THE CROWS.
The tribe of Indians known as the Crows[50] are entitled to the very
marked distinction of being the most manly in their conduct in its
relation to the whites. The integrity of their friendship has been
tested on many occasions, and they have never proved false to their
protestations. Their chiefs declare that a Crow was never known to
kill a white man excepting in self-defence.
As has been the fate of the North American savage since that dark
December day when the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock, the Crows have
been driven year after year from one of the most beautiful natural
regions on the continent. Not only have the whites been the usurpers,
but both the Sioux and the Cheyennes have been instrumental in
confining them to a constantly decreasing area, until now the remnant
of a once great nation is the ward of the government, and located on
a limited reservation.
To prove that Ab-sa-ra-ka, as the tribe designated their beautiful
hunting-grounds, was rightly named, it is only necessary to quote a
conversation which took place at a council held at Fort Philip Kearny,
in July, 1866, when the following question was asked of Black-Horse,
the Wolf-That-Lies-Down, Red-Arm, and Dull-Knife:—
“Why do the Sioux and Cheyennes claim the land which belongs to the
Crows?” To which these chiefs answered:—
“The Sioux helped us. We stole the hunting-grounds of the Crows
because they were the best. The white man is along the great waters,
and we wanted more room. We fight the Crows because they will not
take half and give us peace with the other half.”
It is claimed that the Crows sprang from the Gros Ventres of the
Missouri, whose language they speak. The Gros Ventres were a very
weak tribe, or band, who had, by incessant wars with the surrounding
tribes, become reduced to a very insignificant number of warriors.
It is alleged, according to their tradition, that the Crows became
a separate nation nearly two hundred years ago, because the tribe
was becoming too numerous.
In the early years of the century the head chief of the Crows was
A-ra-poo-ash. The celebrated Jim Beckwourth[51] had already become
a leader among the Crows, and shortly after the death of A-ra-poo-ash
was unanimously chosen in his place.
The Blackfeet were always very persistent and unrelenting enemies of
the Crows, and some of the most bloody combats recorded in savage
warfare occurred between these two tribes.
Once, while in the Crow village, a party of Blackfeet, numbering
thirty or forty, came stealing through the Crow country, killing every
straggler, and carrying off every horse they could lay their hands on.
The Crow warriors immediately started after them and pressed them so
closely that they could not escape. The Blackfeet then threw up a
semicircular breastwork of logs at the foot of a precipice, and
awaited the approach of their enemies. Logs and sticks were piled up
four or five feet in front of them, which thoroughly protected them.
The Crows might have swept over this breastwork and exterminated the
Blackfeet; but though outnumbering them, they did not dream of
storming the little fortification. Such a proceeding would have been
altogether repugnant to the savage notion of warfare. Whooping and
yelling, and jumping from side to side like devils incarnate, they
poured a shower of bullets and arrows upon the logs, yet not a
Blackfoot was hurt; but several of the Crows, in spite of their
antics, were shot down. In that ridiculous manner the fight continued
for an hour or two. Now and then a Crow warrior, in an ecstasy of
valour and vainglory, would scream forth his war-song, declare himself
the bravest and greatest of all Indians, grasp his hatchet, strike
it wildly upon the breastwork, and then, as he retreated to his
companions, fall dead, riddled with arrows; yet no combined attack
was made, the Blackfeet remaining secure in their intrenchment.
At last Jim Beckwourth lost patience:—
“You are all a set of fools and old women,” cried he; “come with me,
if any of you are brave enough, and I'll show you how to fight.”
Beckwourth instantly threw off his trapper's suit of buckskin,
stripping himself naked as were the Indians themselves. Throwing his
rifle on the ground, he grasped a small hatchet, and running over the
prairie to the right, hidden by a hollow from the eyes of the
Blackfeet, he climbed up the rocks and reached the top of the
precipice behind them. Forty or fifty young warriors followed him.
