements for humans, crops, and livestock. At the hottest times of year, a herd of 200 sheep would need 3,000 L per day. The same number of cattle would need

15,600 L per day, which is the equivalent to an above-ground swimming pool 4.6 m in diameter.

These basic physiological differences between ruminants likely factored into decision-making about where these animals were allowed to graze and drink.

The semi-arid Santa Cruz River Valley is a region without strong seasonal precipitation signals. There are additional difficulties distinguishing leaf water δ18O enrichment and evaporation of standing water. Despite those challenges, grazing partitioning among species and indications of water storage were observed in livestock tooth enamel. There appeared to be little difference between the two presidios and missions. Species, rather than settlement type, had more influence on groupings. The biomass of each species created disparate nutritional requirements, which put differential pressure on local resources.

Ecologies of colonialism

The ecological implications of colonial livestock resource requirements are clear from the isotopic data, but certain aspects of Spanish colonialism require more interpretation. The dietary information embedded in livestock teeth reflect an altered relationship between humans and the Mathwich 194 local ecology that was structured by colonialism. The prevalence of livestock in colonial archaeological contexts illustrates the animals’ importance to mission and presidio activities

(Mathwich and Pavão-Zuckerman 2018). The market and pressure to produce livestock for local and regional consumption also redirected native activities. The construction of water storage features, movement to new pastures, butchering, branding, fence building, and other associated activities translated to taxes on O’odham time and labor. On top of requiring additional time and resources, livestock had broader landscape effects.

Livestock needed immense tracts of land and water resources, and these needs forced

O’odham communities to think about their landscape in relation to a colonial economy. The missionaries and Sonorans entering the Santa Cruz Valley saw the grasslands as an economic resource. Livestock helped impose this vision on Indigenous cultural landscapes. O’odham groups did not respond passively to these changes, and many opted out of the mission system altogether (Radding 1997). O’odham responses to cattle and sheep varied from violent removal of livestock in the first decades of missionary presence (Bayne 2017), to the provision of labor for ranching activities in the following decades (Kessell 1970), to becoming adept ranchers themselves.

Conclusions

Landscape approaches in archaeology have become increasingly important to the archaeologies of Indigenous experiences of colonialism (Douglass and Graves 2017; Panich and

Schneider 2015). Livestock in the Pimería Alta spurred O’odham to reevaluate water storage and grasslands and changed the region’s raiding dynamics. The isotopic evidence corroborated previous findings of the continuity of water storage and frequent grazing on desert grasslands at three colonial settlements, including military forts. The present study found that livestock Mathwich 195 partitioned both water and plant resources. Cattle and caprine teeth from archaeological deposits indicate that these animals consumed mixed C3/ C4/CAM diets with significant amounts of C4

13 plants. The δ C values suggest that cattle consumed a mixed diet with more C4 plants consistently throughout the year, and generally consumed water from less-evaporated water sources. Cattle body-water values clustered lower than those of caprines. The δ18O and δ13C ratios suggest that residents of Mission Guevavi, Tucson Presidio, and Tubac Presidio managed water and range resources within a regional community of practice. O’odham animal husbandry in the colonial period was often dismissed as being small relative to the scale and impact of the cattle industry in later periods (Sayre 1999; Castetter 1942). This study suggests that cattle and sheep impacted O’odham water management, and semi-desert grasslands were particularly affected. These results, however, reveal that extensive amounts of Indigenous lands, resources, and labor were required to maintain mission and presidio herds.

Mathwich 196

CHAPTER 9. EXAMINING RESILIENCE IN O’ODHAM COLONIAL LANDSCAPES

When Crosby first coined the term the “Columbian Exchange,” he sought to encompass the transfers of species, pathogens, and ideas between continents following European colonization of the Americas (Crosby 1972a). The Columbian Exchange remains a helpful term of reference at a global scale, but as a biological and social phenomenon, the evidence points to locally diverse responses that developed across centuries. To call the interactions among

Europeans and Indigenous groups in the Santa Cruz River Valley a part of the Columbian

Exchange is technically true, however it conceals the piecemeal, erratic process of Spanish colonialisms around the globe. The term hides the wide range of engagement between introduced people and introduced species, and how those interactions altered human-environmental interactions. As archaeology has moved toward postcolonial and critical economic theoretical approaches, researchers turned their focus toward Indigenous negotiation and resistance to colonialism. By re-centering research questions on local people and their landscapes, the full spectrum of decisions, pressures, and consequences comes into focus.

Colonialism is not just an ideology that creates social and economic inequality, it is first and foremost a process. The process of colonialism changed the historical contexts in which people made decisions. Domesticated animals contributed to that process because they arrived in the Americas as part of the eighteenth-century Spanish colonial package. Missionaries brought this collection of plants and animals with the intent to re-make Indigenous landscapes and social relations into patterns that conformed with European agropastoral societies. The biological needs and characteristics of Eurasian livestock transformed landscapes. Behind that ideology was the expectation that livestock would promote colonial control of a territory. Different livestock species affected the lifeways of Indigenous groups around North America, and the Pimería Alta Mathwich 197 was no exception. Many O’odham communities probably thought animal husbandry was an absurd practice when they first encountered it. Why bother with such big, hungry, and thirsty animals? Many villages, in fact, often did not bother with sheep and cattle, but those in long-term contact with the Spanish usually did eventually take up animal husbandry (Ezell 1974). This dissertation demonstrates some of the ways in which O’odham communities adjusted to the needs of these new animals while maintaining their long-term ties to other parts of the landscape.

The study of a colonial landscape

The breadth of these changes to Indigenous landscapes required multiple methods and a theoretical framework that could encompass both the qualities of socioenvironmental system and the exploitation and inequality at the heart of colonialism. Chapter 2 presented the two broad theoretical traditions used in this dissertation: 1) postcolonial theory and 2) complexity theory.

