It was one evening in summer, the time of the long day, when the
twilight is equally long, that I sat before the tepee fire of my host,
Smoking-star. According to his own belief, he had seen the snows of
nine times around his hands, or ninety years, as we count it. He was
regarded as by far the oldest living Blackfoot, but his eye was bright
and his memory good. That evening as we smoked in silence, I mused on
the cross-section of man’s history this venerable life would reveal, if
it could be read. I told him how I felt, and my pleasure if he would
tell his story for me. He sat long and silently, as is the way of his
people; then rose, and with great dignity, left the tepee. Presently he
returned and when seated, said, “The Smoking-star, Mars, is high. He
shines approvingly. I have long lived by his power. I believe He will
not be offended if I tell you the story of my life.”
So runs the tale of old Smoking-star as near as my memory can follow:
* * * * *
My father’s name was Old-beaver, chief of the Small-robe band, to which
band I still belong. My mother came from the Fat-roasting band, she was
the younger wife of my father, her older sister being the first, or
head-wife. A child always calls each of his father’s women _mother_ and
also all the women married to father’s and mother’s brothers; just why
this is we do not know, but it is our way. My father was very kind to
me, but my older mother was cross.
I suppose I was born in a small tepee set up outside, for such is
the custom. Also I suppose that for a time my mother laid aside all
ornaments and affected carelessness of person. If anyone should gaze
at her, she would say, “Don’t. My child will look like you; you are
ugly, etc.” She was attended by women only, for men should not approach
the birthplace. Even my father was not permitted to enter and it was
many days before he saw me. In due time, I suppose, I was strapped to
a cradle board. Later, a name was conferred upon me by my father, he
being a chief. Unless a man is great, he does not name his child, but
calls some man possessing these qualifications. Having once captured
two guns from the Cree, my father told the story of that deed, or coup,
and named me Two-guns. It is the belief that the qualities of the
namer and the name itself pass to the child; hence great importance is
given to the name and the conferring of it is a solemn occasion. The
black-robe (priest) tells me it is much the same with your people.
Also, I suppose that when I got my first tooth, my grandmothers
reminded my parents that it was time to do something. So a feast was
made, presents given, and prayers offered. This was, no doubt, repeated
when I took my first step and when I learned to speak. But I do
remember having my ears pierced. That is the first memory of childhood.
I can still see a terrible looking old grandmother standing up before
me, holding up a bone awl. I was never so frightened in my life. You
have seen how it is done at the sun dance, where some old woman cries
out, “I quilled a robe, all with these hands. So I have the power to do
this.” Just like a warrior recounting a coup.
My real mother never reproved me, but when I began to run about, my
older mother did not like to have me meddling with her things. Often
she would make threats to me in a kind of song, as—“There is a coyote
outside. Come coyote, and eat up this naughty baby.” Again, “Come
old Crooked-back woman; bring your meat pounder; smash this baby’s
head.” The woman referred to was a crazy cripple who terrorized the
children because some of them teased her. I was very much afraid, so
that usually all my older mother need say was, “Sh-h-h!” and mumble
something about the coyote or the woman. I have noticed that among your
people, parents strike their children. That is not our way. If they
will not listen to advice, an uncle may be called upon to exercise
discipline and if necessary he will punish, but whipping is the way of
the police societies. Once I saw the police whip a chief because he
broke the rules of the buffalo hunt.
Soon I began to play with the older boys; in winter we spun tops on the
ice and in the snow, coasted the hills on toboggans made of buffalo
ribs, or just stood up on a dry skin, holding up the end. In summer
there were all kinds of games: racing, follow-the-leader, arrow games,
the wheel game, etc. I had a hobby-horse, made of a bent stick, with
a saddle and bridle, upon which I played running buffalo and going to
war. I even learned to play tricks upon old people. Sometimes we would
be playing where old women came to gather firewood and when one of
them had a great heap of wood on her pack line, she would squat with
her back against the wood, the lines in her hands, and call for us to
help raise the load; occasionally, we would assist until she reached
her feet and then, with a quick push, send her sprawling with the wood
on top. Then we would run away to escape a beating. Again, as water
was carried in pails made of buffalo paunch, some boys would ambush
the path and shoot an arrow into the pail, letting out the water. But
usually we let older people alone, for, if caught, we were severely
handled.
When about six years old one of my grandfathers made me a bow; he
prayed for me and said if I killed anything I should bring in the scalp
to prove it. He told me the story of Scar-face and the dangerous birds.
