COUNTRY OF THE NORTH PIEGANS
We stayed several days in the camp of the Bloods, to rest our tired
horses and to visit the family of One Spot. The Bloods were
fine-looking Indians, both men and women. But they were not popular
with other tribes. They were proud and considered themselves the
aristocrats of the plains.
The night before we left their camp we picketed our horses close and
made ready for an early start. In hot summer weather, early morning is
the best time to travel on the plains.
We broke camp before sunrise and followed the shore of the river,
looking for a place to ford. The crossing of a broad, swift river is
always hazardous, because of washouts, hidden boulders, and stumbling
horses. We rode through thickets of poplars and willows. Under the
trees lay the golden light of early morning, with purple shadows. Light
mists floated along the banks of the river. From the grass and bushes
hung countless gems of sparkling dew. Everything was fresh and
blooming, the buds and leaves, flowers and perfumes. The fragrant
breath of the morning came through thickets, with odors of balsam
poplar and wild flowers. Butterflies rested on the first wild roses,
bees hummed in the air. Fragrant primroses were in blossom, wild
hollyhocks, purple fleabane and the large-flowered agoseris.
When we forded the river, I did not hurry my horse, but let him take
his time, holding his head a little upstream, to avoid the full force
of the rushing water, bending my body to help him in his balance and
fixing my eyes on the top of his head, to keep from getting dizzy in
the rapid current.
Out on the open prairie the birds were calling; near and far the air
was filled with their songs. Chestnut-collared longspurs were climbing
high into the blue sky, then fluttering slowly to the ground, always
against the wind, singing their cheerful rippling song. I heard the
calls of ducks and the choruses of prairie chickens, repeating it over
and over, the strange cries of cranes as they soared high overhead, and
the voices of curlew, killdeer, and Western meadow-larks.
Then we climbed to the summit of a ridge and saw before us a great
table-land, bounded on the north and west by high hills and distant
mountains. It was part in light and part in shadow, with the golden sun
rising over a bank of clouds in the east and shining on the snowy peaks
of the Rockies in the west—a wide expanse and without any sign of life.
We took an old Indian trail, which was known to Onesta. It led us
across a plateau and into a hill country, where the sun shone in a
clear sky and the heat was intense. As the day advanced, the sun beat
down with ever-increasing heat. My thermometer registered ninety-eight
degrees in the shade and a hundred and thirty in the sun.
At mid-day we stopped on the shore of a lake, to let our horses feed on
the rich grass. The women made a shelter from the sun by spreading
canvas over a tripod of poles, with the sides raised for the wind to
blow through.
As we rested under our comfortable shelter, Onesta called my attention
to swallows hovering over our horses to get hairs for lining their
nests, and to grasshoppers flying high in the air, saying:
“Their wings have no color until they fly into the sunlight; it makes
them red, yellow, and black.”
He taught me a song by which he made some sandpipers dance on the shore
of the lake. He clapped his hands and sang:
“Ik-sis-a-kuyi! Ik-sis-a-kuyi!” (Meat! Meat!)
He showed me a wild rose bush that was covered with the webs of tent
caterpillars; and made them dance by beating time with his hands and
singing:
“Ko-me-os-cha! Ko-me-os-cha!” (Worms! Worms!)
At first the caterpillars lay perfectly still. But, after he sang a few
moments, they began to wake up and move slowly. Then they all stood up
and waved their heads to and fro, dancing as long as Onesta continued
his song.
When the heat had passed, we harnessed our horses and moved on,
following a trail that led upwards toward the mountains. While making
our way slowly, Onesta and Nitana began chanting a religious song in
unison. I rode closer and joined them in their song.
Then Onesta explained that it was customary to sing on entering a
strange country, as a prayer to the Sun for a safe journey and for
protection against the magical arts of its people. On this occasion, he
said they were also praying for my success among the North Piegans.
Finally, we gained the summit of a massive ridge of the prairie, which
overlooked the country of the North Piegans—a broad river valley with
green meadows and groves of cottonwood trees. On the undulating
hillsides herds of cattle and horses were feeding. And, as far as the
eye could reach, the river rolled eastward from the base of the
Rockies, gleaming in the sunlight like a ribbon of silver.
Nestled among the groves of green trees in the valley, I saw a number
of white Indian tepees, with blue smoke rising from their tops. North
lay the Porcupine Hills covered with forests of pine; west, the snow
peaks of the mountains. Onesta said the hills were called “Porcupine,”
because the bristling trees on their ridges look like the quills on a
porcupine’s back.