While the O’odham maintained social and subsistence practices and traded with groups across the region, some communities became entangled with the Spanish economy though mission products and later military expeditions. In turn, Spanish military and economic aims in the region became dependent on O’odham labor and participation.

My use of complexity theory implies the presence of a system. I argue that in some ways,

O’odham groups’ interactions resembled that of a system—a regularly interacting and interdependent group that together creates a whole. I use “whole” as more of an analogy, and the analogy is a limited one. O’odham groups shared similar languages, beliefs, and trade, but did not recognize central leadership and had heterogenous subsistence practices and belief traditions.

In addition to shared language and subsistence, O’odham groups in the Santa Cruz Valley shared similar environmental surroundings. These groups may reasonably fit within a loose definition of a system. The scope of the environmental studies on the zooarchaeological and isotopic data Mathwich 198 were limited to a system within a single river valley and mission system in northern New Spain.

Trade, animal husbandry, raids, and colonization in the Pimería Alta did not happen in the same ways as in other parts of the Spanish borderlands. The uniqueness of historical contingency, however, does not preclude the study of the dynamics and mechanisms that characterized

Indigenous peoples’ interactions with the Spanish.

Chapter 3 compared the Pimería Alta to the other two northernmost extensions of

Spanish colonialism, northern Alta California and New Mexico. Like these other regions, the

Pimería Alta was located on the edge of the New Spain's “control,” added at the end of the seventeenth century. Spanish colonialism was not an ahistorical process; it unfolded as a result of both historical contingency and locale. The culture and approaches to governance varied across northern New Spain. The policies and strategies of Spain at the time of the expedition into New

Mexico in 1588, had changed when Father Kino entered the Pimería Alta in the 1680s, and when de Anza entered Alta California nearly a century later. At each of these points in time, the political and economic situation of Spain and New Spain shifted and colonists learned from past mistakes. Kino, for example, had observed the challenges his predecessors had faced in Sinaloa and southern Sonora with competition with mines for Indigenous labor, and he entered the

O’odham homelands hoping to keep out mining for the first few decades and keep the Pimería

Alta as a religious enterprise. This small, religious enterprise was a far cry from Oñate´s large military expedition into New Mexico. While the Pimería Alta eventually had its share of mines and presidios as the nature of Spain´s interest in the province shifted over a century, the first several decades had fewer soldiers and miners than other areas of northern New Spain.

Historically situated policies and regional Indigenous politics shaped Indigenous landscapes. In all three regions, the arable and grazing lands of native communities held in Mathwich 199 common by the mission were gradually seized by vecinos (Radding 1997; Sheridan 2007). In

New Mexico, livestock grazing did not fundamentally alter subsistence practices until the nineteenth century. Northern Alta California did not face the threat of raiders on horseback in the same way as New Mexico and the Pimería Alta. The introduction of agricultural and ranching practices in northern Alta California and the population decline over the course of several decades led to a significant decline in traditional land management practices. These landscape and colonial interactions resulted in the creation of new, mission-centered Indigenous identities.

The Santa Cruz Valley itself shaped aspects of animal husbandry and O’odham economies, and these factors were explored in Chapter 4. The terrain of the Santa Cruz Valley was formed by geological forces and climate cycles over millions of years. Humans, too, have made their mark on the valley over several thousand years and have adapted the hydrology and vegetation to their needs. Agriculture and hunting and gathering/horticulture emerged as preferred subsistence practices. European people, crops, and livestock entered this flexible, adaptive system timed to the rhythms of the Sonoran Desert, and were subject to same local seasons, water resources, and native species. Of these, the dependability of water sources, whether permanent or seasonal, shaped the locations of long-term human settlement. The perennial need for water was exacerbated by the addition of livestock and attempts to increase agricultural production for the colonial markets. The Santa River Cruz Valley’s local geology, hydrology, and biology provided the possibilities around which O’odham ancestors made their decisions.

Reorganization

Resilience is a quality within complex adaptive systems and reflects "the capacity of a system to absorb disturbance and reorganize while undergoing change to still retain essentially Mathwich 200 the same function, structure, identity, and feedbacks" (Walker et al. 2004:5). A system can reorganize in response to disturbance and still maintain its structure. A system can also collapse and reorganize into a very different state. Spanish colonialism brought unprecedented changes to

Indigenous communities through disease, livestock, and socio-economic pressures. To what extent did O’odham resource use reorganize in response to colonial disturbance, and how resilient was it?

Prehistoric/historic animal use

To answer this question, faunal assemblages from the Santa Cruz River Valley show drastic shift in artiodactyl use following the introduction of cattle compared to prehistoric assemblages. The rapidity of the shift reflects reorganization of labor and resource use. Chapter 5 used a critical approach on divisions of time in North American archaeology and applied the simple approach of aggregating data from multiple periods to reevaluate prehistoric/historic boundaries in Santa Cruz River Valley. Periods of time used in archaeology are social constructs and reflect the logics of their culture of origin, in this case, North American archaeology. If not reexamined, chronological categories can reify interpretations that there was a major break between precontact and post-contact periods. Chapter 5 examined how diversity and indices of subsistence animal body size were distributed through time, across the prehistoric/historic break.

Artiodactyl index values clustered toward 1 after AD 1700, when lagomorphs were virtually absent from assemblages. Spanish colonial sites are more similar to later Mexican and American

Territorial patterns of artiodactyl use than to animals use in period prior to AD 1450. The faunal assemblages show consistent multicultural patterns in historical animal use in the Santa Cruz

River Valley. Historical O’odham settlements outside mission communities and outside the

Santa Cruz River Valley have not received as much attention, archaeologically, but this is Mathwich 201 changing with new construction development in the southern Arizona and new archaeological projects in northern Sonora.

