HOME OF THE SCOUT
Next day the scout took me to the lodge of the head-chief White Calf
and his wife Catches-Two-Horses. These were the givers of the Sun Dance
ceremony. We talked with the venerable chief Running Crane, and saw his
wife who was fasting, because of a vow to the Sun. We went to the
tepees of the war chiefs, Little Plume and Little Dog, and smoked a
friendly pipe, also with the judges, Shoots-in-the-Air, Curly Bear and
Wolf Plume, and the medicine men, White Grass and Bull Child. In this
way I met some of the head men of the tribe, and among them chief Mad
Wolf, an orator of renown and the owner of the ancient Beaver Bundle,
an important religious ceremony. This was the beginning of a
friendship, unusual between an Indian and a white man. It lasted as
long as Mad Wolf lived, and had a strange influence upon my life in the
years to come.
When the Sun Dance came to an end and the big camp broke up, I went
with the scout to his ranch on the prairie, in the valley of Cutbank
River, near the homes of the chiefs, White Calf and Mad Wolf, and of
the medicine men, White Grass and Ear-Rings.
The scout had a cabin built of pine logs from the mountains, with
sod-covered roof and clay-chinked walls, also corrals and low-lying
sheds, a garden, and herds of cattle and horses. His wife was an Indian
woman named White Antelope, and they had a family of four children.
She was young and good looking, but had a high temper. She liked to
take things easy, to dress in Indian finery and go visiting, leaving
ranch and children to the care of the scout. But he was patient with
her; he was kind-hearted and always tried to keep things smooth. She
cooked and waited on the table, when she felt in the mood; she and the
children ate after the men. If she was moody, the scout prepared the
meals.
Their family all slept in one room and I in another. My bunk of rough
boards was built against the walls. But, in good weather, I slept
outside the cabin and under the stars, on the grassy bank of the river,
with a shady grove of cottonwoods near by, and a lovely landscape of
meadows and distant snow-capped mountains.
Siksikaí-koan was a good friend, honest and trustworthy. He stood high
in the councils of his tribe and was liked by all the people. He was
always ready to help any who came to his ranch, to advise his people in
their struggle towards civilization. Through him, I met Indians both
old and young. I made friends with them, and tried to understand them
and to see things their way.
Every morning before sunrise, the scout wakened me to go into the
hayfields. He mowed while I drove the horserake; and then came days of
pitching and stacking. Then every part of me seemed sound and sane; I
was light-hearted and happy, untrammeled and free. On those broad
prairies were no worries nor pessimists, no laws nor creeds, nothing
but a wonderful peace and contentment; something I had longed for all
my life.
The west wind blew fresh from pine forests on the mountains, from
meadows with odors of wild flowers, sweet grass, and ripe strawberries.
Bees hummed in the air, western meadow larks sang on the prairie,
willow thrushes and white-crowned sparrows in the river valley.
But the scout could not stand heavy work in the hayfields. He suffered
from the hardships of his former life on the plains, from an injury by
a wild horse, and wounds received in the Indian wars.
Then Yellow Bird came to help in the haying. He was a relative of the
scout, a young half-breed of my own age, strong, full of life, and a
good worker when he felt like it. But he was wild and could not be
depended upon. Like young men of the Blackfoot, he wanted to be gay and
craved excitement. He liked to wander, to hunt, to rope cattle and ride
wild horses, to see friends and visit new places, to be always on the
move; he liked jolly companions and people who gave him a good time;
but he loved to go with girls best of all.
He took me to Indian camps to dance and see the girls. On our way home
at night, he liked to gallop past ranches where they kept packs of
ferocious dogs. They rushed after us and he had the fun of riding at a
mad gallop, yelling and shooting at them on the run. He was thrilled at
the idea of being chased by their angry owners, and of hearing bullets
whizzing harmlessly in the dark.
We attended a meeting held by a white missionary in our valley. I led
the singing and sat in the front row with Bear Chief and Eagle Child,
who were prominent Indians. They listened gravely and attentively but
understood not a single word. They were broad-minded chiefs and came as
an example to other Indians; to show they approved of the missionary
and of his religious ceremony.
