KOOS-HA-NAX, THE HUNTER
A few minutes after ten o’clock that night the Teton, attached to the
Oriental Limited train, began its real westward journey toward the
mountains. The occupants of the car were tired, but for awhile all sat
on the observation platform. Then, as the suburbs of the city were
passed and a cool night breeze began to be felt, there was a general
movement toward retiring.
“I have a little news for you,” said Mr. Mackworth as the yawning boys
arose to turn in. “Our scout, Sam Skinner, has been in Winnipeg all
winter and he’ll meet us at six o’clock to-morrow evening at Moorhead,
North Dakota. Then you can begin to stock up on big game stories.”
“I thought scouts were a thing of the past!” exclaimed Frank.
“So they are,” said Mr. Mackworth, “the kind that used to guard the
emigrant trains and early railway surveyors. But Sam is a ‘game scout’
now. We’ll have Sam to smell out the sheep and goats.”
The next morning the travelers were in St. Paul and after a ride
through Minnesota the train reached Moorhead almost on time. The stop
here was only a few minutes but, although all the Teton’s passengers
were out and on the lookout, Sam Skinner was nowhere in sight.
“Don’t be alarmed,” said Mr. Mackworth, as the train started again.
“He’s on board. I’ll search the train.”
In ten minutes Mr. Mackworth reëntered the car, where dinner had just
been announced, with the much discussed Sam close behind. The new
arrival carried in one hand a rope tied fibre suit case, crushed and
worn. In the other was a short rifle and a cartridge belt. His teeth
were set on a short, nicked, black pipe. Frank and Phil were shocked.
Aside from the rifle and belt, nothing suggested the old time hunter.
And the man, although probably seventy years old, was in no sense
“grizzled.” He did not even wear the greasy old sombrero with which all
western veterans of fiction are crowned.
“Gentlemen, let me introduce Sam Skinner,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Sam, who in the books should have grunted
or said “howdy.” Then, turning to Mr. Mackworth, Sam continued:
“Colonel, you’re goin’ to find a lot of snow up there in the Elk River
Valley Mountains. Did you bring your snowshoes?”
“Snow ain’t goin’ to bother us this time,” said Mr. Mackworth,
significantly. “We thought we’d come early and maybe scare up a few
grizzlies.”
“You’ll do that, I reckon,” exclaimed Sam, “but the best time to tackle
the timber line is September. There’s a power o’ snow in the gullies
just now.”
By this time Jake Green had relieved the westerner of his rifle and
box, and Sam had removed his hat and pipe.
“Here’s the same old hat, Colonel, you gave me four years ago and good
as new.”
He held out a limp, cloth traveling hat that had probably cost a pound
in London. Mr. Mackworth apparently did not recall the incident and Sam
continued: “Don’t you remember the day I lost my hat over on Avalanche
Creek, near Herchmer Mountain; the day we thought we had Old Indian
Chief at last?”
Mr. Mackworth’s eyes lit up.
“Sure,” he said, “and you nearly broke your neck at the same time. I
wonder if the ‘Chief’ has fallen a victim to anyone yet?”
“I ain’t been in the valley for four years,” responded Sam. “But I
reckon’ he ain’t and never will. I kind o’ believe he ain’t nothin’ but
a ghost anyway.”
Every one had pricked up his ears. Captain Ludington especially seemed
to be no less curious about Old Indian Chief than Frank and Phil.
“What’s that?” broke in Phil.
“Sam’ll tell you, sometime,” explained Mr. Mackworth, “but let’s have
dinner now. It’s sort of a myth of the mountains. Every one tells it
and each one a different way.”
“About goats?” persisted Phil.
“About a great Bighorn sheep,” added Mr. Mackworth.
“But where does the Indian part come in?” insisted Phil.
“Now I’m not going to try to piece together an old camp-fire tale,”
exclaimed Mr. Mackworth, “especially when I’m hungry. But here’s the
chapter heading of it, as you might say. For twenty-five years the
Indians and old-time hunters of the Selkirk Mountain and Kootenai River
region have circulated a picturesque tale of a hermit Indian, a kind of
a spirit savage who, with a monster Bighorn ram always at his heels, is
seen now and then by some hunter but never overtaken.”
“And who escapes up almost unscalable cliffs by hanging on to the ram’s
horns,” broke in Captain Ludington.
“Then you’ve read the legend,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth with awakening
interest.
“I heard it a few years ago at Glacier,” explained the captain. “Young
gentlemen,” he added wheeling toward Frank and Phil, “that’s the story
I meant to tell you sometime――‘The Monarch of the Mountains.’ Now I
give way to Mr. Skinner. Let’s hear the real story,” he suggested,
looking toward the new arrival.
