INDIAN SUMMER
October was fine that year, with days of warm sunshine and frosty
nights—ideal for living in the open. Late in the month a party of
Indians, both men and women, stopped at our ranch on their way to the
mountains. Little Creek and my Indian sister were going; Yellow Bird,
Onesta, and his wife Nitana; the sisters Katoyísa and Nínake; and they
asked me to go along.
We put two old mares in the heavy wagon, to carry blankets and camp
equipment; they were the only horses to be found near the ranch. Yellow
Bird drove the team with Katoyísa and I rode Kutenai, my saddle horse.
Soon, one of the team became lame; and Yellow Bird went back for
another horse. So I put Kutenai in the harness and mounted the driver’s
seat beside the Indian girl.
At first the going was good. The prairie was level and we had no
trouble; but we were left far behind. Our wagon was heavy, the team
slow and badly matched. Without a whip, I had to shout and swing my
lariat to make the horses move along. Throughout the day we saw no big
game, only jack rabbits and badgers and ground squirrels, chirping and
standing straight up, like miniature prairie dogs.
Near the mountains we came to rough traveling, up hill and down. In bad
places, with no road to follow, there was danger of breaking the
tongue, a wheel or an axle. We had to cross gullies and washouts and
streams with high banks; to find our way round ravines, and through
thickets of alder and quaking aspen.
We did not talk much, but our silence was natural. Katoyísa only spoke
when she felt like it. She was a quiet, self-contained girl, fearless
and conscientious. She wanted to help her tribe in their struggle for
survival; that they might learn to adapt themselves to the ways of the
conquering white race.
That day I felt as though I were in a dream—like a pioneer of early
days, on my way to a new land with this Indian girl. But, alas! I was
brought suddenly back to earth. We crossed the summit of a high ridge
and overlooked a terrible hill—a steep descent to a lower level of the
plain, stretching to the foot of the mountains. The air was marvelously
clear, and fragrant with the scent of pine and cedar.
We started down the hill; and I thought to myself: “If this heavy wagon
ever gets started, the horses cannot hold it and we shall both be
killed.” The ground was smooth and hard, with a grass-covered gravel.
When the tail of the wagon began to swing, Katoyísa was calm and
unafraid. And, when the brakes did not hold, she was quick to act; she
jumped from the wagon and held the heads of the frightened horses,
while I blocked the wheels with stones. Then we rough-locked the wheels
with ropes; and cut down a green tree and lashed it to the body of the
wagon, so that it dragged on the ground in front of the hind wheels.
Thus we made our way slowly down the steep hill, zigzagging back and
forth until we came to a dangerous slant, where the wagon went on two
wheels and began to topple. We thought we were turning over. But
neither of us tried to jump. I put my arm about Katoyísa and we were
ready. Then the wagon suddenly righted itself; I turned the horses into
a low growth of aspens; and thus we came safely to the bottom.
We trailed the rest of our party across level prairie and along a
river, passing through the broad entrance of a valley through lovely
meadows of tall bunch grass, thickets of willows and groves of poplars,
until we came to our camping place in the mountains—a high bench over
the river and close to a green forest of pine and spruce.
In the northern Rockies the autumn nights come early. The sun was down
by the time we had our camp ready, and the horses watered and picketed.
Then we built a big camp-fire, for the night air was cold. We roasted
meat on sticks over the hot coals, and stalks of wild parsnip to bring
out the juice. My companions used neither knives nor forks; and like
them I held the meat in my hands and tore it with my teeth; but it had
a relish and flavor I never tasted in civilization.
In that autumn camp, the Indians were at their best. They were
light-hearted and happy, as if they had not a care in the world. They
were nomads by nature and loved to wander, to be free and live in the
open. They sang Indian songs and told stories and tales of adventure.
They talked about a mad Indian who roamed the plains and mountains; he
traveled so fast every one was afraid; he killed people on sight, both
Indian and white; he was on the warpath and wanted to kill as many as
he could before he died; he came silently at night and shot people as
they stood in the firelight.
