Chapter XI
The Kutenai's Story
IT WAS AFTER breakfast. Nät-ah'-ki recombed and rebraided her hair, binding it with a bright blue ribbon, donned her best dress, put on her prettiest pair of moccasins.
"What now?" I asked. "Why all this finery?"
"This morning Lone Elk takes out his sacred pipe, carrying it about through the camp. We follow him. Will. you not come?"
Of course I would go, and I also put on my finery: a pair of fringed buckskin trousers with bright, beaded vine-work running along the outer seams; a fringed and beaded buckskin shirt; a pair of gorgeous moccasins. I fancy that I must have been rather picturesque in that costume, with my hair so long that it rippled down over my shoulders. The Indians hated to see hair worn cropped short. Many a time, in speaking of the old days, the various factors and other prominent men of the American Fur Company, I have heard them say: "Yes, so and so was a chief; he wore long hair. There are no more white chiefs; all those we now meet are sheared."
We were late. There was such a crowd in and around the lodge of the medicine man that we could not get near it, but the lodge skin was raised all around and we could see what was going on. With hands purified by the smoke of burning sweetgrass, Lone Elk was removing the wrappings of the pipe, or, to be exact, the pipe-stem; singing, he and those seated in the lodge, the appropriate song for each wrap. There was the song of the antelope, of the wolf, the bear, the buffalo, the last very slow, deep, solemn. At last the long stem-eagle-plumed, fur-wrapped, gorgeous with tufts of brilliant feathers, lay exposed and reverently lifting it he held it up toward the sun, down toward the earth, pointed it to the north, south, east, and west as he prayed for health, happiness, long life for all of us. Then, rising, and holding the stem extended in front of him he danced slowly, deliberately out of the lodge, the men, I too, falling in one by one behind him. So did the women and the children, until there were several hundred of us in the long, snakelike procession, dancing along, weaving in and out round the lodges of the camp, singing the various songs of the medicine pipe. A song finished, we rested a little before another one was started, and in the interval the people talked and laughed. They were happy; not one there but believed in the efficacy of their prayers and devotion; that the Sun was pleased to see them there, dressed in their very best, dancing in his honor. Thus we went on and on, and around and around, until the whole circuit of the camp had been made and our leader came to the doorway of his lodge; there he dismissed us and we wended our several ways homeward to resume our everyday clothing and occupations.
"Kyi," said Nät-ah'-ki, "Wasn't it a happy dance? And how fine the people looked dressed in their good clothes."
"Ai," I replied, "it was a joy dance and the people looked fine. There was one girl I noticed, prettiest and best dressed of all."
"Who was it? Tell me quick!"
"Why, the white woman who lives in this lodge, of course."
Nät-ah'-ki said nothing, turning away from me in fact, but I caught the expression of her eyes; she was pleased, but too shy to let me know it.
The June days were long, but to me they seemed to fly. To hunt, to sit in the shade of the lodges and idly watch the people at their various work, to listen to the old men's stories was all very interesting. One day there came to our camp three Kutenai Indians, bringing to Big Lake some tobacco from their chief and the proposal of a visit of his tribe to the Piegans. They had come straight to us from their country across the Rockies, up through the dense forests of the western slope, over the glacier-capped heights of the great mountains, down the deep canyon of Cutbank Stream, and then straight to our camp, a hundred miles out in the vast plain. How knew they whence to shape their course vith such certainty, to go straight to the only camp in all that immense stretch of mountain and butte-sentineled, rolling plain? Perhaps it was partly instinct. They may have struck the trail of some homing war-party, some marauding party of their own people may have given them the location of those they sought. Anyhow, straight to us they came from the headwaters of the Columbia, and our chiefs took the tobacco they brought, smoked it in council, and pronounced it good. Some there were who having lost relatives in war against the mountain tribe, objected to making peace with them, and talked earnestly against it. But the majority were against them, and the messengers departed with word to their chief that the Piegans would be glad to have a long visit from him and his people.