“By no means,” ordered Mr. Mackworth instantly. “Not, at least, until
we reach our coffee. You have before you a saddle of roast mutton that
I personally selected yesterday in Chicago. It demands your exclusive
attention. I got it that you may be able to distinguish between the
flavor of it and the haunch of young mountain sheep that Mr. Skinner is
sure to provide for us in a few days.”
Frank was already smacking his lips in anticipation of that game dinner
in camp. Already he could see Jake Green at work over the camp fire
basting a roast of mountain sheep. By this time all were seated, Sam
Skinner included.
“Sam,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth, “as a special and honored guest this
evening, let me serve you a cut of this mutton. It’s English Southdown.”
“English or French,” replied Sam slowly and hesitatingly, “it don’t
make no difference. You’ll have to excuse me, Colonel. Young mountain
sheep is certainly eatable after a fellow’s been livin’ on salt
pork――and little of that――for two or three weeks. But, to speak right
out, I ain’t much for sheep if there’s anything else on hand and I see
there’s a plenty.”
“Then you don’t care for sheep roasted over a camp fire way up among
the pines where you’ve chased your game all day?” suggested Lord
Pelton, while all laughed.
“Sure,” was Sam’s quick response. “That’s regular and proper. But I’m
speakin’ o’ times when you can have your choice. Them goat steaks and
bear ribs is all O. K. when you’re in camp. But give me my choice and
I’ll say they ain’t nothin’ finer nor sweeter than a big, thick, round
steak fried on a cook stove with plenty o’ milk gravy to come.”
“Jake,” ordered Mr. Mackworth at once and without a trace of a smile,
“fry a porterhouse steak for Mr. Skinner and smother it with gravy.”
Being a Canadian Sam had another peculiarity. He cared nothing for
coffee. Therefore, with his fried steak, came a pot of black tea.
Dinner under way at last the story of Old Indian Chief, or the Monarch
of the Mountains, again became the center of conversation. Sam was
urged to give his version of the tale and he, in turn, was as eager
to hear Captain Ludington’s story. With many interruptions and cross
suggestions, each man told the legend as he had heard it. The “Monarch
of the Mountains,” as related by the English officer――and both stories
were unquestionably different versions of the same tale――had its origin
among the Kootenai Indians.
“The big Indian in the story, as it was told to me,” said Captain
Ludington referring to a little notebook, “was named Koos-ha-nax. He
was a Kootenai and his tribe, twenty years ago, was living in the
Selkirk Mountains northwest of Kootenai Lake. Koos-ha-nax was neither
chief nor medicine man but a mighty hunter in the mountains. In
addition he was a thief. Being a skilful hunter his stealing was for a
long time overlooked. But, at last, Koos-ha-nax’s thefts overbalancing
the food he supplied, the thieving hunter was summoned to trial. Being
found guilty he was condemned to die. Thereupon, he made a speech.
“It was then, and is now, a tradition of the Kootenais that the
mountain sheep is the king of all animals and that the mountain goat
is second in command. In the earliest days the Indians assert these
animals did not confine themselves to the peaks and highest ridges of
the mountains as now, but ranged the valleys and wooded foothills.
Then a war broke out between the sheep and goats and, led by Husha the
Black Ram and Neena the White Goat, they separated――the sheep to the
north and the goats to the south.
“‘Koos-ha-nax knows this well,’ spoke the hunter. ‘And so long as Husha
the Black Ram and Neena the White Goat lead the sheep and the goats, so
long will the hunting grounds of the Kootenai know them not. To follow
Husha the Black Ram and Neena the White Goat into the sky itself may
mean death. But I, Koos-ha-nax, the mighty hunter, have talked with
the sheep and the goats; Koos-ha-nax has seen Husha the Black Ram and
Neena the White Goat; Koos-ha-nax has seen the great horns of Husha the
Black Ram, and they are wide as the span of a man’s arms; Koos-ha-nax
has seen the black horns of Neena the White Goat, and they are keen and
sharp as the spear of the fisher; Koos-ha-nax asks for his life, not
that he fears death, but that he may travel far to the north and to the
south and bring to his people the horns of Husha the Black Ram, and of
Neena the White Goat.’
“This offer of the great hunter,” went on Captain Ludington, “was
gladly accepted on the theory that in the death of Husha and Neena,
the sheep and the goats might be reconciled and subsequently return
to the valleys――the more convenient hunting grounds of the Indians.