Thus we sat and talked by the fire until late. We slept on the grass,
under the stars. The women were together in one place, sharing their
robes and blankets; the men in another, with our horses picketed near.
As soon as the Indians lay down, there was quiet. But I lay awake,
drinking in the clear fresh air and the fragrance of the forest, and
watching the moon rise over the broad entrance of the valley. Then,
suddenly it was morning. I saw the golden color of sunrise in the sky
and the women cooking breakfast.
That day I went with Yellow Bird on a hunt for Rocky Mountain sheep.
Our camp needed meat; and, in the fall, mountain mutton was the most
delicious of all the game animals. We rode along an old Indian trail,
westward through the valley, where the golden brown of ripened grasses
covered the meadows; and came to a dark forest where the ground was
fragrant with pine needles. We followed the shores of a chain of lakes,
to a place where high mountains came close together on both sides of
the valley. Yellow Bird was leading with rifle across his saddle.
Finally he turned and signed with his hands, “Sheep on that mountain.”
High up, above timber-line, I saw a band of brownish gray animals with
white rump patches. They were feeding on a grassy slope which extended
to slide rock, near the summit of the mountain. I counted sixteen
sheep—ewes and small rams. Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, they
took alarm and ran swiftly along the mountain side. Then a big grizzly
appeared against the sky-line, coming across the shoulder of the
mountain. He, too, was stalking the sheep. He ran with head up, and I
could see his long silvery hair rolling in waves.
Yellow Bird was excited and eager for a shot. So we tied our horses and
made ready to climb, leaving our coats and everything we could spare.
After a drink of cold water at a stream, we started with our rifles and
cartridge belts, taking our course along the mountain side, so that the
grizzly might not get our scent. We struggled through tangled thickets
of evergreens, and windfalls where dead trees lay piled across each
other in all directions. The forest seemed vast and lonely; everywhere
silence, not a breath of air stirred. We climbed the southern slope in
the glare of the midday sun. I was drenched with sweat and my breath
came fast.
Near the edge of the woods at timber-line, we were careful not to snap
a twig or make a branch rustle, expecting any moment to meet the
grizzly. At every sound or movement in the trees, I felt a sudden
thrill and peered through the forest with senses alert. But we did not
meet the bear, to Yellow Bird’s chagrin. He was a reckless fellow,
always eager for a fight and confident of his skill with a rifle.
We crossed the shale to the sky-meadow, where we saw the sheep; and to
stalk them went towards the summit of the mountain, that we might
approach from above.
Big Horn are the most difficult to approach of all big game. They are
wary and quick-sighted; the slightest sound startles them; and they are
off like a flash. No animal is their superior in climbing; even in the
most difficult places they never slip, nor make a misstep.
We hunted up-wind, keeping out of sight, using crags and boulders for
shelter. When we came to a precipitous part of the mountain, we went
slowly and carefully, to keep from making a false step and breaking our
necks. We scrambled along the narrow ledges and rock-shelves, clinging
to cold buttresses and to scant projections of the cliffs, careful not
to start a loose stone or any crumbling shale.
At last we came to an overhanging crest. We crawled to the edge and
peeped over the cliff. Below, on a narrow ledge, stood a ewe sheep. She
was at the top of a precipice, with a view of the entire mountain side.
By this time the sun was low in the sky. Now was our only chance for
meat; we had to get down the cliffs, while there was still light to see
the way. Yellow Bird fired and struck the sheep behind the shoulder.
She jumped to a lower shelf, where my bullet finished her. The carcass
fell over the precipice and down the barefaced cliffs; the hollow
reverberations of its fall echoed from the mountain walls. It struck
slide-rock and rolled over and over, going at terrible speed, until it
landed against a big boulder far down the mountain—our fate if we
should slip or make a false step.
Then we made our way back along the treacherous ledges and
rock-shelves, where nerve and sure-footedness were necessary for every
step. When we came to loose shale, we traveled fearlessly with long
slides, down to the carcass of the sheep, near timber-line.
By the time we stripped off the hide and had the meat ready, night was
beginning to settle over the surrounding mountains. Then, in the dark
forest Yellow Bird was afraid. He sang chants to keep off ghosts and
evil things, until we came to our horses on the floor of the valley.