In due time they came, not many of them, no more than seven hundred all told, which, I understood, was the larger part of the tribe. They were very different physically from the Piegans, no taller, perhaps, but much heavier built, with larger hands and feet. This was naturally the result of their mountain life; they were great bighorn and goat hunters, and constant climbing had developed their leg muscles almost abnormally. The Blackfeet disdained that sort of life; they would not hunt that which they could not ride to or near, and the hardest work they ever did was to butcher the animals they killed and pack the meat on the horses. No wonder, then, that their hands and feet were small and delicately fashioned, the former as soft and smooth as those of a woman.
Old Sah'-aw-ko-kin-ap-i, Back-in-sight, the Kutenai chief, came on with a few of his head men some little time in advance of the main body, and ere our chief Big Lake was aware that the expected visitors were anywhere near, the door-flap of his lodge was raised and the Kutenais entered. Taken thus by surprise it was customary for the host to make the visitor a present, and by the end of the first smoke the Kutenai chief was five horses richer than when he entered the camp.
The Kutenais pitched their lodges close by our camp and ere the women fairly got them up and fires burning, visiting and feasting and exchanging presents between the two tribes was in full swing. The Kutenais brought with them large quantities of arrowroot and dried camas, the latter a yellow, sweet, sticky, roasted bulb which tasted good to one who had not seen a vegetable of any kind for months. The Piegans were exceedingly pleased to get these, and in return gave the Kutenai wives much of their stores of choice pemmican and dried meats, and they bartered buffalo leather and parfleche for the tanned skins of sheep and moose, and other mountain animals.
Of course the young men of both tribes went courting. In the Kutenai camp were the Piegan youths, and vice versa, standing around in silent stateliness, decked out in all their gorgeous finery, their faces strikingly painted, their long hair neatly braided. The more fortunate of them carried suspended by a thong from the left wrist a small mirror which kept turning and flashing in the bright sunlight; sometimes the mirror was set into a rude wooden frame carved by the owner and brightly painted. Of course these gallants of the plains never spoke to any of the maidens about, nor could one be sure, from observation, that thev even looked at them. They stood here, there, by the hour, apparently gazing away off at some far distant object, but on the sly they were really watching the girls, and knew intimately every feature of each one's face, every little trait of action and repose; and the maids, oh, they were, apparently, wholly unaware that there were any young men in the camp. You never caught one looking at them, but they did all the same, and then they would get together and discuss the looks of this one and that one, and his valor, and temper, just as do white girls. I am sure of this, for Nät-ah'-ki told me all about it, and how, in secret, they ridiculed and laughed at some vainglorious swain who did not please them, but who himself thought that he was the only perfect and charming beau of the camp.
There was much racing, much gambling and dancing by the younger men of the two camps. Their elders looked on at it all in quiet approval, and talked of their hunts and battles, and the strange places and things they had seen. Most of this talk was in signs, but there were a few Kutenais, both men and women, who could speak Blackfoot, having learned it when captives, or upon the occasion of a long sojourn in the tribe. Indeed, there was no surrounding tribe which had not one or two Blackfoot-speaking members. None of the Blackfeet, however, spoke any language other than their own, and the sign language; they held all other people as inferiors and regarded it as beneath their dignity to learn any other tongue. One Blackfootspeaking Kutenai, a very aged but still fairly active man, was a frequent visitor to my lodge. He must have felt that he was welcome there, for a bowl of food and plenty to smoke were always ready for him. In return for my hospitality and frequent gifts of a cut of tobacco, he told me stories of his travels and adventures. He had been a great wanderer in his time, an ethnologist in a way, for he had been among many tribes in various parts of the country, from the Blackfoot land to the coast, and south as far as the Great Salt Lake, and had made a study of their languages and customs. One evening he told us what he called his "Story of the Fish-eaters,"which Nät-ah'-ki and I thought interesting.
"This happened long ago in my youthful days," he said, "We were four, all single, close friends to one another. We had been on several raids which were successful, and we were acquiring each a nice band of horses and things for the time when we should take women and have lodges of our own. There were many who wished to join us on our expeditions, but we did not care to have them, for we thought four the lucky number, one for each direction of the world. Indeed, among ourselves we did not call each other by our proper names, but by the different directions; thus, one was named North, another South, another East; I was West. Twice we bad been out raiding on the plains; once we went south; this time we started westward, having heard that away down on a big river lived a people rich in horses. It was early in the summer when we started, and we had made up our minds to travel on and on until we found these fine herds of horses, even if they were two or three moons' journey away. We carried besides our weapons and lariats and extra moccasins some awls and sinew thread so that we could make for ourselves new clothing, new footwear, if that we had should wear out.
