It was in the summer, when the Blackfoot and Piegan tribes were camped
together, that the Blackfoot Front Wolf first noticed Su-yé-sai-pi, a
Piegan girl, and liked her, and determined to make her his wife. She
was young and handsome and of good family, and her parents were
well-to-do, for her father was a leading warrior of his tribe. Front
Wolf was himself a noted warrior, and had grown rich from his forays on
the camps of the enemy, so when he asked for the young woman her
parents were pleased—pleased to give their daughter to such a strong
young man, and pleased to accept the thirty horses he sent them with
the request.
In those days, in the long ago, such inter-tribal marriages were
common, for the two great camps often travelled together in quest of
the buffalo, sometimes for a whole winter and summer, and thus the
young people became acquainted with each other. Again they would be
separated by hundreds of miles of rolling plain.
After their marriage the young couple continued to live in the Piegan
camp, for Front Wolf had many friends there of his own age, who begged
him to remain with them. They liked to go on raids under his leadership
better than with any one else. It seemed to his wife as if he were
always away on some expedition, so seldom was he at home, and as she
had learned to respect and love him, she was very lonely during these
long absences. One summer, only two or three days after his return from
a successful war-journey against the Crows, he said to his wife: “It is
a long time since I have seen my parents. Now I think it time for me to
visit them and give them some horses. If you have any little things you
wish to send them, hurry and make them ready, so that I may take them.”
“I have some pretty moccasins for your father,” said Su-yé-sai-pi, “and
a fine buckskin dress for your mother; but I am not going to send them.
I want to go with you and present them myself. It seems as if you do
not care at all for me. Here you are just home from a long journey, and
yet you would start right out again, without thinking about me at all.”
“No,” Front Wolf replied, “it is not that I do not love you; you may go
with me if you insist on it. I did not like to ask you to make the
trip, for the distance is great, and there is danger on the way.”
Su-yé-sai-pi was happy. She began her preparations at once, and only
laughed at her parents when they urged her to remain with them, telling
her that the plains swarmed with war parties in search of scalps and
plunder, and that she would surely be killed.
At this time the Piegans were hunting on the Lower Milk River, but the
morning that Front Wolf and his wife started away the whole camp moved
too, for the chiefs wished to pass the hot season along the foot-hills
of the great mountains. At the last moment five young Blackfeet,
visitors in the camp, decided that they too would return home, so they
set forth with the couple, and helped drive the little herd of horses
that Front Wolf intended to give his relatives. The northern tribe was
thought to be summering on the Red Deer River, and a course was roughly
taken for the place where it joins the Saskatchewan. This brought the
little party, after three or four days’ travel, to the Cypress Hills,
or, as they were named by the Indians, the Gap-in-the-Middle Hills.
They reached the southern slopes of the low buttes one morning, after
being without water all the preceding day, and prepared to camp and
rest at the edge of a little grove, close to which a large, clear
spring bubbled up from a pile of sunken bowlders. They did not know
that a large camp of Kutenais was just behind the hills where they
stopped, and that one of their hunters, seeing them coming, had hurried
home and spread the news. Su-yé-sai-pi had scarcely started a fire when
the warriors from the camp were seen to be approaching the little party
from all directions, completely hemming them in. Although these two
tribes, the Blackfeet and Kutenais, had once been very friendly to each
other, they were now at war. When the strangers approached, one of
them, the chief, who had learned Blackfoot in other days, called out,
“Don’t fire; we are friends; we will not harm you.”
Front Wolf and his friends had drawn the covers from their guns,
prepared to fight and to sell their lives dearly, but when Front Wolf
heard this, and saw that the strangers made no motions to shoot, he
lowered his rifle and said: “They intend to make peace with us; I guess
they are tired of being at war with our people. Do not be afraid; they
will not harm us.”
The chief came up first, and shook hands with Front Wolf and the rest,
saying: “I am glad to meet you. Our camp is near. Come over to my
lodge, and we will feast and smoke.”
These were kind words. The little party of Blackfeet did not doubt that
they were sincere. They packed up again, mounted their horses, and rode
around the hill to the lodges. The chief invited them to stop with him,
and they rode towards the big lodge in the centre of the village, where
many people were gathered. There they dismounted, when suddenly their
arms were taken from them by the surrounding crowd, and they were
pushed into the big lodge. It was a very hot day, and all around the
skin lodge-covering had been raised to allow the cool breeze to pass
beneath it, so the prisoners could see all that was happening without.
Their little band of horses was quickly divided and led away; and then
the chief and all the men had a long talk.
Presently the chief came inside and sat down in his accustomed place at
the back of the lodge. Following him four warriors entered, and seizing
the young Blackfoot who sat nearest the door, led him out some little
distance from the lodge, where one of them brained him with a war-club,
and then every one tried to get a piece of his scalp or to plunge a
knife into his body. In a moment his hands, feet, and head were
severed, and women were pushing and kicking and pounding the mutilated
parts here and there, singing as they did so the shrill song of
revenge. The Blackfeet looked on at this terrible butchery of their
friend with horror, but in stolid silence, all save Su-yé-sai-pi, who
gave a frightened cry when she saw the poor fellow struck down, and,
clasping her husband by the arm, buried her face in his breast. The
chief smiled, but did not speak. Presently another one of the young
Blackfeet was led out, and met the fate of the first one. One after
another, when his turn came, each arose and accompanied his captors
without struggle or cry, and met his death as a warrior should.