The marked shift in colonial assemblages resembles a break between the prehistoric and historic periods as O’odham groups in the Santa Cruz River Valley switched from hunting to animal husbandry. The change was a combination of colonial demands on Indigenous labor and a reorganization based on cultural values. Colonial markets valued livestock and offered access to colonial goods and relationships, which may have appealed to some O’odham communities.

Alliances held attraction in the Santa Cruz River Valley where raiders posed a threat to O’odham rancherías. Livestock also offered accessible forms of grease, hide, and meat, which had value in

O’odham trade networks prior to contact. The relative importance of trade, local subsistence, and colonial coercion likely shifted based on social context, resulting in differential adoption of animal husbandry. The archaeological result was the frequent appearance of livestock in faunal assemblages.

Water management

Cattle and sheep impacted O’odham water management and semi-desert grasslands.

These results offer no sense of the impacts to vegetation or native fauna, and historical herd sizes varied throughout the colonial and Mexican period. Herd size fluctuated in relation to the prevalence of raiding, but historical herds still required extensive amounts of Indigenous land, resources, and labor. Livestock required daily access to water. While prior to the twentieth century, higher water tables supplied more surface water, this may not have been sufficient for both human and livestock needs. In Chapter 8, stable carbon and oxygen isotope assays from livestock teeth at Mission Guevavi, Tucson Presidio, and Tubac Presidio indicate that grazing placed new demands on water resources, and this impact likely scaled with herd size and species. Mathwich 202

13 The δ C values suggest that cattle ate a mixed diet that skewed more to C4 plants and drank

18 from less-evaporated water sources than caprines. The δ Obody water values are elevated in comparison to meteoric values. These enriched values point to the influence of leaf water enrichment and the consumption of evaporated stored water. Cattle body water values clustered lower than those of caprines. Cattle and caprines consumed a mixed C3/ C4/CAM diet with

18 13 significant amounts of C4 plants. The δ O and δ C ratios suggest that residents of Mission

Guevavi, Tucson Presidio, and Tubac Presidio managed water and range resources for each taxon in similar ways.

The isotope analyses support the interpretation that both caprines and cattle consumed water from evaporated sources, consistent with stored water from modern stock ponds. This indirect evidence of stock pond use and water collection throughout the landscape illustrates the multi-faceted nature of extractive activities like ranching. People’s diets changed, and their allocation of water and land did as well. The alteration of existing permanent water sources or expansion of the quantity of seasonal water ponds was perhaps used to control animal movement. Herds could wander into agricultural fields, gardens, or drinking water at sensitive times of the year, destroying seedlings or making a spring unpotable. Herds could also be fed on the empty stalks of harvested fields and leave fertilizing manure behind for next year’s crops.

The carbon isotope ratios do not exclude this possibility in regard to maize, which is also a C4 grass. Water storage practices likely helped keep herds away from agricultural areas until after a harvest. The next research step will explore the extent of water storage to see if remnants of these water storage features still exist and if the features are referenced in colonial documents.

To use multiple lines of evidence to study O’odham reorganization in response to livestock assumes that colonial animal husbandry was large enough to make a landscape-level Mathwich 203 impact. O’odham animal husbandry in the colonial period is often dismissed as small relative to the scale and impact of the cattle industry in later periods (Castetter 1942; Sayre 1999). The research presented here cannot weigh in on whether grazing was detrimental to the local environment. Animal-husbandry prior to 1852 was indeed practiced on a smaller scale and was likely not as destructive as the Anglo herds in the late nineteenth century, however,

“preindustrial” does not necessarily imply harmless or negligible. As the zooarchaeological evidence shows, Santa Cruz River Valley animal use shifted quickly in response to these new animals. Herd sizes in the Pimería Alta did periodically reach large sizes. This population of animals would have required large expanses of range and reliable, daily access to water. Finally, cattle, horses, and sheep required a different way of looking at and evaluating the landscape and its resources. Raiding, colonial markets, and Indigenous trade networks all had uses for these animals. O’odham, missionaries, and soldiers in the Santa Cruz River Valley were cognizant of those demands, and reorganized resources around livestock.

Absorbing new pressures

The capacity of a system to withstand disruption by absorbing disturbances is a difficult to assess through archaeological materials. If there is no change in the material assemblage, how can one tell that a disturbance occurred? This is where historical and ethnographic sources and modeling become invaluable as independent lines of evidence. In this dissertation I seek to examine O’odham stability through seasonal movement and modeling of the diffusion of animal husbandry at small scales.

Mission registers and seasonality

The persistence of Indigenous communities involved the maintenance of ties to cultural landscapes. While faunal assemblages show a significant and systemic reorganization of animal Mathwich 204 subsistence, other types of subsistence appeared to be more resilient to colonial intrusions.

Resilience in a system includes both the flexibility to gradually reorganize and the capacity to absorb disturbance. In Chapter 6, historical mission records of baptisms, marriages, and burials show a willingness to adapt to a Catholic calendar, but showed a much stronger adherence to flowering and fruiting cycles of the Sonoran Desert. After compiling and cleaning the records, the counts of events and participants at missions were clearly not distributed evenly over the course of the year. There were notable decreases in baptisms, births, and deaths recorded at colonial settlements in certain months. Distributions at individual sites conform to a broader regional pattern because sites ranged between moderate to strong correlations to the whole sample. There is a certain degree of flexibility to when a baptism, marriage, or even a burial ceremony may occur. If people are off gathering, hunting, planting, and harvesting, getting a child baptized might reasonably be put off until the next time the child and the child’s family are near a priest. When the participation and event count distributions were compared to the Catholic calendar, some correspondence was observed. Holy Week and Christmas celebrations appeared to be tied to the celebration of marriage, baptisms, and burials at the missions. O’odham incorporation of new Catholic traditions at missions suggests a willingness to participate in colonial communities.