Some time after this I killed a bird, my first, and my father made a
feast, calling in many great men, who smoked many pipes, told of great
deeds and predicted that I would be a great warrior. The skin of the
bird was put into my grandfather’s war bundle.
When we traveled my mother carried me on her saddle or put me on a
travois, hitched to a dog or some trusty old mare. But when I was old
enough to ride alone, my father went on the war-path to the Assiniboin
country and brought back six horses; one pony he gave to me. Before I
learned to ride it well, it was stolen by the Cree. At the same time
my older mother was killed and scalped while out picking berries. All
this made a deep impression upon me and I resolved to prepare for the
war-path and to take vengeance on the Cree, particularly for the loss
of my pony. In the meantime my father gave me another pony.
One morning when I was about eleven years old, I was terribly
frightened to find a man from a police society standing at the door,
shouting for me to come out at once. It was cold and stormy, but he
ordered me to the water for a plunge and when I stood on the bank
whimpering, he threw me headlong into the icy current. The older boys
were splashing about gaily, but it was hard for me. When I crept back
to the tepee, shivering, my old grandmother began to sing a derisive
song about a would-be warrior who turned to an old woman. After that I
went daily to the bath and soon became hard and strong.
The next summer our people were camped on Milk River where buffalo
were plenty. The berries were just turning. One day while herding the
horses I fell to eating berries and that night became ill. The next
day I was very sick and a doctor was sent for. Old One-ear came, a
man all of us feared, sat by my bed, beat upon a drum, sang in a loud
voice, then turned down the robes that covered me, held a tube of bone
against my breast and sucked violently. Then he arose and spat out
a grasshopper. Everyone said that I would soon be well, and I was.
But while I was too weak to go out, my grandfather came in and told
me tales of the war-path and occasionally of the Lost Children, the
Woman-who-went-to-the-sky, Morningstar, Scar-face, Blood-clot, and
other tales. I came to take a deep interest in these tales and to think
more and more of going to war. When I could go out, my people were
holding the sun dance and one evening I heard my father reciting his
coups, putting on the fire a stick for each. At last when there was a
great blaze from so much wood, the people all shouted. It was a proud
moment for me and from then on I began to train for the war-path.
Before cold weather our people separated, as was their custom, and our
band, with the Fat-roasters and the Many-medicines, made winter camp on
the Two Medicine River. It was a cold winter, but buffalo were plenty
and we did not mind. In the spring my father led a war party against
the Crow. I knew nothing of it until they had gone, but even had I
known, he would not have taken me. I felt very sad and spent most of
the time sitting on a hill, meditating. One day, on coming to camp I
heard the women and even old men wailing. I saw my mother before our
door hacking her bare leg with her butchering knife. Then I knew what
had happened. The camp crier began to shout out that a runner had come
in from a distant camp to say that Old-beaver and all his party had
been killed by the Crows. When I met my old grandmother, with blood
streaming down her bare arms, the sight sickened me and I fled to
the hilltop and meditated further. As I thought of how coup had been
counted on my father, my anger grew and I vowed to take a Crow scalp at
the first opportunity.
Our camp mourned long after this. It was also necessary to select a
new chief. One Good-runner was well thought of and was our choice, but
an evil-minded fellow named Crow-eye sought the place. Finding that
he was in disfavor, Crow-eye secretly loaded a gun, entered the tepee
of Good-runner and shot him down. Crow-eye’s relatives put him on a
horse and sent him away for a few days, while they made presents to the
relatives of Good-runner. Well, in the end Crow-eye became chief, but
it was a sorry time for us all.
As was the custom, my mother went to live with her people, or the
Fat-roasting band. My mother’s brother now took an interest in me.
He gave me a gun. Guns were scarce in those days. My grandfather
remembered when the first gun came to us and said that his father knew
when the first horse came. I now spent much of my time with my uncle,
though I still looked upon the Small-robes band as my band. He helped
me to buy a place in the Pigeon Society and every spring and summer I
danced with them and sometimes helped guard the camp at night when the
great camp circle was formed.
It was during the summer following my father’s death that I was taken
on my first buffalo hunt. Sometimes boys were severely whipped by
the police if found joining in running buffalo before they were old
enough. But now my uncle took me with him. As guns were scarce, we
kept them for war, and killed buffalo with arrows. When we rode at
the herd, I took after a young cow. She was very fleet, but at last I
drew alongside and sent an arrow into her. When she fell I stood by
in awe. My relations praised me and my mother tanned the skin to make
a robe for me. I was now a hunter and always joined in the killing
unchallenged.