At last all had been killed except Front Wolf and his wife, and
presently they came for him. Su-yé-sai-pi clung to him and cried and
begged, but her husband himself put her from him and went out, saying
to her a last kind word. “Do not cry,” he said. “Take courage. Take
courage.” As he neared the place of butchery he began to sing his
war-song, and the poor wife, looking on, saw him smile as the great
stone club descended, and he fell forward lifeless to the ground. The
woman now thought that her turn had come, but the executioners did not
return. She wished that they would not delay; she wished to have the
dreadful ordeal over with, so that her shadow might overtake her
husband’s as it travelled along on the road to the Sandhills—home of
the departed Blackfeet. All the Kutenais, even the women and children,
had now painted their faces black, and were dancing the scalp-dance,
carrying before them the scalps, stretched on long, forked willows.
“Come,” said the chief to Su-yé-sai-pi, offering her the scalp from
Front Wolf’s head—“come, join us in this dance and be happy.”
“You may kill me,” the woman replied, “but you cannot make me dance. I
beg you to kill me, so I may join my husband.”
The Kutenai laughed. “You are too young to die yet,” he said; “and,
besides, we do not kill women. Before long we are going to make peace
with the Blackfeet and Piegans, and when that time comes we will give
you back to your people.”
Of course it was a lie, for he had no thought of making peace, but
intended to keep the woman.
Su-yé-sai-pi was very sad. If she sat in the lodge, the scalp-song rang
in her ears; if she stepped outside, the bodies of her husband and
friends greeted her eyes. She could do nothing but cry and wish for
death to take her.
Several days passed, and the rejoicings of the camp still continued.
One afternoon an old widow woman called her into a poor little lodge
and said: “I have great pity for you, and will do what I can to help
you. I do not know what the chief has decided to do with you, but,
whatever it is, I would save you from it. Your only chance is to try to
get away from here in the night and seek your people. I will fill a
good big pouch with dried meat and pemmican, and some moccasins, and as
soon as it is dark I will place it behind my lodge. When the people are
all asleep, and the evening fire has died out, leave your bed as
quietly as you can, pick up the pouch, and hurry away in the direction
from which you came.”
Su-yé-sai-pi burst out crying. No one had been kind to her before, and
kindness made her cry. She kissed her new friend, and when she could
speak she said that she would try to get away that night. It seemed as
if night would never come, and then as if the people would never stop
talking and feasting and go to bed. But at last everything was quiet in
the camp, and in the chief’s lodge the fire of small willows had died
down, and the deep breathing of the occupants showed that they were
asleep. The captive cautiously arose from her couch near the door and
stole outside. She stood and listened a moment, and then coughed once
or twice. No one moved inside; so, feeling sure that no one was
watching her, or had noticed her come out, she went to the widow’s
lodge, and found the pouch behind it, and quickly but noiselessly left
the camp.
The sky was overcast, and presently heavy rain, with thunder and
lightning, came up, but she walked swiftly, steadily on, not knowing
nor caring whither, so long as it was away from her enemies. The shower
passed, and the moon came out, and then the poor woman heard shouts and
calls, and the rushing tread of horses; the whole camp was aroused, and
they were searching for her. She crouched in the shadow of a bowlder,
and heard horsemen go by on either side. Once two or three of them rode
by in plain sight. She remained there a long time, until everything was
still again, and then hurried on. In a little while she approached a
small lake, and saw three horses by its edge.
“Here,” she said to herself, “would be a good chance if I only had a
rope. Perhaps they are hobbled; if so, the thongs will do for a
bridle.” She walked carefully nearer, when suddenly she saw three dim
figures on the ground and heard a loud snore. She almost fainted with
fright, knowing that these were some of her pursuers waiting for
daylight to resume their search. Quick as a flash she stooped among the
low brush, crawled slowly back, and then, rising, hurried away in
another direction.
In a little while day began to break, and she found herself on a wide
plain south of the hills. In a little ravine near by there was an old
wolf den; she crawled down into it, feet foremost, first carefully
obliterating her footsteps in the soft, loose earth about it. There she
remained all day, eating none of her little store of food, for she was
so thirsty it choked her. Several times during the day she heard the
distant tramp of horses, but she did not look out, much as she wished
to see what was going on.
When darkness came once more, she climbed out and started in search of
water, not knowing which way to look for it, or whether she would ever
find any. She travelled on, and on, and on, and, when daylight again
brightened the sky, found herself at the place where her husband lay.