Seasonal shifts and the availability of wild resources, however, account the big changes in the frequency of ritual events. The evidence from mission registers suggest decreased activity at the missions from late May through October. Higher temperatures corresponds to the ripening of tree pods and cactus fruit and is strongly correlated to drops in participation at mission events.

Precipitation, which one would expect to be significant to agricultural cycles, was not associated with absence from the mission records. The annual cycles observed in the registers continued at Mathwich 205 some level throughout the eighteenth century and into the nineteenth century. The decrease in events corresponds well with gathering and farming practices reported in the twentieth century.

Gathering practices helped O’odham at villages occupied by Spanish missionaries and soldiers ensure their annual subsistence and survival in the desert landscape.

The times away from colonial settlements were also opportunities to maintain social connections. O’odham in the Santa Cruz River Valley likely traveled far afield. Seasonal travel is supported by the ethnographic record describing trade and labor for the Akimel O’odham. While seasonal travel is visible in colonial mission registers, its origins go back further into the

Hohokam cultural complex. The persistence of gathering practices helped communities absorb disruptions such as displacement, disease, and labor demands. Time away from the missions provided a refuge from colonial pressures and helped mission O’odham renew their ties to their broader cultural landscapes. For this reason, historical and ethnographic observations of farming and gathering practices have a strong basis in the colonial period, and there is a clear continuity of practice. The research here highlights the inventive and persistent relationship between native peoples living at Spanish missions and their cultural landscapes.

Challenges to animal husbandry

The capacity to resist change is an important component of systemic resilience, and likely contributed to the long-term persistence of O’odham lifeways. Cattle and sheep in the southern

Southwest required specialized knowledge and time away from traditional subsistence practices such as cactus fruit and bean pod collection and planting crops. The animals were also in competition with crops and people for water. As discussed previously, the care of these animals impacted social roles, labor organization, seasonality, and resource allocation. Mathwich 206

Chapter 7 explored how resistance might be examined in the absence of material evidence. Using an Agent Based Model (ABM), I explored how a new practice such as animal husbandry could be shared and resisted in population sizes similar to those in the colonial

Pimería Alta. The simulation results indicate that below certain thresholds in both population sizes, animal husbandry would cease to spread and eventually die out. The immunity to animal husbandry altered overall dynamics. In the smaller population, agents who were susceptible were had decreased opportunities to adopt animal husbandry if they were surrounded by agents who opted out (immune), and the transmission of animal husbandry would fail after several decades.

The presence of agents who refused to practice animal husbandry decreased the spread of the practice by lowering the probability a person want to share livestock would encounter agents willing to raise livestock. This immunity buffer was compounded by a low probability of spread, and the general trend was the rapid "die-out" of animal husbandry in both population sizes. The only case where animal husbandry achieved stability was within the larger population, and only in the simulations where the rate of transmission was quite high (0.75). These findings index the importance of community size to the adoption of animal husbandry, and show how just a little bit of resistance to the transmission of the practice (10%) can cause it to die out. There are several implications for what this means to the success and failure of animal husbandry in different parts of the Pimería Alta.

A small amount of resistance could keep invasive practices from becoming widespread while providing flexibility and knowledge if conditions changed in the future. This suggests that for animal husbandry to become widespread in the Pimería Alta, strong incentives were needed overcome the inherent labor and resource costs of certain species of livestock. In larger populations, animal husbandry could persist in a minority of the population, even with some Mathwich 207 people flatly refusing to participate. The flexible hierarchies and decentralized leadership of

O’odham communities may have permitted the co-existence of multiple practices and experimentation over long-periods of time. If animal husbandry became more favorable through time, and markets for livestock grew, the knowledge base already existed in communities that had experimented with it.

The process of colonialism attempted to manipulate the conditions under which

Indigenous peoples made decisions about land use. Experimentation may have allowed groups to adjust faster to these new pressures. While this process is not unique to colonial economies, the effects of these dynamics on small communities can be profound. This model also identified mechanisms that underlay the difficulties the Spanish faced while implementing European ideas and practices on the northern frontier. The dynamics inherent in O’odham community size and structure influenced individual decisions and prevented the practices from taking root, except under the most favorable circumstances, or in coercive situations. This may partially explain why

European winter wheat spread so far ahead of the Spanish but sheep and cattle did not. The wheat required no new agricultural technology or knowledge but filled an important lean period in the early spring. As such, in the ABM, wheat would have a very high probability of being shared and retained when agents interacted. In contrast, there were more barriers to the spread of animal husbandry, which may help to explain its lower frequency in the O’odham homelands.

Conclusions

Persistence as a concept both acknowledges the severe challenge colonial intrusions posed to Indigenous peoples and recognizes the capability and agency that empowered the survival of many native groups (Panich 2013). Persistence is a central interpretative position of this dissertation—Tohono O’odham groups exist today in their current forms because of the Mathwich 208 decisions and actions of people in the past. As multiple lines of evidence illustrate, persistence is socially and politically defined, encompassing multiple subsistence systems and human- environmental interactions. In the Tohono O’odham case, persistence accurately reflects the political and cultural status of the tribe, but it does not reflect the colonial experiences of all native groups in northern Mexico of the U.S. Southwest. In contrast, Opata groups integrated into Spanish and Mexican immigration into Sonora, and while some practices were maintained, group and language identities became fragmented as a result of these demographic shifts. Apache and Comcaac (Seri) groups successfully fought Spanish expansion into their territory. The way

Tohono O’odham that persisted and their experiences of colonialism are thus relatively unique and important to the discussions of Spanish colonialisms and cultural change in the North

American Southwest. The groups mentioned above have varying degrees of legal recognition and autonomy, and their experiences illustrate that persistence has complex, multi-faceted qualities.