Thus with Yellow Bird I entered into the life of the people. I wanted
to see them natural and without restraint. With them I talked not of my
life in civilization, but of things of their everyday life, of horses
and cattle, hunting and wild animals, dancing and ceremonies. In this
way I became one of them, and they saw I was not critical of them nor
of their ways.
After we stacked eighty tons of hay at the scout’s ranch, Yellow Bird
and I rode the range after stray horses and cattle. We skirted the base
of the mountains, along the foothills and edge of the forest, until we
came to a well-worn trail, which led to an open park far back in the
mountains. Many cattle were there, seeking refuge from the swarms of
flies and mosquitoes on the grass-covered prairies. Then we found a
herd of mares and geldings. Their leader, a fiery young stallion, tried
to drive us off. But we rounded them up with the cattle and drove them
back to the ranch, feeding them salt, that they might not again stray
away.
When we wanted to break a new team for the wagon, we drove that wild
herd of range horses into the corral and lassoed a roan and a
three-year-old sorrel. We tied them with ropes while we put on the
harness, then hitched them to the wagon and took blankets and
provisions; we knew not how far they might run.
At the start the broncos bucked and plunged; then ran and tried to tear
themselves loose from the rattling wagon, bounding over rocks, swinging
as though it would turn over. After running many miles, our broncos
broke into a stampede so wild that Yellow Bird turned them up a butte
and put the brakes on hard. They galloped up one side of that steep
butte and down the other, our wagon plunging over ruts, stones, and
badger holes, and into a swamp in the valley of a stream, where they
sank deep into soft muck and the wagon went down over the hubs. But
they soon freed themselves, and, with their sides covered with foamy
sweat, they pulled us through to firm ground. Then they ran again and
did not stop, until we were far out on the open plains. That night we
tied up our wild team and slept peacefully under the wagon, twenty-five
miles from the ranch.
Sometimes in the evening, after our work at the ranch, we saddled our
horses and rode down the river to see two sisters who were home from
school, Katoyísa and Nínake. Their father, Lone Wolf, was dead, and
they lived alone with their mother, a quiet, pleasant-faced woman.
Their log cabin of three rooms had low ceilings, and walls of hewn logs
chinked and plastered, all whitewashed and clean. The floor was
spotless and covered with skins of wolf, bear, and mountain goat; in
the windows were grasses and ferns and wild flowers, and a dish of
fragrant red apples on a table.
Nínake, the younger sister, was the favorite of Yellow Bird. She was
lively, a great talker, and gave him a good time. But I liked Katoyísa
better, a quiet bashful girl of nineteen, with shapely head and good
features. Her black hair hung in two heavy braids almost to her knees.
She wore homemade cotton gowns of thin material which showed her
slender graceful form. From the look in her eyes and expression of her
face, I knew she had courage and character. In her was the stuff of our
bravest pioneers.
After we had finished with the hay of the scout, Yellow Bird and I went
to their ranch to help with their crops. The girls cooked and gave us
good food, fresh vegetables from their garden, beef, bread and butter
and milk.
Many years have passed, but they have not dimmed the memory of those
happy days without a care in the world, the primitive simplicity of
that family, and the way they made me one of them. We both enjoyed our
work, we were near the girls from morning till night, and that kept us
in a good humor.
Then the scout wanted timber from the mountains, so we took two teams
and made ready the wagons. We threw off their beds and placed the
wheels far apart by means of a long reach, to hold the heavy logs.
Yellow Bird drove one wagon and I the other. For me it was a new thing
to drive a team of broncos. I sat on the reach, on a gunnysack stuffed
with hay. I had to wield a whip with a long lash, and had a heavy chain
for binding the logs together.
We left the ranch soon after sunrise and went to a burned stretch of
timber on a slope of the Rockies. We felled only trees that were sound
and well-seasoned, cutting them into logs and snaking them down the
forest trails to be loaded on our wagons.