After the moon rose, the dark places were filled with its magic light,
and the open parks and lakes were like fairyland.
At camp the Indians gathered around the fire to roast sheep meat, and
to hear about our hunt. It was the night of full moon, without a cloud
in the sky. Our fire was in a meadow, near the edge of the forest,
where its red glow lighted up the big trees.
Like true children of nature, my companions acted as they felt.
Sometimes they talked; and sometimes there was silence for a while. In
the distance an owl hooted. It came nearer and nearer, until its call
sounded from the top of a tree near by.
“Listen!” said Nitana. “He calls his own name—ears-far-apart,
ears-far-apart, ears-far-apart (ka-ka-not-stoki, horned owl). One can
tell the different members of an owl family by their voices—the deep
call of the father, the higher one of the mother and the thin ones of
the children.”
After another silence the owl hooted again. My Indian sister shuddered:
“Perhaps it is a ghost,” said she. “Some owls are the unhappy spirits
of people long dead.”
“A medicine man told me,” said Little Creek, “that people who have died
and are unhappy in the spirit world, take the form of owls and come
back to their old haunts. They travel only at night and dread the
sunlight, because their deeds in this world were evil.”
Again the owl hooted, this time from another tree. “Kyai!” exclaimed
Strikes-on-Both-Sides, “there it is again. Just before my sister died,
she saw an owl looking at the door of her tepee. She was so frightened,
she told a medicine man; he said to use black paint on her face; if the
owl came back, the paint would ward off the evil. But it was no use; my
sister died in a few days.”
This ghostly talk by the fire, under the nocturnal spell of the forest,
made the women afraid. To allay their fears, Little Creek said: “An owl
never harms any one in a crowd, if he has a relative there.” So he left
the circle of firelight, and going to the edge of the woods shouted to
the owl, “You are my relative.”
Then the owl flew away, and I asked Little Creek: “What is the spirit
world like?” He said:
“We call it the Sand Hills, a white alkali country—far east on the
plains. It is surrounded by quicksands that the living may not enter.
The ghost people chase ghost buffalo and antelope. They have wild
berries and other things such as we like to eat. Old Person once died
for a day and a night, but his spirit returned to his body. He told the
watchers he had been to the Sand Hills, but was not allowed to enter;
his time to die had not yet come. His body was wet with sweat when his
spirit came back; they drove him from the Sand Hills.”
Nitana said: “Ghosts like to stay near forests and rivers. People who
sleep alone in a thick forest are sometimes bothered by ghosts pulling
off their blankets in the night and hitting them with sticks. But a
person may never see the ghost. If it bothers him too much, he can
offer his pipe with tobacco and pray: ‘Ghost, pity me! I am poor and
alone. Take this pipe and smoke. I pray go away and leave me in peace.’
If the ghost will not leave, but keeps on bothering the person, it
sometimes bestows upon him the power to doctor people.”
“Ghosts of dead medicine men are the worst. They are known as ‘the
haunting spirits.’ It is they who use the ghost shots, and kill people
who go outside the tepee at night. This fate often happens to sick
people; they are shot at by ghosts; and when they go back to bed, they
die in their sleep. Sometimes a person who goes outside at night, comes
back breathing heavily, as if he were smothering. He tells his people
that he saw something; and then they know that he was shot at by a
ghost. But he can be cured by a medicine man who has power over ghost
shots. This medicine man finds out the spot where he cannot breathe;
and then he doctors him; he draws out the shot—he may suck it out with
his mouth.
“Sometimes sick people see ghosts. Ghosts keep bothering them, coming
again and again; the ghosts wait for them until they die, and then take
them away. There are ghosts which scare horses at night, so that their
riders fall off. Then they make a whistling sound and laugh.”
After a silence Katoyísa said: “Tell a story about a ghost.”
“Take care, the owl may hear you,” answered Nitana. And then she
continued: “There was a camp of two tepees in a lonely place, far off
on the prairie. In one of them lived a couple without children, and in
the other a man with his wife and daughter. No other people were near.