In this dissertation, I use concepts and methods from complex adaptive systems (CAS) to explore facets of persistence. At the heart of CAS are non-linear relationships, knowing how a system’s individual parts interact does not necessarily lead to a understanding of the whole system's behavior (Page and Miller 2007). Individual and local interactions may be random and unpredictable, but broader patterns are observable and emerge from these interactions. I seek a way to approach persistence from a local level, one which assumes interconnectivity and sensitivity to environmental conditions. There are also advantages to using CAS that allow integration of long-term human-environmental change into the historical period. A system is neither static nor does it exist in equilibrium, and its individual components can alter their behavior when the context changes (Lansing 2003). As the prehistoric zooarchaeological Mathwich 209 assemblages demonstrated, human-animal relationships shifted throughout the Hohokam sequence (Dean 2003). Assemblages moved toward greater proportions of artiodactyls and increased diversity. Changes in the colonial period to faunal subsistence can be understood within this larger continuum.

CAS approaches have been heavily critiqued for their Western positivist approaches.

Model simulations may unconsciously incorporate the researcher’s cultural background and assumptions about the world and be used to reify power inequalities (Helmreich 2000). CAS approaches, because they assume an objective neutrality, make it difficult to identify the targeted programs of cultural change and structural inequality that was built into Spanish colonialism. If people with a vested interest in decolonizing anthropology are not using all the tools available to them, then they are effectively ceding these approaches to those who are indifferent to the

Eurocentrism that has shaped so much of Western knowledge. In this dissertation, I have sought to show how CAS can be thoughtfully integrated into studies of the Indigenous experiences of colonialism. Models will be stronger for the incorporation of non-Western perspectives, and there is substantially more work to be done. I hope to have established the beginnings of that work in this dissertation.

Resilience is a term often used to describe Indigenous survival and persistence under colonial pressures, but it has multiple meanings. Resilience, as used in this dissertation, is the ability of a system to absorb change and maintain its functions or reorganize to adapt to new circumstances. This definition of resilience is distinct from psychological definitions of resilience, which reflect an individual or a group’s ability to adapt to adversity and is thus perceived as a desirable quality. Change in a system, however, is neither good nor bad. Change alters feedbacks, and the result is usually beneficial for some parts of the system and problematic Mathwich 210 for others. Resilience as used in CAS offers precise ways to describe systemic interactions. There are limits to the interpretive value of systemic resilience (Redman 2014), and systems can collapse and shift into new states. Not every system is resilient under certain pressures, so what does that mean for Indigenous groups? Collapse and reorganization into a new state is still defined by local conditions and populations but will have different feedbacks and structures.

While the zooarchaeological data revealed an enormous shift in animal use, there exists strong evidence for continued gathering and farming practices in the mission register data. Carbon and oxygen isotopes showed continuity and change in resource use as people at presidios and missions throughout the Santa Cruz River Valley used grasslands and local knowledge of water storage to care for mission herds. CAS are exactly that, complex and interacting. Multiple lines of evidence paint a contradictory and dynamic picture of Tohono O’odham persistence, one which shows immense flexibility bounded within O’odham knowledge of the landscape and its constraints. Systemic shifts do not negate political and social persistence because human subsistence exists within multiple overlapping systems.

Challenging narratives of erasure in the American West

The distinctions between complex adaptive systems and postcolonialism are necessary to report the ecological dynamics of the colonial period and the power and economic inequalities which spurred Spanish colonial intrusion and occupation of the Pimería Alta. Contemporary demands on natural resources in western North America compound the separation of Indigenous peoples in archaeology from their landscape practices, some of which might be considered “non- traditional” because of the practices’ colonial origins. The expansion of populations in the western United States and northern Mexico has increased the pressure on natural resources and thus the need to understand and protect cultural landscapes threatened by development. Mathwich 211

Herding and ranching are significant cultural and economic activities for Native

Americans across the western United States (Bethke 2017; Kozak and Lopez 1999; Mitchell

2015; Nabhan et al. 1989). The discrimination of Native Americans in modern ranching and agriculture has its origins in the colonial period, but continues to be reinforced in modern legal systems. Ranching is essential to the image and industry of the northern Sonora and the U.S.

Southwest. In the histories of these regions, Tohono O’odham and other Indigenous groups are ignored as actors and contributors to ranching. The data and findings within this dissertation illustrate the depth and flexibility of O’odham environmental knowledge and their capacity to apply it to animal husbandry. These findings challenge narratives that minimize and erase

Indigenous animal husbandry from mainstream histories, and show the complexity, scale, and impact of the introduction of livestock in the Pimería Alta.

Mathwich 212

Appendix A. Santa Cruz Valley Archaeological Sites

Start End Artiodactyl Shannon Site number Name Period Year Year NISP Source Index Index (A.D) (A.D)

AZ Dairy Site Pioneer 475 750 119 0.078 1.160 (Szuter 1989, 1991b) AA:12:285(ASM)

AZ AA:12:120(ASM Lonetree Pioneer 475 750 1961 0.003 0.490 (Gillespie 1990)

AZ Redtail Pioneer 475 750 182 0.000 0.630 (Gillespie 1989a) AA:12:149(ASM)

AZ AA:12:18(ASM Hodges Tortolita 475 700 216 0.005 0.541 (Heideke et al. 1996)

Late Pioneer to Early (Gillespie 1989b; Szuter AZ AA:12:484(ASM Hawk's Nest 700 750 605 0.034 1.334 Colonial 1989, 1991b)

AZ AA:16:49(ASM) Dakota Wash Colonial 750 950 1242 0.079 0.526 (Szuter 1989, 1991b)

AZ Dairy Site Colonial 750 950 153 0.218 1.228 (Szuter 1989, 1991b) AA:12:285(ASM) Mathwich 213

Appendix A. Santa Cruz Valley Archaeological Sites

Start End Artiodactyl Shannon Site number Name Period Year Year NISP Source Index Index (A.D) (A.D)