That autumn my mother ceased to mourn and married a man in the
Lone-eaters band. After this I saw little of her, for they camped apart
and I stayed with my uncle, but danced with my father’s band, the
Small-robes. About this time my uncle explained to me the ways of women
and the duties of a man, so I began to look forward to having a woman
of my own. I began to practice on the flageolet and to seek meetings
with the girls of the camp on the path to the water hole; but I knew
that though I had become a hunter, I had yet to go to war and to become
a man. The opportunity soon came, for I was now about fourteen years
old.
One day my uncle said, “Now it is time for you to go to war. When the
moon is full, I shall lead a party to the Crow country. You can be the
water boy.” You know how it was with us, a boy might be taken to war to
do errands. This is how he got his experience.
My uncle had a war bundle, or medicine, in which were a collar of
coyote skin, a bird to tie in his hair, some tobacco, a pipe, paints,
a whistle and a rattle. Every night we gathered in his tepee to sing
the songs of his bundle and to work out the plan for our raid. At
last, we were off, eight of us. Though still a boy, I was permitted to
take my gun, my bow, and a knife. As we were leaving the tepee my old
grandmother asked me not to go; she took my hand and began to wail, but
I pulled away. At the edge of the camp stood my uncle’s father-in-law.
He pled for all to return. Said he, “I have many horses, more than you
can get from the Crow. Take what you want and stay at home. I am old
and have not long to be with you.” But we marched by in silence.
Pranks are usually played upon a boy on his first war excursion. The
first night one of the warriors said, “Take this pail and run down that
path for water, it is far.” I set out briskly only to step into a a
deep pool of ill-smelling mud. About this I was teased, and all manner
of jokes were made. Of course, the warriors knew the pool was there.
They joked about my new paint, my new way of deceiving an enemy, my new
perfume (love medicine), and so on. Finally one man in a very solemn
manner conferred a new name upon me—Stinking-legs. From that time on,
all of them called me by that name.
But by the next night we were in the open country and there was little
hilarity. My uncle opened his bundle and performed the ritual for it,
all of us singing in a low subdued tone. After this we traveled mostly
by night and slept by day, though the warriors took turns scouting. On
the fourth day, a scout reported the enemy.
“Now,” said my uncle, “it is time to sing the ‘tapping-the-stick.’” So
we all sat in a circle and my uncle began singing very softly, keeping
time by tapping lightly on the stock of his gun with the end of his
pipe-stick. He sang about a love affair and at the end named the woman.
So it went around the circle. The last man, next to me, sang, and
then named a young girl I was very fond of. Instinctively, I grasped
my knife, but then, Oh shame! I was not yet a warrior, for here no
one must resent. So I desisted, but I lay awake the rest of the day
struggling with my anger. This was all very foolish, for the man was
only teasing me; yet few men would venture to jest in such songs.
That night we stole out and found the Crow camp unguarded. So we took
all the loose horses grazing outside and made off with them. Not even
a dog barked. When at a safe distance my uncle told us to follow a
warrior named Running-crane, that he and one man were going back to
get scalps to pay for my father’s death, that they would join us at
the rendezvous later. My uncle was accompanied by the man who sang
about my girl. On the third day my uncle overtook us, but he was alone.
What became of his companion he knew not; he was never seen after they
separated to steal into the Crow camp. That was what came of jesting
with medicine songs. All holy things must be respected. But my uncle
had brought a scalp, a shield, and a gun. So we were happy.
When we got home there was feasting and scalp dancing for all. Finally,
my old grandmother drew me out into full view, harangued the crowd upon
my greatness as a warrior and said, “Now you must have been given a
new name. What is it?” I hung my head for shame, “Oh!” she said, “my
grandson is modest.”
Then my uncle came forward and told the story of the mud hole and
called me, “Stinking-legs.” Then merriment broke loose and for a long
time I was teased about it.
Two of the captured horses were allotted to me: one I gave to my
grandfather. Not long after my uncle told me it was time to seek power.
This meant that I must fast and sacrifice, seeking a vision. So I took
my other Crow horse to old Medicine-bear, a shaman, offered him a pipe,
and made my request. My instruction took many weeks. I was introduced
to the sweat house and other ceremonies, learned how to make the pipe
offering, to cry for power, and so forth. At last all was ready and old
Medicine-bear left me alone on a high hill to fast, dance, and pray.
Each evening and morning he came and, standing afar off, exhorted me
to greater efforts. By the third day I was too exhausted to stand.