At first it was hard to chop hour after hour with an axe. I blistered
my hands and was drenched with sweat; my arms and back ached; I felt
weak in the knees and had a consuming thirst. Then I became accustomed
to the work and had a feeling of exhilaration. I liked the fresh odor
of the wood, the ring of my axe and the feeling of a good stroke, to
know my sharp blade was cutting deep.
There was always danger of being cut with an axe, from felling trees
that had lodged, and from Yellow Bird; sometimes his trees fell
perilously near. Once I was nearly struck by a pine that let go at the
roots; I heard a sharp crackling, saw it coming towards me and jumped
just in time.
But for me the hardest work was the loading of the wagons. The heavy
logs were twenty-five feet long and from one to two feet in diameter.
The roads were steep and rough and our brakes would not hold. But we
always joked about hard work and danger, and had to look out for
ourselves.
Soon Yellow Bird tired of ranch work and wanted a change. He proposed
that we ride across the Montana line into Canada, to visit relatives in
a camp of Blood Indians, a northern division of the tribe. So we
rounded up the wild herd of range horses and drove them into the
corral. We each chose a saddle horse, Yellow Bird a brown with silvery
mane and tail, I a powerful sorrel. My gentle horse, Kutenai, I left to
graze at the ranch.
In handling horses that ran wild on the range, we were always ready for
trouble. To control them was a question of mastery; they took kind
treatment as a sign of weakness. When I tried to saddle my sorrel, he
rose on his hind legs and with forefeet high in the air tried to bring
them down on my head. In mounting, I held his bit in one hand, the
pommel with the other, and made a flying leap upon his back. Before I
was in the saddle, he sprang forward like a race horse at a desperate
gallop. He had an easy motion and I kept my seat; but to stop him
baffled all of my endeavors.
We went north across the open plains, without fences or roads to bar
the way. Our horses ran like the wind; we gave them free rein and held
on. I rode Indian fashion, letting myself go freely with the motion of
my horse and kept a firm grip with my knees.
The first night we stopped at the cabin of a squaw man, near a rocky
peak which rose abruptly out of the prairie, standing apart from the
main range of the Rocky Mountains. Our host was a white man with an
Indian wife and four half-breed children, the oldest a girl of
seventeen. She and Yellow Bird were sweethearts; and while they made
love by the river, I went into the meadow to help the old man with his
hay. He was one of those pioneer settlers of early days, short and
sinewy in stature, and with a heavy beard. His life had been filled
with hardships, toil, and little pleasures. He was suspicious by
nature, and liked to talk about free silver; but at heart he was a good
fellow, resolute, brave, a hard worker and hospitable. His Indian wife
was a laughing, broad-faced woman, good-natured and lazy. Their cabin
was dirty and swarmed with flies. The second daughter was strangely
pretty, with flashing black eyes, jet black hair, and marvelously clear
olive skin. She had a pet colt which followed her like a dog. He came
into the cabin for supper. When they put him out, he ran to the open
window and poked me in the back with his nose; he whinnied and grunted
and made such a fuss that his young mistress went to the window and
gave him sugar.
Soon after sunrise on the following morning Yellow Bird and I saddled
our broncos and moved on. To the west rose the mighty frontier range of
the Rockies. The rugged valleys and peaks still had a thin veil of
morning mist. In the cool air our horses had wonderful speed. They
chafed at the bit and were tireless, as though their sinews were of
steel. But, after that first day, they were not so hard to hold.
We crossed buttes on the run, up hill and down, it was all the same; in
steep places our horses put their feet together and slid. They jumped
streams, rocks, and badger holes; galloped over ledges and sharp
volcanic rocks, across hills and ravines; it was beautiful to see them
go; they never stumbled, but lifted their feet cleanly up and over, and
always planted them securely and firmly. We passed lakes and marshy
ponds, starting noisy flocks of ducks and other water birds, crossed
Boundary Creek, and were over the Montana line into the Province of
Alberta.