(Heideke et al. 1996; Classic, Rillito- AZ AA:12:18(ASM Hodges 850 1150 1009 0.033 1.028 Szuter 1989, 1991b; Tanque Verde Yoshikawa 1986)

AZ Pastimes Rillito 850 950 3330 0.043 0.470 (Gillespie 1988) AA:12:384(ASM)

Rillito, Rincon and (Gillespie 1989b; Szuter AZ AA:16:161(ASM 850 1300 235 0.018 0.472 Tanque Verde 1989, 1991b)

Rillito to Middle AZ AA:12:57(ASM) Los Morteros 850 1100 538 0.004 0.458 (Gillespie 1995) Rincon

AZ AA:16:94 Waterworld Rillito 850 950 2086 0.418 0.065 (Gillespie 1989b)

Early, Middle, and (Szuter 1985, 1989, AZ BB:13:15 Valencia Site 950 1150 162 0.000 1.515 Late Rincon 1991b)

(Szuter 1986, 1989, AZ AA:16:3 West Branch Rincon 950 1100 334 0.091 0.638 1991b) Mathwich 214

Appendix A. Santa Cruz Valley Archaeological Sites

Start End Artiodactyl Shannon Site number Name Period Year Year NISP Source Index Index (A.D) (A.D)

Middle and Late AZ AA:12:120(ASM Lonetree 1000 1150 352 0.000 0.701 (Gillespie 1990) Rincon

(Johnson 1990; Szuter AZ BB:9:143(ASM Cienega Middle Rincon 1000 1100 212 0.152 1.654 1989, 1991b)

(Cairns and Huber 1999; AZ AA:12:10(ASM) Sunset Mesa Middle Rincon phase 1000 1100 473 0.075 1.030 Waters 2000)

AZ AA:12:57(ASM) Los Morteros Middle Rincon 1000 1100 898 0.017 0.449 (Gillespie 1990)

Tanque Verde Szuter and Brown 1986; AZ BB:13:68(ASM) Middle Rincon 1000 1100 1373 0.022 1.318 Wash Szuter 1989, 1991b

Transitional Late AZ (James 1987; Szuter Muchas Casas Sedentary to Early 1100 1300 1152 0.524 1.331 AA:12:368(ASM) 1989, 1991b) Classic

Late Rincon and AZ AA:12:57(ASM) Los Morteros 1100 1300 1729 0.020 0.762 (Gillespie 1990) Tanque Verde Mathwich 215

Appendix A. Santa Cruz Valley Archaeological Sites

Start End Artiodactyl Shannon Site number Name Period Year Year NISP Source Index Index (A.D) (A.D)

AZ Marana Classic 1150 1450 2920 0.112 1.245 (Kendall 2002) AA:12:251(ASM)

(Gillespie 1987; Pierce San Xavier Bridge AZ BB:13:14(ASM) Tanque Verde 1150 1300 769 0.111 1.683 1987; Szuter 1989, Site 1991b)

AZ Rillito Fan Tucson 1300 1450 134 0.149 0.922 (Dean 2003) AA:12:788(ASM)

AZ EE:9:1(ASM) Guevavi Spanish colonial 1700 1775 1519 0.993 1.049 (Mathwich 2016:20)

AZ DD:8:33(ASM) Tubac American Territorial 1750 1800 389 0.990 1.558 (Hewitt 1975)

AZ DD:8:3(ASM) Tumacacori Spanish colonial 1750 1800 967 0.951 1.226 (Hamblin 1981a)

AZ BB:13:756(ASM) Presidio Spanish and Mexican 1775 1850 2769 0.993 1.502 (Broockmann 2008)

(Diehl and Waters 2006; AZ BB:13:13(ASM) Presidio Spanish and Mexican 1775 1850 2334 1.000 0.747 Waters 2008)

AZ BB:13:13(ASM) Presidio Spanish and Mexican 1783 1850 121 1.000 1.065 (Waters 2008:200) Mathwich 216

Appendix A. Santa Cruz Valley Archaeological Sites

Start End Artiodactyl Shannon Site number Name Period Year Year NISP Source Index Index (A.D) (A.D)

(Pavão-Zuckerman AZ BB:13:16(ASM) San Agustín Spanish colonial 1795 1820 9024 0.803 1.308 2011)

AZ DD:8:33(ASM) Tubac Spanish and Mexican 1800 1850 416 0.993 1.230 (Hewitt 1975)

AZ DD:8:3(ASM) Tumacácori Spanish and Mexican 1800 1850 4056 0.997 1.026 (Hamblin 1981a)

Mexican and AZ BB:13:505(ASM) Leon Farmstead 1840 1860 1169 1.000 0.429 (Diehl et al. 2005) American Territorial

AZ BB:13:13(ASM) Presidio American Territorial 1850 1883 692 1.000 1.182 (Waters 2008)

AZ BB:13:13(ASM) Presidio American Territorial 1852 1905 2087 0.990 1.186 (Waters 2008)

AZ BB:13:6(ASM) Chinese Gardener American Territorial 1852 1905 103 0.981 (Waters 2008)

AZ BB:13:160(ASM) TCC American Territorial 1860 1929 473 1.000 1.535 (Ayres 1990)

Chinese Gardener, AZ BB:13:6(ASM) American Territorial 1870 1890 254 0.989 1.110 (Thiel 1996:122) Jacome backyard

AZ BB:13:505(ASM) Leon Farmstead American Territorial 1870 1880 221 1.000 0.548 (Diehl et al. 2005) Mathwich 217

Appendix A. Santa Cruz Valley Archaeological Sites

Start End Artiodactyl Shannon Site number Name Period Year Year NISP Source Index Index (A.D) (A.D)

(Ciolek-Torrello and AZ BB:13:9(ASM) Block 180 American Territorial 1870 1905 3401 0.980 1.508 Swanson 1997)