By the cries and whoops that arose from below, Beckwourth knew that
the Blackfeet were just beneath him; then running forward, he leaped
from the rock right in the midst of the surprised savages. As he fell,
he caught one of the Blackfeet by his long, loose hair, and dragging
him toward him, buried his hatchet in his brain. Then grasping
another by the belt at his waist, he struck him a stunning blow, and
gaining his feet, shouted the Crow war-cry. He swung his hatchet so
fiercely around him that the astonished Blackfeet crowded back and
gave him room. He might, had he chosen, have leaped over the
breastwork and escaped; but this was not necessary, for with devilish
yells the remainder of the Crow warriors came dropping in quick
succession over the rock, and rallied around him.
The convulsive struggle within the breastwork was frightful; for a few
moments the Blackfeet fought and yelled like pent-up tigers; but the
butchery was complete, and the mangled bodies lay piled together under
the precipice. Not a Blackfoot made his escape.
In 1833 a band of Blackfeet, superior in numbers to the Crows, most
unmercifully whipped them. On their return to their village one night
in August, shortly after the fight, there was a grand display of
meteoric showers, and although the Crow warriors were ready to face
death in any form, the wonderful celestial display appalled them.
They regarded it as the wrath of the Great Spirit showered visibly
upon them. In their terrible fright, they, of course, looked to their
chief for some explanation of it. But as Beckwourth himself was as
much struck with the wonderful occurrence, he was equally at a loss
with his untutored followers to account for the remarkable spectacle.
Evidently, he knew, he must augur some result from it, though his own
dejected spirit did not prompt him to deduce a very encouraging one.
He thought of all the impostures that are practised upon the credulous,
and his imagination suggested some brilliant figures to his mind.
He thought at first of declaring to them that the Great Spirit was
pleased with the expedition, and was lighting the band on its way
with spirit lamps; or that the meteors were the spirits of departed
braves, coming to assist their worldly brothers in another impending
fight; but he was not sanguine enough of possible results to indulge
in any attractive oratory. He merely informed his warriors that he
had not time to consult his medicine, but that as soon as he could he
would interpret the miracle in full.
When his band of warriors arrived at the village, he found all of the
people's minds still agitated with fear at the late phenomenon.
Every one was talking of it with wonder and amazement, and the chief's
opinion was demanded at once; they were expecting it, and wanted to
know what the consequences were to be. Admonished by his recent
defeat, Beckwourth now had no trouble in reading the stars. He told
his warriors that they had evidently offended the Great Spirit;
that it was because of his wrath they had suffered defeat in their
excursion to the Blackfeet country, and returned with the loss of
twenty-three warriors. He then told them that a sacrifice must be
made to appease the wrath of the Great Spirit, and he recommended that
a solemn council be convened and a national oblation be offered up.
Beckwourth knew that he was doing an absurd thing, but the superstition
of the people demanded it, and he must cater to their desires because
it was popular.
The camp where the Crows then were was a mourning-camp, in which,
according to their religion, “medicine” would have no effect.
The camp was, therefore, moved to another place, about ten miles
distant, in order to properly offer up the sacrifice.
All the leading men and braves assembled in council, and Beckwourth,
as their great medicine-man, was consulted as to what kind of an
offering should be made which would effect its purpose of appeasing
the wrath that was consuming the tribe.
Beckwourth retired for a while from the council, telling the chiefs
he must consult his medicine. Returning in a short time, he ordered
them to bring out the great medicine kettle, which was of brass,
capable of holding ten gallons, and was worth ten buffalo-robes.
It was then ordered to be polished until it shone as bright as the
sun's face. That being done, Beckwourth ordered the warriors to
throw in all the most costly and highly prized trinkets, or whatever
they cherished most dearly. It was soon filled with the band's
choicest treasures. Keepsakes, fancy-work, in which months of patient
toil had been expended, knick-knacks, jewels, and rings so highly
regarded that the costliest gems of emperors seemed poor in comparison.