That night I lay on my back looking up at the sky. Then I saw the
Smoking-star.[2] And as I gazed it came nearer and nearer. Then I
heard a voice, “My son, why do you cry here?” Then I saw a fine warrior
sitting on the ground before me, smoking my pipe. At last he said, “I
will give you power. You are to take my name. You must never change it.
Always pray to me and I will help you.”
The next morning when old Medicine-bear came and stood afar off I said,
“Something has been given me.” Then he prayed and took me home. In
due time he heard my story, composed a song for me, gave me a small
medicine bundle and announced my new name. I was now a man of power.
Many young men offered to go to war with me, so I soon began to lead
out parties. Many _coups_ I counted as the years passed, but all came
by the power of the Smoking-star. Only once did this power seem to fail
me on the war-path. I was alone and surrounded by the Cree. At last
I called upon the Sun, offering to give him my little finger. Then I
overcame my enemies. So at the next sun dance I chopped off this finger
(the left) and offered it to the sun to fulfil my vow. But this belongs
to the second period in my life, of which I shall speak later.
Shortly after I saw the Smoking-star, I took a woman. My uncle and my
grandparents had often hinted of marriage. I was particularly fond
of a girl in the Small-robe band, but could not court her openly
because that was my band by right of my father, though I lived with
the band of my mother, the Fat-roasters. It is not good for a man to
marry in his own band where most of his relatives live, but he can
freely marry a woman of his mother’s band, if not too closely related
to her. I could have joined my mother’s band, as my uncle urged, and
then married the girl, but that seemed to me like evading my duty to
uphold the honor of my father and to take revenge for his untimely
death. People would talk about it. So I courted a girl in my mother’s
band. As she was not closely related to me, there was no hindrance. Our
courtship was secret, as is often the custom; when I led out my first
war party she slyly passed me a pair of moccasins. I think no one knew
of our attachment. You see my mother’s people all looked upon me as
one of their band, though they should not have done so, and so looked
elsewhere for my future woman. Long afterward I learned that they
had picked a woman for me from the Blood band, the widow of a young
warrior, a good woman some ten years older than I, but it turned out
otherwise.
The girl I courted was named Elk-woman. She and I were nearing twenty
and it was time for her to marry, past time in fact. So her relatives
arranged to give her to a man of the They-don’t-laugh-band. The
relatives of both parties had feasted and talked over the affair and
were about ready to exchange the first presents, when Elk-woman’s
relatives first suggested the marriage to her. She asked for time to
think it over. That evening when I met her as usual in a secret place,
she told me the story and cried. Such a marriage was repugnant to her.
I knew the man and had already come to dislike him. So that night we
ran away. I took my horse, gun, and bow. We rode double. We went far up
into the foothills of the mountains and made a secret camp.
Some two weeks later my uncle trailed us and we had a talk. He said I
had done a very foolish thing; that all of my woman’s relatives were
angry and that the prospective husband vowed vengeance. However, as he
had himself made the man a present of a horse and smoked a pipe with
him, his anger was waning. He thought that since I had always adhered
to my father’s band I should go there to live. Anyway my father’s
people would then protect me. In due time presents could be made to my
parents-in-law. You see when a man takes a woman, he is required to
give many presents to her parents; this is called paying for her. So,
I had stolen my woman because nothing had been paid. This would always
stand against me in the minds of the people.
The next day we went back to my father’s band. A poor old woman, an
aunt of my father, one of my grandmothers, as we say, took us in as
we had no tepee. No one seemed to take notice of us. When I hunted I
took some of the meat and left it by the door of my father-in-law,
as was the custom. Finally, my uncle’s relatives got together and
collected six horses, a few robes, a warrior’s suit, and a great lot of
dried meat. In solemn procession they paraded over to the camp of my
parents-in-law. Then followed a feast and a reconciliation.
Not long after this I happened to meet my mother-in-law in a path. No
one must see the face of his mother-in-law; if he does he must make
her a present to cover her shame. This accident cost me my gun. It was
a grievous loss as we were still poor. My woman had not so much as a
travois-dog to bring wood.
At this point the narrator paused and began to fill his pipe. Presently
he said, “The Smoking-star is still overhead. We have reached the
fork of the first trail; the boy becomes a hunter, goes to war, has a
vision, he joins the Pigeons, then marries and takes his place among
the men of his band. So far he travels but one trail. Thenceforth it is
different with us, some become warriors, some medicine men, some are
chiefs. It is well that we rest here a little while, before I go on.”