THE OLD SQUAW'S TALE
Passing the Big Horn Canyon, where the rushing waters were beaten into
spray, and where granite walls were shining like great sapphires
reflected in the sun's bright rays, I wondered how many centuries it
took to chisel that mighty water way fifty-two miles through this
tortuous mountain. Perpendicular walls of fully 2000 feet are standing
sentinels above this silvery water which goes roaring and foaming
through the narrow abyss.
The golden eagle closes its wings and falls through space like a rocket
from some unknown world, uttering a scream that resounds like a crash of
lightning. The Big Horn, proudly perched on yonder crag, bids defiance
to all living creatures. For fifteen miles this box canyon has cut
through the backbone of the mountains and holds the clear waters as in
the palm of one's hand. At the mouth of the canyon, where the waters
flow calm as a summer lake, as though tired from their terrible journey,
the rounded boulders, the white sands and quartz that have passed
through, are resting, peaceful as the wild rose which waves to and fro
in the spring zephyrs.
In the sand lies a dead cedar. Torn from the mountain top and crashing
down the canyon, it was carried by the rushing waters out on to the
beach and deposited in the sand. Sitting on a branch of this cedar is an
old woman. Her white locks hang crisp and short on her bony shoulders;
her face is covered with a semi-parchment, brown as the forest leaves,
and drawn tight over her high cheek bones; her eyes are small and sunken
in her head, but the fire has not yet gone out. An old elk skin robe,
tattered and torn, is thrown across her shoulders, with its few
porcupine quills still hanging by the sinew threads where they were
placed a century ago. The last of her race! Yes, long ago her people
have become extinct, passed away leaving her to die. But alas, death
does not claim her, and she wanders alone until picked up by the
mountain Absarokees.
I sat down by her side and asked her by sign talk: "Are you a Sioux?"
She shook her head. "Are you a Blackfoot?" Again she shook her head, and
the effort seemed to tire her. I made many signs of the different
tribes, but in the Crow sign she said "No" to them all. Her form seemed
to be of rawhide, and on her fingers were still a few old rings made
from the horn of the bighorn ram.
I gave her some of my lunch, as I ate, and she munched it with a set of
old teeth worn to the gums. She ate in silence until all was gone; then
I told her I was a medicine man, and asked her how old she was. She held
up ten stubs of fingers, all of which had been partly cut off while
mourning for dead relatives, then took them down until she had counted
one hundred and fifteen years. Her eyes brightened, and she fronted away
to the main range to a towering crag of granite, facing the north,
where Bull Elk Canyon empties into the Big Horn. She held her withered
arm high above her head and said in sign language:
"My people lived among the clouds. We were the Sheep Eaters who have
passed away, but on those walls are the paint rocks, where our
traditions are written on their face, chiseled with obsidian arrow
heads. Our people were not warriors. We worshipped the sun, and the sun
is bright and so were our people. Our men were good and our women were
like the sun. The Great Spirit has stamped our impressions on the rocks
by His lightnings; there are many of our people who were outlined on
those smooth walls years ago; then our people painted their figures, or
traced them with beautiful colored stones, and the pale face calls them
"painted rocks." Our people never came down into the valleys, but always
lived among the clouds, eating the mountain sheep and the goats, and
sometimes the elk when they came high on the mountains. Our tepees were
made of the cedar, thatched with grey moss and cemented with the gum
from the pines, carpeted with the mountain sheep-skins, soft as down.
Our garments were made from the skins of the gazelle, and ornamented
with eagle feathers and ermine and otter skins.
"We chanted our songs to the sun, and the Great Spirit was pleased. He
gave us much sheep and meat and berries and pure water, and snow to keep
the flies away. The water was never muddy. We had no dogs nor horses. We
did not go far from our homes, but were happy in our mountain abode.
Then came the Sioux, who killed the elk and buffalo in the valleys. They
had swarms of dogs and horses, and ran the game until it left the
valleys and went far away. Their people were always at war and stealing
horses, which was very wrong in the sight of our people, who never stole
anything. Our men were fearless and brave, and could bring down all
kinds of game with their bows and arrows, and were contented; but the
Sioux were not contented with fighting their enemies, but came to our
mountain home and began to try to ascend the trail. Our chief met
them on the steep precipice and ordered them to stop where they were,
but they murmured and made signs of battle. Our people had great masses
of rock as large as houses, where they could let them loose down the
trail and crush the Sioux into the earth as they were all down in a deep
canyon.
[Illustration: SHEEP EATER SQUAW 115 YEARS OLD "THE WOMAN UNDER THE
GROUND"]
"The Sioux stopped and began a war council, and began to paint and get
ready for battle. Our chief got the great rocks ready, and then sent a
runner to tell the Sioux that our people never went into the valleys nor
killed the buffalo, and that we wished to be apart from all other
people. After a long council the Sioux fired a volley of arrows at our
runner, and wounded him in the thigh. He came to the chief greatly
alarmed at the dreaded Sioux as they were many.
"The ponies in the valley below were strange looking creatures to us; we
had never seen them before. The dogs were howling and the valley rang
with the wild warwhoop. The time had come for action, and the Sheep
Eaters assembled at the narrow trail, headed by their chieftain, Red
Eagle, with his bow six feet long, made from the mountain ram's horn,
and bound with glue and sinew from the sheep's neck. Great excitement
prevailed. The squaws and children had hidden among the rocks with all
their robes and earthly possessions. The wild and savage Sioux knew no
fear and were pressing up the narrow trail with war paint and feathers,
their grim visages scowling in the sunlight as they came.
"Red Eagle, with that bravery known only to his tribe, waited until they
had reached the most dangerous precipice. Then with a great lever that
had been prepared years before, he loosened the great rock from its
moorings, and with one crash it sped down the canyon like a cyclone,
tearing the trees from their roots, and starting the rocks, until the
canyon became one great earthquake. The screams of the terrified
Indians, the howling of dogs and the neighing of horses were heard in
one awful roar. The battle was over. The canyon was a mass of blood,
and death was abroad in the valley. Not a living thing was to be seen.
"Red Eagle took a horn made of red cedar, and gave one long quivering
blast which echoed and reechoed through the alps and was carried across
the glaciers to every part of the mountain. Then the women and children
came back and once more took shelter in their comfortable homes."
I arose and gave the old crone the balance of my lunch, and told her I
was going to see that mountain some day and see their houses, but she
held up her hand and said, "Away up mountain long time ago, maybe so, no
tepee now."
And I went and left her sitting alone on the old tree, waiting for the
Great Spirit to come take her to her tribe, over on the happy hunting
ground, where scenes of warfare and savage Sioux would never molest them
again. As I left her alone on the bank of the Big Horn I could not help
feeling a pang of pity for the wild woman of the Rockies, whose life
had been spent among the canyons, and on the streams whose waters had
chiseled great passages through those granite walls centuries ago. She
who was once a belle in her tribe and had lived to see the extermination
of her people, and now wandered alone wishing to die and pass beyond.
The earth was not to her as it had been in her youth.
I shall never forget the spell that came over me as she raised her
palsied arm and showed me where she had lived a hundred years ago.
Something seemed to tell me she was speaking the truth and my trip to
that mountain became a living passion from that day.