He pointed to some rocks on the prairie and said: “A big grizzly once
lived in a cave there. Now many kinds of berries grow around it, from
the seeds carried there by that bear.” He showed me a mountain in the
main range of the Rockies, with a great landslide on its eastern slope,
and said:
“We call it ‘Lodge-Lining-Mountain,’ because it looks like the inside
lining of a lodge. The river that rises there is named after Old Man;
and in the mountains near its source is Old Man’s sliding place and the
place where he gambled.” On our way down from the summit, we met some
young men of the North Piegans, who were watching over their tribal
herds of horses and cattle. One of them, the son of Crow Eagle, a
famous chief, rode with us. He was hospitable and invited us to his
camp. But Onesta told him we were going to visit Brings-Down-the-Sun,
the medicine man. Before the young chief left us, he pointed out the
camp we were seeking, among some big trees on the north side of the
river.
Then we crossed a table-land, which rose gradually from the river, and
descended into the valley. On the face of the hills and in little
ravines were clusters of chokecherry bushes, bearing a fruit like a
wild cherry, only larger and better flavored. I saw a coyote standing
motionless in a ravine, but it was only for a moment; because of his
protective coloring, I quickly lost sight of him.
The river valley, with its fragrant masses of flowers, thickets, and
shady trees, seemed like a Promised Land, after the heat and dust of
the plains. A soft wind blew over the meadows, bearing odors of wild
flowers and ripened grasses. Wild roses were in bloom, sky-blue
forget-me-nots, purple geraniums, yellow clusters of puccoon and
rose-colored heads of horsemint, called “manekape” (young man) by the
Blackfoot. They used its blossoms for inflammation of the eyes.
We followed a trail through rich meadows, and thickets of aspen and
willows; and then entered one of those beautiful groves of cottonwood
timber, that are sometimes found along the larger rivers of the
prairies. Finally we stopped in an open meadow densely sheltered by
poplars and willows and canopied by wide-spreading cottonwood trees.
Through the thick foliage I saw the gleam of white Indian tepees. It
was the camp of Brings-Down-the-Sun, the medicine man, and the end of
our journey. Here he lived surrounded by his children, grandchildren,
and great-grandchildren.
I saw a group of women and children on a high cliff overlooking the
valley. They had been watching our approach, their figures sharply
outlined against the deep blue sky. Onesta recognized one of the women
as Long Hair, favorite daughter of Brings-Down-the-Sun. Her long black
hair was flying in the wind; she had a baby on her back and a group of
children clinging to her skirts.
Then the venerable figure of the patriarch chieftain came from one of
the lodges. With hand shading his eyes, he stood under a cottonwood
tree and gazed intently at our outfit. He recognized his nephew,
Onesta, and welcomed us saying:
“My children, I am glad in my heart that you have come to visit my
camp.”
I went closer and saw that he was an old man, with long gray hair
falling in waves over his shoulders. He had high cheek bones, and
clean-cut Indian features. In his face were deep lines, as though he
were burdened with care and responsibility. He wore a bright-colored
blanket wrapped closely around him, a red band across his forehead and
encircling his head. His tall figure was bent with age; but he had a
keen and penetrating gaze, and the dignified bearing of a chief who was
accustomed to command.
He stood a moment without speaking, and then he said:
“You may pitch your lodges close to mine if you wish. But the best
place to camp is in the open meadow. Sometimes heavy winds come, which
break the big trees. If you should be camped underneath in a storm,
some of the branches might fall and do you harm. Take your horses to
feed on the hills beyond the valley, where the grass is more
nourishing. You will find a cold spring on the north side of the meadow
with good water to drink.”
Thus he spoke and disappeared into his tepee, while we made ready to
camp, choosing a place among the big trees, near the camp of the old
medicine man; and there we unloaded our wagons.
Soon the women of the North Piegans, Bird, the wife of
Brings-Down-the-Sun, with her daughter, Long Hair, and
daughters-in-law, came bearing presents. It was always interesting to
watch the exchange of presents by the women. On this occasion, Nitana
received an old pot, a bag of dried beans, a big knife, and a copper
kettle. She gave in return two blankets, two pairs of moccasins, and
some mineral paints. Such articles, which might seem of little value to
white men, were cherished by Indian women.
That evening we had an invitation from Brings-Down-the-Sun to eat with
him in his tepee. So at sunset, in company with Little Creek and
Onesta, I walked along a well-worn trail that led among the cottonwoods
to the camp of the North Piegans. Near the lodge of the chief, we came
upon a charming picture of a happy and contented Indian family.
A bright fire burned under the big trees, sending a shower of golden
sparks into the air, lighting up the white lodges with their clusters
of tapering poles and shining on the massive trunks and green foliage
of the cottonwoods. Gathered round the fire were women and girls
dressed in bright colors, busily at work, cooking, making moccasins and
clothes; groups of children were at play—all were merry and
light-hearted.
A baby hammock was stretched between two trees, the mother rocking it
gently and singing a cradle song. But the approach of a strange white
man changed this peaceful scene abruptly. A barking dog rushed suddenly
out, and a woman shouted:
“Puks-i-put! Kops-ksisse!” (Come back! Swollen Nose!)
For a moment the merry throng was silent; and then quickly vanished.