All these were thrown into the kettle willingly, along with a bountiful
contribution of fingers[52] until it could hold no more. Then weights
were attached to it, when it was carried to an air-hole in the ice
where the river was very deep, and there sunk with becoming ceremony,
young maidens habited in the best apparel bearing the burden.
The great sacrifice completed, the minds of the people were relieved,
and the result of the next war-party was anxiously looked forward to,
to learn if the oblation was accepted by the Great Spirit. The crying
and lamentations continued, however, unabated, so much to the
derangement of Beckwourth's nervous system that if he could, he would
have gladly retired from the village to seek some less dolorous
companionship.
The incantations seemed to have had a good effect, for on another
expedition shortly afterward the war-party returned with lots of
scalps and thirteen hundred horses, which they had stolen from the
Blackfeet.[53]
The Crows enjoyed a practical joke as well as their more humorous
white brethren, as the following incident will attest.
In the summer of 1842 a war-party of about two hundred Crows invaded
the Sioux country by way of Laramie Pass, penetrating as far as Fort
Platte and beyond, in pursuit of the enemy.
A few miles above the fort, they stopped a lone Frenchman, an employee
of one of the fur companies, who was rather new to the region, and
also green in everything that pertains to Indian methods. They began
by signs to inquire the trail of the Sioux (the sign for that tribe
being a transverse pass of the right front finger across the throat),
which the poor Frenchman interpreted as their intention to cut his.
He immediately began to bellow like a calf, accompanying himself with
an industrious number of crosses, and a most earnest prayer to the
Virgin to graciously save him from his impending fate.
The savages, noticing his strange conduct, and regarding it as an
evidence of fear, were disposed to have a little fun at his expense.
Then mounting him upon one of their spare horses, they tied his hands
and feet, and led him to one of the trading-posts of the American Fur
Company, as a prisoner.
The gates of the fort were, of course, closed, but the Crows demanded
immediate admittance, declaring they wanted to trade. What goods were
wanted by them? was asked by the officer in charge; to which the
leader of the savages replied, tobacco.
“What have you got to trade for it?” was then asked.
“A white man,” was the answer.
“A white man?” asked the surprised commander. “What do you want for him?”
“Oh! he is not worth much. A plug of tobacco is his full value!” was
the response by nearly all the warriors.
The commandant, seeing through the savage joke, and on recognizing
the unfortunate Frenchman, told the Indians they might possibly find
a market for him at the other fort. He did not want to purchase.
The savages paraded around the walls of the post for a few minutes,
and with a salutation of terrible war-whoops, dashed off for Fort Platte.
When they reached Fort Platte, having tumbled two platforms of their
dead enemies on the trail,[54] they told the same story to the
commanding officer, who felt disposed to humour their joke and
accordingly gave the tobacco to the savages. Upon this they turned
over the Frenchman, nearly frightened to death, and rode away in
pursuit of the Sioux.
Many years ago a missionary went among the Crows. He was admitted to
an audience of the leading men, and commenced, through an interpreter,
to tell them the story how sin first came into the world, and how all
men had become bad, whether white or red. Then he proceeded to
explain the principles of Christianity, telling the savages that he
had come among them to do them good, to show them how to be happy,
and declaring that unless they listened to him and worshipped the
Good Spirit as he instructed them, they could never reach that happy
country into which good people alone found admittance after death.
A venerable chief then arose and said: “My white brother is a stranger
to us. He talks evil of us, and he talks evil of his own people.
He does this because he is ignorant. He thinks my people, like his,
are wicked. Thus far he is wrong. Who were they who killed the very
good man of whom he tells us? None of them were red men! The red man
will die for his friends—he will not kill them! Let my paleface
brother talk to the white man. His own people—they are very bad.
He says he would do us good! He does us no good to chide us and say
we are bad. True, we are bad—and were we as bad as the palefaces,
it would become us to listen to him. Would my brother do us good?
