JOHN MONROE, HALF-BREED
When he looked out of the window next morning, Jack could see only a
little way, for it was snowing and blowing very hard, and the fine
snow-flakes filled the air and were whirled about in dense clouds.
The brush and the mountain behind the house could not be seen, and
even the stables and corrals were hidden.
After breakfast he sat for a little while by the window, looking out
and watching the snow-flakes, but he soon got tired of that. His
uncle was writing near the stove. There was no one to talk to, and
he did not feel like reading. At length he thought that he would go
down to the bunk-house where the men slept, and see what Hugh was
doing. He could see the outline of the house amid the whirling snow,
and supposed Hugh was there. He told his uncle what he was going to
do, and Mr. Sturgis looked up and said, "All right, go down to the
bunk-house, but go straight there, don't try to go anywhere else. It
is easy to get lost in this snow."
When Jack entered the bunk-house, a great cloud of snow blew in the
open door after him, and as he banged it to behind him, he saw Hugh
standing up plaiting a raw-hide rope, Reuben mending his saddle with
strings of wet raw-hide, which he took from a bucket of water beside
him, while Joe had his feet cocked up on the stove and was smoking
and talking to the others. Jack went up to the stove and sat down on
a box near Reuben, and watched him, and after a moment Joe went on
speaking.
"I seen Red Cahill yesterday when I was riding. He was going down
from Washakie to the Fort, and calculated he'd stop all night to
Powell's. He told me that there's five head of our horses ranging
up on Grey Bull. There's the old gotch-eared black mare, and her
three-year old, two-year old, and yearling, and that yellow gelding
that the boss traded for with them emigrants when they came through
here two years ago. You mind we ain't seen that gelding since his
feet got well, and I always thought he'd took the trail back the way
he come. But it seems not. I don't expect the roundup will fetch them
horses in, but it may. Anyhow we can go and get 'em 'most any time,
only it's a long way to ride for five head of horses.
"Did Red say anything about the Indians at Washakie?" asked Hugh.
"That's what he did," said Joe.
"He said we won't see no Indians down here this summer. You know
them Arapahoes that's up there to Washakie is kinder friends to them
Cheyennes that broke out last fall down in Kansas, and got took in
to Roberson, and then broke jail there, and most all got killed. He
says there's some Cheyennes staying up there with the Arapahoes and
they're all stirred up and uneasy over that killing down to Roberson."
"Yes," said Hugh, "and I don't wonder at it. It was a doggoned shame
the way they treated them Indians. It was all right to capture them
and bring 'em in and shut 'em up. That's war all right enough. But
after they'd got 'em locked up, to shut down on their grub and their
water was about the worst thing that I ever heard of this Government
doing, and it sure done some pretty bad things. I don't care so much
for the men. It's men's business to get into trouble and to fight and
get killed or to starve, but when I think of them women and young
girls and little children not having anything to eat or drink for
seven days I tell you it makes me mad. I expect if them folks back
east who pretends to think so much about Indians could know about
that, they'd raise quite a fuss. But they ain't never likely to hear
of it.
"What was it, Hugh?" said Jack.
"Oh," said Hugh, "it was just a killing of Indians, like plenty of
others that's happened out in this western country, only this time
the soldiers took away all the guns the Indians had and didn't give
them no food nor water for seven days and then they let 'em get out,
and killed 'em as they run. I believe they killed sixty or seventy of
them and all but about twenty was women and little children, but I
don't feel much like talking about it any more, so let's quit it."
Jack had never before heard Hugh speak as he spoke now; so sternly
and sharply that Jack had nothing to say and sat silent on his box,
watching the others work. At length Reuben ventured a remark and said:
"This here snow-storm'll do a heap of good to the meadows, and the
way it's blowing now it orter pile some of these ravines full of
snow, and make the water last a heap longer than it commonly does."
"Yes," said Hugh. "This is going to be a right good year, for feed,
and this here storm won't do no harm. It ain't cold enough to hurt
young calves and colts. It may make the coyotes a little hungry
though, and if any one of you boys rides to-morrow, he'd better
take some baits with him--I mean to put out some poison along the
mountains myself."
"That's a good idee," said Joe; "I believe I'll go out and mix up
some tallow now."
Joe took his feet down from the stove, yawned, stood up, and walked
to the window and looked out. Suddenly he exclaimed, "Gosh!" and
stepping out the door uttered a loud "Hallo-o-a." Jack ran to the
window and looked out. For a moment the storm had lulled; the wind
had stopped blowing, and the snow falling, and the boy saw, a few
hundred yards away, on the crest of a hill, a snow-covered horseman,
followed by two pack animals. Joe's shout had reached the rider, who
had stopped and was now looking toward the house. Then the wind again
began to howl and the snow to fly, and in an instant the whole scene
was blotted out.
Jack went outside and stood by Joe, who seemed to be listening. "What
is it, Joe?" he said.
"Didn't you see the way that fellow was going? He was plum lost,
heading straight for the mountains. If he's a pilgrim he'd a got
tangled up in the ravines and likely froze to death. Don't talk now;
listen." In a moment, the two were joined by Hugh and Rube, and all
stood listening. Presently someone said, "There he comes," and a
moment later, the little group of animals stopped in front of the
bunk-house. The rider stiffly dismounted, and began to take off the
packs from his horses. "Well, seh," he said, "my glad my get here."