We came to the ranch of a Frenchman named Big Steve, far out on the
prairie. He and his wife were pitching hay in a meadow. She was buxom
and smiling, with rosy cheeks and did the work of a man. Both were
friendly and wanted to talk, but we could not tarry; our horses were
wild and hard to hold.
At midday we dashed into a Mormon settlement, and a number of men came
to meet us. They all looked alike, over six feet in height, with smooth
faces and prominent features. They were good-natured and hospitable and
gave us all the food we could eat. But it was a dreary place on a
barren plain, a group of board shanties, without trees or vegetation. I
thought to myself: “How dull an existence compared to our life in the
Indian country, with dances and games, feasts and ceremonies!”
Near the border line we entered a region of bandits and law-breakers.
We saw a white man who tried to hold us up, but we spurred our broncos
and they ran so fast he gave up the chase; then a band of Blood Indians
closely muffled in their blankets; they were on their way south and
kept their faces hidden. We passed another rider, who was followed by
the North-West Mounted Police; they said he was leader of a gang of
cattle thieves.
We came that afternoon to the end of our journey in a camp of the Blood
Indians. Yellow Bird took me to the home of his relative, an elderly
man named Strong. In his lodge we met some of the head men of the
tribe—Thunder Chief, Spotted Calf, Running Coyote, and Grasshopper.
They were all friendly and glad to see us. They greeted us with “How!”
shook us by the hand and welcomed us to their feast.
For refreshments, they had a meat stew and hot tea. Their manner of
eating was different from that of people in civilization. They ate with
their fingers, gulped down the food, sucked their teeth, and drank with
a hissing intake of the breath. But with them these were not breaches
of good manners; they were not sensitive to any of these things. While
eating they did not talk; and after the manner of Indians showed no
enthusiasm. None of them said the food was good, or that they liked
anything; nor, on the other hand, did any one grumble or say the food
was bad.
After the feast they smoked a large pipe of polished redstone, which
was handed stem first to each person. Then they talked, speaking
rapidly, in guttural voices that were not harsh, and making graceful
gestures with their hands. The Indian named Grasshopper had a
reputation as a wit. He kept them laughing—all but Thunder Chief, who
was head man and had his dignity to maintain.
Grasshopper wore a coyote-skin cap with the tail hanging down behind
and an eagle feather on top; slung over his shoulder was a polished
buffalo horn. He had beaded moccasins and leggings, and a blanket coat
with bright stripes. After we had eaten, he turned to me and said with
a laugh:
“You look like an eagle. You sit straight and with your head up. Now is
the time to shake your tail feathers, like an eagle after it eats.”
This was Indian humor and made the others laugh.
Grasshopper was the life of the party. He said his parents died when he
was small. He was raised by a chief named Red Crow, who had started
many boys in life; he had become a successful man, because he followed
the advice of his adopted father.
Grasshopper was pleased when he saw me recording his conversation in my
notebook. He said: “Now I am going to tell you some stories.” I sat
waiting, but he did not begin; so I said: “Go ahead; I am ready.”
To make the others laugh, he held out his hand saying: “How much do you
pay?” I took his outstretched hand, shook it and said: “That is what I
pay.”
Then every one laughed, even the dignified head chief joined in. They
liked the repartee and wanted more.
Grasshopper said: “Well, instead of paying he only shakes.” He turned
to the head-chief and said: “This white man is a great traveler. I like
him and want him for my partner. We had better keep him here with us.”
And then he said to me: “Why don’t you join our tribe and stay with us?
You could take an Indian wife; you could hunt and trap and make a good
living.”
That evening we sat outside the lodge and watched the sun go down fiery
red, with its glow reflected in a near-by stream. Then the moon, nearly
full, rose over the distant hills of the prairie, like a ghostly
phantom in the twilight.
Then by the lodge-fire the Indians told stories of their hunting trips
and war expeditions of former days. They talked far into the night, and
next morning we saddled our horses early and rode back to Montana.