Then let him tell us how to make powder and we will believe in the
sincerity of his profession—but let him not belie us by saying we
are bad, like the palefaces!”
The Crows also have their legends of enchantment, as have other tribes.
Once upon a time a party of Crow Indians were out hunting the buffalo,
and they had with them a blind man. As he was a great hindrance to
them, they put up a teepee on the bank of the Stinking Water for him,
and told him to remain there until they returned.
They left him something to eat and built a fire for him. Then they
drove a stake in the ground and stretched a lariat to the Stinking
Water so that he could drink, and they also stretched another lariat
to the timber, and told him to follow that and he could get wood.
Thus they left him, and shortly after their departure another party of
Crows came along, and they, too, had a blind man with them; so they
concluded to follow the example of the first party, and leave him to
keep the first blind man company.
The two blind men sat down and spent their time in telling stories;
but the two hunting-parties were detained, and the two blind men ran
out of provisions, and became very hungry. They sat at their fire and
wondered what they should do for something to eat. Finally they could
stand it no longer, and one of them suggested that they go down to the
river and catch a fish to eat.
“No,” said the other; “Sak-a-war-te (the Great Spirit of the Crows)
told our people to hunt the buffalo, and it would make him very angry
for us to catch and eat fish”; but hunger getting the better of him,
he consented.
They went down to the water, and it was not long before they caught a
large fish. They came back to their teepee, made a fire, and
proceeded to cook their fish. They were sitting on either side of the
fire talking, and when the fish was done, Sak-a-war-te came quietly in
and took the fish out of the pot over the fire. Soon they discovered
that their fish was gone, and then they began to accuse each other of
having taken it. From words they came to blows, and while they were
fighting, Sak-a-war-te was standing there and laughing at them.
At last he spoke to them and told them to stop fighting—that he,
Sak-a-war-te, had taken the fish to try them.
He then said that they were bad Indians; they had broken his commands
to his people, which was to kill only the buffalo. But he said he
would try them again. He told them to go to the Stinking Water, and
take some mud and rub it on their eyes, then to wash it off and they
would see. Then he told them they must obey him and go hunt the
buffalo. Then he left them.
They did as he told them to do, and in a short time they could see.
Then they sat down and talked over matters; but their hunger
increasing and the hunting-parties not returning, they at last were
compelled to go down to the river and catch another fish.
They had no sooner landed a fish than they both lost their sight again.
In remorse they sat by their fire once more, and again Sak-a-war-te
came to them, and told them what bad Indians they had been, but said
he would try them once more. So he told them a second time to go
down to the river, to take mud and apply it to their eyes, then wash
it off, and when they had received their sight, they should never
again take fish, for if they did they would become blind and never
again recover their sight. They must hunt only the buffalo. They did
as the Great Spirit had told them to do, and immediately received
their sight once more. Then they went and made them bows and arrows,
as Sak-a-war-te had said they should, and while they were thus
employed, their friends returned from the hunt and gave them food.
The hunters were very much surprised to find that the men had
recovered their sight, and when they were told how it was accomplished,
all said they would ever after be good Indians and hunt only the buffalo.
The Blackfeet Indians are divided into three tribes, and each tribe
again divided into Blackfeet, Bloods, and Piegans. This confederation,
while distinct, is regarded as a nation, and one of the stipulations
was that there should never be any clashing between them; but
notwithstanding this there have been many bloody fights.
According to tradition, they once lived much farther east and north,
near the Saskatchewan country. Two or three hundred years ago they
were driven from there by hostile tribes, and they slowly moved to
the Rocky Mountains, where they have remained.
Their country, like that of the Crows, is a magnificent region
—a perfect paradise for a people who subsisted wholly on wild game.
Such subsistence was a necessity, too, for their mountainous range
belongs to that arid portion of our mid-continent area where, without
irrigation, it is doomed to a hopeless bondage of sterility.
Millions of buffalo and antelope roamed the plains, and in the
forest-fringed valleys and on the pine-clad divides, elk, deer, and
mountain sheep flocked in immense numbers.