Yes, there were the bodies of him and his friends, now shapeless and
terrible objects. And the Kutenais were gone. Fearing that she might
find her people, dreading the awful vengeance that would overtake them
if she did, they were no doubt already fleeing towards the pine-covered
slopes of the great mountains. Worn out from her long tramp, and nearly
crazed from thirst, the poor woman had barely strength to go on to the
spring, where she drank long of the cool water, and then fell asleep.
The sun was hot, but Su-yé-sai-pi slept on. Well on in the afternoon
she was awakened by something nudging her side. “They have found me,”
she said to herself, shivering with terror, “and when I move a knife
will be thrust in my side.” She lay motionless a little while, and then
could bear the suspense no longer; slowly rising up and turning back
her robe, what should she find lying by her side but a coyote, looking
up into her face and wagging his tail!
“Oh, little wolf!” she cried. “Oh, little brother! Have pity on me. You
know the wide plains; lead me to my people, for my husband is killed,
and I am lost.”
The little animal kept wagging his tail, and when she arose and went
again to the spring, he followed her. She drank, and then ate a little
dried meat, not forgetting to give him some, which he hastily devoured.
She talked to him all the time, telling him what had happened, and what
she wished to do; and he seemed to understand, for when she started to
leave the spring he bounded on ahead, often stopping and looking back,
as much as to say, “Come on; this is the way.”
They were passing through the broken hills, and the coyote, quite a
long way ahead, had climbed to the top of a low butte and looked
cautiously over it, when he turned, ran back part way, and then circled
off to the right. Su-yé-sai-pi was frightened, thinking he had sighted
the Kutenais, and she ran after him as fast as she could go. He led her
to the top of another hill, and then, looking away along the ridge, she
saw that he had led her around a band of grizzly bears, feeding and
playing on the steep slope. Then she knew for certain that he was to be
trusted, and she told him to keep a long way ahead, to look over the
country from every rise of ground, and to warn her if he saw anything
suspicious. This he did. He would wait for her at the top of a ridge,
where they would sit and rest awhile, and as soon as she was ready to
go on he would run to the top of the next rise before she had taken
fifty steps. If thirsty, she would tell him, and in a little while he
would always take her to some water. Sometimes it would be a small
trickling stream in a coulée; sometimes a soft, damp gravel-bed, where
she was obliged to scoop out a hole; sometimes it was a muddy
buffalo-wallow—and it was always strong with alkali—but it was the best
there was.
In this way, after many days, they came to the Little (Milk) River. The
pouch had long been empty, and Su-yé-sai-pi was weak from hunger, and
her weary feet were swollen and blistered, for the last pair of
moccasins had been worn out. Here by the river were plenty of berries
and some roots that are often eaten—good to fill the belly, but not
strength-making food. Of them she ate all she could, and frequently
bathed her feet, and kept on up the valley; but every day she went more
slowly. The stops for rest were more frequent now, and the coyote
showed that he was beginning to feel uneasy. When he thought she had
sat still too long, he would whine and paw at her dress, and look away
up the stream, urging her to go on. He himself fared well on the
ground-squirrels and prairie-dogs he managed to catch, and often he
brought one to her; but she could not bring herself to eat it raw, and
she had no way of building a fire to roast it.
One day, while the sun was hottest, the two stopped to rest in a thick
patch of brush. They were near the mountains now, and the valley was
wide, with low, sloping hills on either side. The woman had been
telling her companion—she talked to him now as she would have talked to
a person—that her feet were swollen so badly she could go no farther,
and then she fell asleep. She was awakened by the coyote jerking her
gown and whining, and she sat up and listened. Pretty soon she heard
people talking; they were some distance away, but the murmur of their
voices seemed familiar; they came nearer, and she heard one say, in her
own language, “Let’s cross the river here.”
She hobbled out to the edge of the brush and called to them, and when
they rode up to where she stood, at first they did not know her, she
was so worn and thin. She told them her story, and pointed to the
coyote by her side, telling them how it had helped her, and begging
them not to kill it. They told her that the camp was only a little way
above on the river, and offered her a horse to ride, but she asked them
to go on and tell her mother to come after her with a travois, for she
felt too sore to ride. Presently her mother came, and her father, and a
great throng of the people, and when she saw them approaching she put
her arms around the coyote and kissed him.
“You have saved my life,” she said; “and much as I grieve to, we must
part now, for, while I might prevent the people from harming you, I
could not stop the camp dogs from tearing you to pieces. But do not go
far away. Every time we move camp my father’s lodge shall be the last
to go; and when the rest and the dogs have all left, we will leave food
for you where our lodge stood. We will always do that.”
The coyote seemed to understand. He licked her face and whined, and as
her mother and father approached he slowly moved away, looking back
many, many times.
Su-yé-sai-pi cried—cried at parting with her faithful guide, and
because at sight of her mother all her trials and sufferings came back
to her mind. They placed her on the travois and drew her to camp, where
all the people came to sympathize with her, bringing something from
their store of choice food as presents.
The coyote was not forgotten; food was always left at the camp site, as
she had promised, and often, as Su-yé-sai-pi and her people started on
after the others, they saw him standing on a near hill, watching them
out of sight.