Hugh stepped out into the snow to help unpack the stranger's horses,
and when the snow-covered man saw him, he exclaimed in surprise,
"Why, hallo, Hugh, h'ole man, my think you was dead long time."
"Why, I'm durned if it ain't old John Monroe," said Hugh. "Come in,
come in and get dry; the boys'll tend to your horses. Well, well; how
are you? Living up north, yet? How's the old man? Tell me all the
news."
"Well, seh," said old John, "this very curieuse. My comin' down here
pour veeseet my girl. She married one man, live on Bear River. Now my
goin' down there, meet h'ole Hugh. Bien curieuse," and he stared at
Hugh as if he could hardly believe his eyes.
Hugh laughed. "Why, son," he said, speaking to Jack, "this old man and
me has travelled together a good many years when I stopped up north
with his people. You see, he's a Piegan half-breed, raised in Canada
among the Crees and Frenchmen. His father came out into this country
long before I was born, must have been more'n sixty-five years ago.
The old man worked for the Hudson Bay Company in early days, and John
here has been working for fur companies all his life. He's one of the
best timber-hunters that ever was. I'm right glad to see him. We'll
have to get him to stop with us here for a while, I expect."
A moment later Hugh turned to John and spoke to him in some strange
language, and for a little while Jack sat there and watched the two
talking and making signs to each other. He had heard his uncle tell
of the sign language that the Indians used, and he felt sure that
this must be it. When he left them to go up to the house the two men
were still talking busily.
After dinner Jack again went down to the bunk-house. Hugh and John
were still giving the news to each other, but now they spoke a
language that Jack could understand--that is, Hugh did, but John's
English made up only a small part of his speech, which was partly
French and partly Indian, with a good many signs. Some parts of what
he said Jack could not understand at all.
"Well, son," said Hugh after awhile, "I have got a whole bag full
of news from up north, and I'm mighty glad to have it. I've got a
whole lot of friends in the Blackfoot camp, and I've got plenty of
questions yet to ask the old man.
"Tell me, John, are the young men going to war much these days? In my
time with the tribe the horse-stealing parties were out about all the
time, except in the worst winter weather," said Hugh.
"Yas," answered John, "plenty war-parties he goin' h'out h'all time,
take plenty horses. Goin' to Crow, h'Assinaboine, Gros Ventres, Pend
d'Oreilles, h'all peoples. Sometime goin' 'gainst white mans."
"And I suppose plenty of people come to war against them, too," said
Hugh. "If they take lots of horses, they lose lots too, I expect."
"Hoh' yas," said John, "plenty horses stolen. Last summer Crows he
take 'im 'bout two hundred, one night. Lone Person he loss 'bout
hundred. You know it Heavy Runner--white mans call 'im Brocky.
Well, seh, last summer, Crees he comin' down pour steal 'im horses.
Somebody see it, h'every body h'running try pour keel 'im Crees.
Young man, Wolf Eagle, Cree shoot it 'im in h'arm. Heavy Runner he
chase 'im one Cree; Cree jump in washout pour fight; shoot it 'im
Heavy Runner in forehead; Heavy Runner shoot it, keel 'im Cree. Heavy
Runner get well, may be bullet follow bone of his haid round, no go
through. Plenty dances over Cree his scalp. War now, not so good lak'
in h'ole days. Too much soldier now; chase it war-party, take away
horses."
"Yes, I expect it's a heap different up there now from what it used
to be; like it is everywhere in the country since the railroads come
and turned things upside down. There's too many people in the country
now, and they ain't the right sort of people either."
"Yas, Hugh, h'ole man, peoples lak' you an' me we can' change, we too
h'ole. We been loky we was borned in good times, mais we had bad lok
we lived too long."
"Well, anyhow, John, I'd like mighty well to go up north again, and
maybe I will some day. When you goin' back there?"
"My not know yet. Maybe one, two mont'. Suppose maybe you goin' back
sem time my go?"
John stopped talking, and taking his pipe from his fire bag, began to
clean and fill it. This was rather a long slow process, during which
nothing was said. After the pipe was going well, John sat back, and
casting his eyes about the bunk-house noticed the bear-skin hanging
against the wall. Pointing to it, he said, "You kill it' 'im bear,
Hugh?"
"No, the boss killed that fellow. It must have just come out, for it
was right fat. There is lots of bears here, John, but no buffalo.
We've got to go more'n two hundred miles to kill buffalo. Last year
I seen one dead one out on the prairie about twenty-five miles from
here, but that's the only one I've seen about here in a long time.
Plenty buffalo up north, I expect."
"Plenty," was the answer. "He trade it two store, Carroll. H'all
H'ingin' comin' trade; Cree, h'Assinaboine, Gros Ventres, Sircee,
Blackfeet, Blood, Piegan; got plenty whisky, trade plenty h'robe.
Sometime he faightin', _les chauvages_, when he bin dronk. Sometimes
he keel it two tree H'ingin' faightin: sometime in winter, cole he
keel it, froze 'im so he was die. You know it Calf Shirt, Blood
Chief; well, seh, he keel it 'im white mans. Calf Shirt he dronk,
want keel it white mans, one h'woman run quick tole um. When Calf
Shirt cornin' pour faight, white mans shoot it 'im, maybe six, seven,
ten time. Soon he daid."
"Well, well!" exclaimed Hugh, "It's like old times yet up north after
all."