"We went down by the lake of the Flatheads, camping and resting two days with them, and thence we traveled on to the lake of the Pend d'Oreilles, through a great forest where often there were no trails except those made by the game. At the lake, near the north end of it, we saw the smoke of the Pend d'Oreilles' fires, and several of their boats away out on the water. But we did not go near their camp. They had good herds, from which we might have taken our pick if we had wished to, but we pressed on; we were bent on discovery; we wanted to see the far land and its people. The forest grew denser, darker, as we went on; the trees were larger than any we had seen before. There was little game; the animals and birds seemed never to have lived in it; it was too dark and cheerless in there. Animals and birds, as well as men, love the sun. The deer and the moose may seek thick cover when they wish to rest, but they never go far from some open place where they can stand in the warm sunshine and see the blue above them. And it is the same with men, Those poor and horseless tribes, whose stingy gods gave them only a forest for their hunting ground, do not stay in its dark and silent belly, but pitch their rnean lodges on some opening by the shore of a lake or river, or where a fire has cleared a small space. We did not like that great wood we traveled through. Our food gave out, and were it not for a few fish we shot with our arrows we must have starved. We grew poor in flesh and in spirits, sitting about our evening fires in silence, except to question if there were any end to the timber, and if it were not better to turn and take our back trail. Even East, who was always talking and joking, now kept silent. We would have turned back, I think, except that we hated to give up what we had set out to do, for fear it would bring us bad luck in the future. Little did we think that worse than bad luck lay in wait for us ahead. Yet, I believe we had the warning in a way, for I felt uneasy, afraid, but of what I could not say. The others felt as I did, but none of them would give in any more than I. Afterward I took heed of that feeling! Three times I turned back after starting on a raid, and on one of the times I know I did what was wise, for my companions, who laughed at me and kept on, never again saw their lodges.
"After many days we came at last to an open country. There were bunches of timber here and there, but for the most part the land was prairie, with many ledges and buttes and boulders of dark-brown, bare rock. The river had grown wider, deeper, and its current was strong. Here there were elk, plenty of them, and deer, many black bears, many grouse, and once more we heard the little birds singing. We killed a young bull elk and feasted upon it, and felt good. There was no sign of people anywhere about; no horse trails, no smoke of campfires. We thought it safe to build a fire even then in the middle of the day, and we lay about it until the next morning, resting, eating, sleeping. With the sunrise we were off once more, traveling very cautiously, climbing every butte and ridge to see what was ahead. That day there was no sign of men, but on the next one we saw smoke away down the river, and keeping within the fringe of timber which bordered the stream, we went on until we could see that it was rising on the opposite side. Away down there somewhere near the place of encampment, we could hear a roaring sound as of a big rapid, and even where we were the current was strong. Now here was something to talk over, and right there we considered it. if we crossed over and took some horses, was there a trail on that side by which we could hurry them in a homeward direction; and if none, how were we to get them across the wide, swift river and onto the trail over which we had come. At last he whom we had named South said:
'We are wasting time talking about this now, when we have not yet seen the far side, nor the horses, nor even the people and their camp. Let us cross over, see what is to be seen, and then decide what is best to do.'
"His words were wise, and we took them. There was plenty of driftwood, and near sundown we rolled a piece of it, a short, dry log, down into the water, lashing another, a very small one, to it so that it would not turn over and over. We decided not to wait until night to cross, for the river was wide and swift, and we wanted to see our course. In one way it was not vise to start then, for some of the people of the camp might see us and give the alarm. Still we had to take some chances; no one had yet appeared from the camp below, and we hoped to get across into the brush unobserved. Heaping our clothes and weapons on top of our raft, we pushed out into the stream, and all went well until we were part way across; there we struck very swift water, a low place into which the water from the sides of the river seemed to be running and sinking. Try as we would we could not get out of it, for it was like going uphill to push for the far shore, or the one from which we had started, and all the time we were drifting faster and faster down toward the roar of the rapids, down toward the camp of strange people.
