CLOSING WORDS
One evening, when the old squaw seemed to be in a friendly mood, I made
some inquiries as to where the several tribes had lived, and she said:
"You white man want to know heap about Sheep Eaters. Why for you know so
much?"
I told her I was very much interested in her people. Then I gave her a
pretty bead necklace of regular crow beads, ornamented with paint. She
put them on and a smile lighted the wrinkled old face.
"White man heap good," she said, patting the beads; then after admiring
the beads for a time, she turned her attention to me. "White man find
many camps of Sheep Eaters on Paint Rocks. Sheep Eaters make much squaw
and papoose on rocks. On Great Mountain, white man find many tepees and
sheep pens where Indian catch much sheep to eat. Many rivers away up in
mountain, find much Indian work. Away up close to bad spirit country,
you find many tepee, much rich plenty. (National Park.) Our people think
bad spirits always at war in the earth, so our people scarcely ever went
into that country, although our great men fetch obsidian from there to
make arrows. Our men make arrows of the most beautiful design. We were
called the arrow makers. We made the most beautiful fur garments and our
tanned skins were the best."
"Tell me who you are, are you a chief's daughter?" I asked.
She turned her eyes away at the question, and sat for a long time with
that vacant look on her face as though seeing all her past; then
suddenly she turned, and looking squarely at me, she said, "Me Red
Arrow's squaw."
I was amazed, but could not doubt her word, as she had told me the truth
so far as I had investigated. It seemed impossible that this most
haggard of old women could have been the most beautiful girl of her
tribe. But a hundred and fifteen years of life can change much, even the
beautiful curves of the human body and the roses on the cheek and lip. A
hundred and fifteen years! But this was the chance of a lifetime, I must
not let it slip away while I dreamed.
"Where did your people go?" I asked; "what became of your tribe?"
"One beautiful day," she replied, "when sun warm and earth green, white
man got lost and his ponies come into our camp. White man very sick.
Medicine man put him in big tepee and take care of him, give him much
bath in hot water. Man got very red like Indian man, face much all over
spots. By and by he die. Then sickness all over camp. Sheep Eater run
off in forest and die. Some run to other villages, they all die. Sheep
Eater all much scared and run away. Many tepee standing alone, all dead
inside. Red Eagle die, Red Arrow die, me no die, me very much scare, go
off in mountains, eat berries, cherries, root. Me find many Sheep Eater
dead in woods. By and by Sheep Eaters not many. They go to other Indian
tribes down in valley on river, where much big water runs, and eat heap
buffalo, ride pony, marry heap squaw. Sheep Eater have one squaw, other
Indians many. Then Sheep Eater no more, no more papoose, no more squaw,
all gone. Cold winds go, spring come, wild geese come back to lakes.
Sheep Eater no come back, all gone. Tepee rot, rain, wind, snow, sun, on
bones, on blanket, tepees, skins, bows, arrows. By and by all gone too.
Indian no go there long time, many moon."
So passed away the proudest race of Indians that ever lived on earth.
They left behind no trace of history except the Paint Rocks among the
canyons of Wyoming, near Basin City, and in Crandle Creek Basin,
Montana, on which we might read of a thousand historical deeds if we
could but find the key. These, and the great shrine wheel on Bald
Mountain, the sheep pens where the wary sheep were caught, and here and
there along the mountain trails, stone blinds behind which the hunter
lay in ambush for game, are all that is left to remind us of a tribe now
extinct.
From those visible signs, and the tales of the old squaw and stories
extant among other tribes, we find the Sheep Eaters were a strong,
brave, peaceable race of people, clean morally and physically. Provident
and inventive, excelling in all the Indian arts. They lived as brothers.
No poor were ever known among them, all sharing alike except the chiefs,
who had larger tepees and more robes that they might care for visitors.
Death was meted out to the woman who broke her marriage vows, and after
death she was condemned to live in darkness and never again to see the
sun they worshipped.
They never knew the use of alcohol in any form. It was left to the
_proud, civilized whites_ to bring that curse to the Indians. This
favored people never saw but the one white man, and he only brought
death to their bodies, leaving their souls unashamed to face their
Maker.
It seems very fitting that this most perfect tribe of which we know
should have lived out their little span of life among the most perfect
surroundings, building their homes in the crags and rocks among those
towering mountains, whose lofty heads are covered with perpetual snow,
on whose sides great glaciers lie half hidden, like monsters of the
deep. Dark stretches of timber fringe the canyons where the bald eagle,
silent as the grave, seeks its prey. To the south the black forest
clings to the shoulders of the mountains where the snow goes whirling
across the peaks, along the table land, and into the valleys. Always and
always the silent Rockies towering among the clouds on the one side and
the majestic Big Horn on the other. Sentinel peaks, capped with the
eternal snows, stand like hoary-headed giants. Great piles of God's
masonry wall in this emerald vale with one ever-astounding, sometimes
appalling, always changing vista of mountain, forest, river, lake,
crest, gorge, and peak. Crouched in this empire of solemnity by night
and grandeur by day, was the home of the Sheep Eaters.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Sheep Eaters, by William Alonzo Allen