There seems to be some basis for this part of the legend,” explained
Captain Ludington, “for I am told that the Indians are, even to-day,
notoriously bad hunters of these animals and seldom pursue them further
than their ponies can ascend the mountains. Having been granted his
life on these terms, Koos-ha-nax, armed with his bow and arrows,
disappeared and never returned. Wandering Indians brought tales at
times of seeing the mighty hunter in the far north; others caught
sight of him in the south. When the ice cracked on the glaciers it
was Koos-ha-nax in pursuit of Husha; when the snow avalanches fell
in the south it was Koos-ha-nax chasing Neena. Children are taught
to-day that a loose boulder bounding down the mountain side is hurled
by Koos-ha-nax, the hunter. And, whenever a herd of sheep or goats is
sighted in full flight, close behind follows the ghostly form of the
ceaseless hunter.
“Since every legend has its variation,” continued Captain Ludington,
“so has that of Koos-ha-nax. Advanced thinkers among the Kootenais
will tell you that Koos-ha-nax never tried to find and kill Husha and
Neena. By these wiseacres Koos-ha-nax is credited with the power of
understanding and talking to the sheep and goats. They will tell you
that the great hunter left his people with no other intent than to live
with the sheep and goats. Some have had distant glimpses of the exiled
Indian lying with his animal friends on rocky heights, or rushing up
almost inaccessible slopes assisted by old Husha or Neena――as the
narrator lives in the north or south. But others say Koos-ha-nax will
again return and, when he does, that the hunting grounds will again be
thick with the now rapidly disappearing mountain sheep and goats. In
any event,” laughed Captain Ludington, “they tell me that if you are
hunting with Kootenai guides you will always be short of the big prize,
unless you can capture old Husha the Black Ram, or Neena the White
Goat.”
It was now old Sam Skinner’s turn, but the old man hesitated.
“I never heard no such tale as that,” he said at last being plentifully
urged to give his version. “All I ever heard was some Sioux Indians
chinnin’, but it wasn’t about no Koos-what-do-you-call-him. And I never
heard ’em have no names like what you said for the rams and goats. But
they was an Old Indian Chief that they used to talk about that had some
trouble and was kicked out o’ the tribe, and they make out as how he
took to the mountains and lived like a hermit. And they do say he got
on such good terms with the mountain animals that the sheep and goats
all followed him and that that’s why there ain’t no more sheep down
there in the buttes o’ Montana. But the stories are sort o’ like in
one way. Whenever a Sioux gets sight o’ a Bighorn ram with shiny black
horns they say it’s Old Indian Chief, and I reckon they is some o’ them
Indians yet livin’ who think Old Indian Chief that was kicked out o’
the tribe is a livin’ up in the Columbia Rockies.”
“Hold on there, Sam,” laughed Mr. Mackworth. “Didn’t you tell me, when
we were chasin’ sheep and a loose rock would come tumbling down the
mountain side: ‘look out――Old Indian Chief may be up there protecting
his friends!’”
“Well,” acknowledged Sam somewhat abashed, “the Indians are always
talkin’ that way. But that’s what they call all the big rams and goats,
too. If that Kootenai Kooshaynix and the Sioux is the same, I reckon
he’s froze stiff long ago and it’s his ghost that’s a heavin’ rocks and
glacier ice and startin’ avalanches――”
“But,” interrupted Frank, all aglow with interest and excitement, “do
you really believe there was such an Indian, really and truly? It’s
like Mowgli in the Jungle tales!”
“Of course not,” replied Mr. Mackworth. “The tale means only this:
Sheep and goats were once plentiful in all these mountains. They began
to disappear. The Indians must have an explanation for everything. They
imagined a cause and made it human――a man led them away. That’s all.”
“I’m sorry,” said Phil. “I mean I’m sorry there is no Husha the Black
Earn, or Neena the White Goat. I’m sure we could find one or the other.
And I always like things with a story to them.”
“Well,” laughed Lord Pelton, who was no less interested than all the
others, “why not follow the practice of the Indians――if you like a
story, believe it?”
“I’m goin’ to,” exclaimed Frank. “I’m goin’ to believe it and I’m goin’
to believe Koos-ha-nax is up there in the mountains, somewhere――a man
of real flesh and blood.”
“And we’ll find him!” added Phil, “the man king of the Bighorns.”
“I’d rather find old Husha,” put in Captain Ludington, smiling. “We
could take his horns home and I don’t know what we could do with a
decrepit old Indian. However,” he added, “in the language of Italy,
‘_si non e vero e bene travata_.’”
“What’s that mean?” asked the boys together.
“If it isn’t true it ought to be,” explained the Englishman.