One day the father sent his girl to the other tepee. On the way she saw
a person seated on the ground. She supposed it was their neighbor and
went towards him. He kept his blanket wrapped closely about him and she
could not see his face. When he did not move, she threw a stone to
attract his attention. Still he did not move or look up, so she went
her way to the other lodge. There she found their neighbor and his
wife. She told them about the stranger and they went forth to look. But
the mysterious person had disappeared. There was no place to hide; the
prairie was level with no trees. The girl was so frightened she ran
back and told her parents. Throughout the rest of that day they
watched, but nobody appeared.
“That same night, when both families were seated around the lodge-fire,
an owl lighted on one of the poles over their heads and began to cry:
‘Oo-oo-oo-oo.’ Then they knew the ghost had come back to trouble them.
They begged it to go away and leave them in peace. But it stayed on the
lodge-pole and kept crying: ‘Oo-oo-oo-oo.’ The girl said: ‘I know he is
angry, because I threw a stone at him.’ So they filled a pipe with
tobacco and offered it to the ghost. If he smoked he would do them no
harm. But the ghost paid no attention to them. He was still angry, and
kept on with his solemn crying. Then the father gave the pipe to his
daughter. She held the pipe up and prayed: ‘Ghost, smoke. I pray you go
away and leave us in peace.’ It paid no attention, but kept on crying.
So they held the girl up into the smoke-hole of the tepee, where she
was near the ghost. Again she offered the pipe. The ghost gave a loud
cry and the girl fell over dead.”
Then Little Creek told this ghost story about another owl:
“There was a man named Cross Bull who lived over north among the Blood
Indians. He went alone to war. He had bad luck and started home
empty-handed. One evening, after many days of hard traveling, he came
to a river valley and went into camp in a grove of cotton wood trees.
He had no food; he was tired and hungry. So he built a fire close to a
log and lay down to sleep. In the night he was wakened by something
coming through the underbrush. He had his back towards it. He dared not
turn his head to look. He thought it might be a ghost. He heard it go
into a tree, so he lay very still; he did not even move. Finally he
raised his head and looked. In the forks of a big tree sat a ghost. A
long white robe covered its bones. Whenever it swung its legs, the
bones rattled. Cross Bull began to pray. He begged it to go away,
saying: ‘I am tired and want to rest.’
“But the ghost paid no attention. It stared at him from hollow eyes; it
whistled and rattled its bones. Cross Bull prayed again:
“‘O ghost, be kind.
Go away and leave me alone.
I am poor and have bad luck.
I am tired and want to rest.’
“Four times Cross Bull made this prayer. But the ghost paid no
attention; it kept on whistling and swinging its legs. Then Cross Bull
got angry. He took his bow and arrow and shot at the ghost. He saw an
owl fly from the tree, and heard it cry in a quavering voice: ‘You hurt
me so badly, you hurt me so badly.’ (Screech owl.)
“Cross Bull was so frightened he ran away in the dark. The ghost kept
following; for whenever he stopped he heard it crying the same thing,
over and over in a quavering voice: ‘You hurt me so badly, you hurt me
so badly.’
“Cross Bull left the valley. He did not stop running until he was far
out on the plains. Then it was daylight and the ghost left him. But he
kept on running until he reached the Blood camp. Next night Cross Bull
died. And that is the end of my story-telling.”
By this time it was late in the night and my Indian friends went to
bed. I sat alone by the camp-fire. The moon was now in the west; and
the handle of the Great Dipper, that wonderful clock of the north sky,
pointed downward to the horizon.
Then I climbed the mountain side in the bright moonlight, to look out
over the forests and the great plains stretching eastward. On the other
side of the valley were mountains, with shining glaciers and
snowfields. The aurora formed an arch of light across the north sky;
streamers mounting to the zenith in yellow and yellowish red, and
sometimes greenish white. They swayed backward and forward, now strong,
now faint, until they faded and a luminous veil covered the sky,
through which a bright star shone. There was no wind; and everywhere an
impressive stillness, broken only by the river in the valley, and the
solemn notes of the owl, “a haunting spirit.”