AZ BB:13:117(ASM) Lewis-Weber Site American Territorial 1872 1916 3548 0.988 1.860 (Hamblin 1981b)

AZ BB:13:505(ASM) Leon Farmstead American Territorial 1880 1890 2539 0.998 0.743 Diehl et al. 2005

AZ BB:13:13(ASM) Presidio American Territorial 1883 1910 279 0.977 1.170 (Waters 2008)

AZ BB:13:160(ASM) TCC American Territorial 1883 1890 333 1.000 1.680 (Ayres 1990)

(Waters and Thiel AZ BB:13:401(ASM) Block 83 American Territorial 1885 1910 1751 0.995 1.544 2009:83)

AZ BB:13:160(ASM) TCC American Territorial 1890 1900 265 1.000 0.261 (Ayres 1990)

Mathwich 218

Appendix B. Archaeological teeth from Tucson Presidio, Tubac Presidio and Mission Guevavi

18 13 13 18 Δ Obody- Sample δ Cbioapatite δ Cdiet δ Obioapatite Lab no. Site No. Taxa Element SD± water SD± % C type VPDB VPDB VPDB 4 VSMOW Tucson Presidio 209 BB:13:756 Cattle Bulk Molar 0.48 -12.44 0.019 -1 4.13 0.016 100.51 209A BB:13:756 Cattle Serial Molar -0.56 -14.94 0.038 -0.36 3.73 0.062 80.29 209B BB:13:756 Cattle Serial Molar -0.32 -14.7 0.035 -0.75 3.71 0.025 82.18 209C BB:13:756 Cattle Serial Molar -0.22 -14.61 0.019 -0.78 3.52 0.041 82.96 209D BB:13:756 Cattle Serial Molar 0.11 -14.28 0.018 -0.96 3.26 0.027 85.58 209E BB:13:756 Cattle Serial Molar 0.31 -14.08 0.022 -1.23 2.87 0.019 87.19 209F BB:13:756 Cattle Serial Molar 0.26 -14.14 0.082 -1.61 2.74 0.062 86.78 209G BB:13:756 Cattle Serial Molar 0.41 -13.99 0.008 -1.75 3.45 0.045 87.97 211 BB:13:756 Cattle Bulk Molar -0.9 -15.27 0.025 -1.04 6.52 0.035 77.57 215 BB:13:13 Caprine Bulk Molar -4.7 -19.02 0.033 0.8 5.29 0.045 47.27 226 BB:13:13 Cattle Bulk Molar 1.14 -13.27 0.036 0.09 4.76 0.03 93.8 226A BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar -1.13 -15.51 0.058 0.27 4.46 0.082 75.68 226B BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar -0.42 -14.81 0.004 -0.03 4.32 0.02 81.35 226C BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar -0.22 -14.6 0.012 -0.17 4.6 0.02 83 226D BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar 0.35 -14.05 0.027 0.1 4.82 0.033 87.47 226E BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar 0.73 -13.67 0.03 0.32 4.45 0.084 90.54 226F BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar 1.2 -13.21 0.031 -0.04 4.05 0.005 94.26 226G BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar 1.56 -12.85 0.035 -0.44 3.4 0.045 97.13 226H BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar 2.33 -12.09 0.087 -1.09 4.75 0.028 103.32 226I BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar 0.9 -13.5 0.047 0.26 4.78 0.057 91.92 227 BB:13:13 Cattle Bulk Molar -0.76 -15.14 0.054 0.34 4.92 0.067 78.66 227A BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar 0.17 -14.23 0.033 0.28 4.72 0.051 86.04 227B BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar -0.66 -15.04 0.092 0.43 4.81 0.027 79.49 227C BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar -1.42 -15.79 0.031 0.23 5.1 0.101 73.41 Mathwich 219

Appendix B. Archaeological teeth from Tucson Presidio, Tubac Presidio and Mission Guevavi

18 13 13 18 Δ Obody- Sample δ Cbioapatite δ Cdiet δ Obioapatite Lab no. Site No. Taxa Element SD± water SD± % C type VPDB VPDB VPDB 4 VSMOW 227D BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar -1.68 -16.05 0.03 0.31 4.88 0.068 71.33 227E BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar -1.81 -16.17 0.072 0.6 3.69 0.041 70.31 227F BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar -1.87 -16.23 0.006 0.39 3.2 0.025 69.84 227G BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar -2.47 -16.82 0.013 -0.8 3.14 0.02 65.06 228A BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar -2.5 -16.85 0.02 -1.29 3.72 0.003 64.8 228B BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar -2.15 -16.5 0.05 -1.35 4.58 0.06 67.62 228C BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar -2.45 -16.81 0.066 -0.76 4.54 0.072 65.18 228D BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar -2.57 -16.92 0.012 0.09 5.26 0.049 64.23 228E BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar -2.55 -16.9 0.018 0.05 5.66 0.011 64.42 228F BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar -2.44 -16.8 0.009 0.76 2.35 0.058 65.25 228G BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar -2.88 -17.22 0.012 1.16 3.09 0.03 61.8 229A BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar 1.32 -13.09 0.025 -2.13 3.19 0.015 95.26 229B BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar 2.1 -12.32 0.005 -1.4 2.05 0.026 101.47 229C BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar 2.94 -11.49 0.006 -1.29 2.19 0.038 108.15 229D BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar 2.16 -12.26 0.016 -2.43 1.17 0.027 101.95 229E BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar 1.87 -12.55 0.033 -2.29 1.68 0.03 99.6 229F BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar 0.69 -13.71 0.009 -3.31 5.35 0.087 90.24 229G BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar 1.98 -12.44 0.03 -2.8 4.13 0.008 100.47 231 BB:13:13 Cattle Bulk Molar 0.41 -13.98 0.019 0.66 4.18 0.06 88 231 BB:13:13 Cattle Bulk Molar 0.37 -14.03 0.034 0.43 4.28 0.047 87.65 231A BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar 0 -14.39 0.01 0.85 4.49 0.016 84.74 231B BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar 0.19 -14.2 0.018 -0.36 4.78 0.041 86.25 231C BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar 0.35 -14.04 0.028 -0.31 2.79 0.025 87.51 231D BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar 0.28 -14.11 0.006 -0.21 2.98 0.013 86.95 231E BB:13:13 Cattle Serial Molar -0.38 -14.76 0.015 0 3.24 0.054 81.69 Tubac Presidio Mathwich 220