The characteristics of the Blackfeet were bravery, hardiness, and
a ferocity that made them formidable enemies to the other tribes with
which they were constantly at war. Particularly were they the
everlasting foes of the Crows, from whom they stole horses by the
wholesale; but very frequently the tables were turned, and the Crows
retaliated, robbing the Blackfeet of thousands.
They were probably the best hunters of all the plains' tribes, and
in the early days before their contact with the whites their weapons
were of the most primitive character. They used merely bows with
stone-pointed arrows, and they resorted to the most ingenious methods
in order to capture the buffalo, which was their principal food.
In fact, they subsisted almost entirely upon that great ruminant.
One of their plans to catch the huge beasts was known as the “pis-kun,”
literally meaning deep blood-kettle. It was really an immense corral,
generally constructed just below a steep precipice, and its sides and
ends enclosed by logs, stone, or brush—anything that came handy and
answered the purpose. On the prairie above the precipice, wings
extended out on either side, in shape of an open triangle. Into this
the buffalo were carefully driven, and in their fright precipitated
themselves over the brink.
The proceedings were always conducted with much ceremony, and involved
a good deal of savage mummery. The sun, which was one of their deities,
must be propitiated. The evening previous to the attempt to drive
a herd of buffalo into the pis-kun, one of the medicine-men of the
band commenced by praying to the sun for the success of the undertaking.
He was the one to make the buffalo come, and early in the morning
he got out his robes and started on his mission, after warning his
wives that they must not show themselves, even by looking out of the
door of the lodge, until he came back from his mission, but that they
must constantly burn sweet grass as an offering to the god of the day.
He must necessarily fast when engaged in this duty, and when he was
ready to make his appearance on the prairie the warriors all followed
him, hiding themselves behind the temporary fence that bounded the
pis-kun. He then dressed himself in a bonnet which was made of the
head of a buffalo, and with a robe of the same animal thrown around
him slowly approached the peacefully grazing herd.
Arriving in the immediate vicinity, the buffalo, attracted by the
apparition, looked up. The medicine-man walked then very deliberately
toward the opening of the pis-kun. Generally the buffalo began to
follow him, and as he saw that they did so he increased his pace,
the animals, whose curiosity was aroused, at the same time doing
the same.
When the herd was securely within the corral, the hidden Indians
suddenly rose from their places, yelling as only savages can, at the
same instant shaking their robes, and the stampeded animals rushed
headlong to their death over the precipice. Hundreds were instantly
killed, while others were so dreadfully disabled as to make them an
easy prey. Then commenced an indiscriminate skinning and cutting up,
the chiefs and most noted warriors receiving the choicest meat.
As has been the fate of nearly all the Indian tribes west of the
Missouri River, the smallpox made fearful inroads among the Blackfeet.
It first appeared in 1845, and the tribe was decimated. In fact,
it is said that the disease almost swept the plains of Indians.
In 1757-1758, it again visited them, but was not so virulent as at
its first appearance. The measles carried off thousands in 1864;
and again, in 1869, the smallpox broke out in the Blackfeet villages.
In 1883-1884, strange as it may appear, twenty-five per cent of the
Piegan band actually died from hunger! The cause of this terrible
disaster was that the buffalo had been driven from the Blackfoot
country, or rather exterminated, and the tribe, which had ever wholly
depended upon that animal for their subsistence, in a short time was
reduced to a state of absolute starvation.
Like the buffalo, the once powerful Blackfeet are nearly all gone.
The few left are living on a small reservation, and are somewhat
self-sustaining. What a sad commentary! Fifty years ago the
Blackfeet numbered over forty thousand warriors, and their name was
a terror to the white man who had the temerity to travel through
their country.
The Blackfoot account of creation is not a very definite one; portions
of it are too vulgar for refined ears, but in it is to be found a
story of a once great flood, which seems to be common to the cosmogony
of all tribes.