Appendix B. Archaeological teeth from Tucson Presidio, Tubac Presidio and Mission Guevavi

18 13 13 18 Δ Obody- Sample δ Cbioapatite δ Cdiet δ Obioapatite Lab no. Site No. Taxa Element SD± water SD± % C type VPDB VPDB VPDB 4 VSMOW 233 DD:8:33 Caprine Bulk Molar -4.75 -19.07 0.009 2.82 3.87 0.041 46.87 244A DD:8:33 Cattle Serial Molar 1.47 -12.94 0.042 -1.7 4.1 0.045 96.45 244B DD:8:33 Cattle Serial Molar 1.42 -13 0.03 -1.51 4.39 0.032 96 244C DD:8:33 Cattle Serial Molar 1.52 -12.89 0.02 -1.25 4.38 0.053 96.86 244D DD:8:33 Cattle Serial Molar 1.12 -13.29 0.027 -0.62 4.19 0.037 93.63 244E DD:8:33 Cattle Serial Molar 1.59 -12.82 0.017 -0.39 4.61 0.081 97.42 245 DD:8:33 Cattle Bulk Molar 2.21 -12.21 0.036 -0.1 4.7 0.05 102.34 245A DD:8:33 Cattle Serial Molar 0.45 -13.95 0.009 -0.11 4.24 0.02 88.29 245B DD:8:33 Cattle Serial Molar 0.94 -13.46 0.066 -0.3 3.05 0.099 92.23 245C DD:8:33 Cattle Serial Molar 1.44 -12.97 0.007 0.12 2.8 0.047 96.18 245D DD:8:33 Cattle Serial Molar 1.69 -12.73 0.048 0.21 -8.92 0.082 98.15 245E DD:8:33 Cattle Serial Molar 2.22 -12.21 0.011 -0.25 3.67 0.036 102.38 245F DD:8:33 Cattle Serial Molar 2.56 -11.87 0.043 -1.43 2.22 0.102 105.1 245G DD:8:33 Cattle Serial Molar 2.42 -12 0.026 -1.68 2.68 0.047 104.01 246 DD:8:33 Caprine Bulk Molar -6.37 -20.67 0.004 0.28 0.11 0.076 33.93 Mission Guevavi I-021 EE:9:1 Caprine Bulk Molar -4.36 -18.69 0.022 2.39 1.82 0.06 49.99 I-025 EE:9:1 Cattle Bulk Molar 2.43 -12 0.026 -1.8 3.01 0.05 104.08 I-026 EE:9:1 Cattle Bulk Molar 0.5 -13.9 0.04 -2.47 4.66 0.087 88.71 I-026B EE:9:1 Cattle Serial Molar -1.3 -15.67 0.021 -2.92 2.01 0.054 74.37 I-026F EE:9:1 Cattle Serial Molar -0.35 -14.73 0.03 -1.76 2.84 0.041 81.96 I-026H EE:9:1 Cattle Serial Molar -1.01 -15.39 0.011 -0.84 4.49 0.037 76.67 I-041 EE:9:1 Cattle Bulk Molar 0.29 -14.1 0.022 -0.44 6.89 0.03 87.05 I-052 EE:9:1 Cattle Bulk Molar -1.02 -15.39 0.021 -2.66 4.05 0.048 76.61 I-061 EE:9:1 Caprine Bulk Molar -7.5 -21.78 0.016 3.31 7.81 0.018 24.97 I-069 EE:9:1 Cattle Bulk Molar -1.25 -15.63 0.01 -2.46 2.02 0.024 74.73 Mathwich 221

Appendix B. Archaeological teeth from Tucson Presidio, Tubac Presidio and Mission Guevavi

18 13 13 18 Δ Obody- Sample δ Cbioapatite δ Cdiet δ Obioapatite Lab no. Site No. Taxa Element SD± water SD± % C type VPDB VPDB VPDB 4 VSMOW I-105 EE:9:1 Cattle Bulk Molar -0.26 -14.65 0.03 -1.48 3.65 0.012 82.61 I-107 EE:9:1 Caprine Bulk Molar -2.61 -16.96 0.036 -1.19 6.7 0.09 63.9 I-121 EE:9:1 Cattle Bulk Molar 0.48 -13.92 0.017 -0.84 7.59 0.026 88.56 I-125 EE:9:1 Caprine Bulk Molar -8.29 -22.56 0.031 2.2 5.84 0.089 18.66 I-128 EE:9:1 Caprine Bulk Molar -7.21 -21.49 0.045 3.09 1.73 0.067 27.29 I-140 EE:9:1 Caprine Bulk Molar -4.94 -19.26 0.032 1.34 1.56 0.033 45.37 I-166 EE:9:1 Cattle Bulk Molar 1.53 -12.88 0.031 -4.36 1.12 0.024 96.89 I-26A EE:9:1 Cattle Serial Molar -1.01 -15.38 0.028 -2.75 2.73 0.022 76.7 I-26C EE:9:1 Cattle Serial Molar -0.93 -15.3 0.019 -3.36 2.99 0.034 77.34

Mathwich 222

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