"'Let us leave the raft,' said North, 'and swim back to our shore.'
"We tried to do so, but we could no more leave that swift, sucking, down-pulling middle current than we had been so many helpless dead leaves adrift. One by one we turned back and hung on to our raft.
"'This is our only chance,' said South. 'We can hang on to this and perhaps pass the rapid and the camp without being seen.'
"We now turned a bend in the river, and before us saw a fearful thing that we were rushing into; the stream narrowed between two high walls of rock, and the green water leaped foaming along in great waves and whirls over and around huge black rocks.
"'Hold hard; hold on with all your strength,' cried South.
"I grabbed the smaller log harder than ever, but my strength was nothing in that place, nothing. Suddenly we went down, raft and all, down under the crazy green, bubbling water; our logs struck a rock and I was pulled away from them and went whirling and rolling on. I was pushed up to the surface, went over the top of a big wave, and then was again drawn under, down, down, I knew not how far; my left foot caught in between two rocks, the water pushed me, and my leg broke just here above the ankle. For a little I hung there, then the water heaved back the other way, pulled me loose, pushed me up, and again I got a few breaths of air. Once more I went down, this time for so long that I was sure I would never rise. I had been praying, but now I stopped; 'it is no use,' I said to myself, 'I now die.' But I did roll up on top again; I was in smooth but swift water, a boat was above me, a short, stout, dark man was leaning over the side. I noticed that his hair looked as if it had never been cared for, that his face was very wide, his mouth very large. I felt him grasp my hair, and then I died (fainted).
"When I came to life I found that I was in a small, old and torn elkskin lodge. I was lying on a couch, a robe of beaver skins thrown over me. An old gray-haired man was Putting sticks on my broken leg and binding them, all the time singing a strange song. I knew he was a doctor. The man I had seen leaning over the side of the boat sat nearby. There were three women there also, one quite young and good-looking. When I looked at her she turned her head away, but the others just sat and stared at me. Other men came in; they were all short and broad, with big muscles; they were also very dark-colored, very homely, and, worst of all, there was hair growing on their lip and chin, They looked much at me as they talked, and their talk was very strange; it seemed to come from down in their belly, and break out of their throat with the sound of bark being torn from a tree by jerks. I thought that I could never learn to speak such a language as that. The old doctor hurt me considerably as he bandaged my leg, but I kept very still. I was wondering if any of my friends had come through that terrible rapid alive and had escaped or been picked up as I was. I learned later that the water gods had claimed them, at least, none of them ever returned to the Kutenai country.
"I thought that these strangers were very kind to drag me from the river and care for me. I tried to make them understand how I felt, but it was impossible; they did not understand the sign language, not a bit of it, which was very strange.
"After the doctor had fixed my leg they gave me food, some fish, a piece of a large, fat kind of trout. Fish, I found, was what they lived upon, spearing them in great numbers at the foot of the rapids, and drying them for winter use. It was a country of game, elk, deer, black bear, yet these queer men seldom hunted, being content to live upon fish and berries. Before I got well I suffered for want of meat. I was obliged to lie quite still in the lodge for a time, and then I hobbled out, a little farther each day, until I could go to the river and watch the fishing. Then I found work to do. I was given a pile of the fish, and a knife, and shown how to prepare them for drying. All at once I knew why I had been dragged from the river and cared for; I was a slave. I had heard that there was a people who made captives of their enemy instead of killing them, and made them work hard. I had found them; I, a Kutenai, broken-legged and unable to escape, was the slave of hairy-faced fish-eaters; I felt very sad. It was the women of these people, the women of the man who had captured me, that gave me work, showed me what to do. Not the young woman, his daughter, but the others. The girl never was anything but kind, sorry for me; when she could she did what had been given me to do, and when her mother objected, there was a quarrel, but the girl was never afraid.
"'When my leg is sound,' I kept saying to myself, 'I will escape. I will steal the weapons of this man and make my way once more to the Backbone-of-the-world.'
"But the break healed slowly, and before I could again walk well my plan was broken. One day everything was packed up, the bundles of dried fish, the lodges, everything placed in the boats, and we all set out down the river. Down we went, on and on, oh, very far, the river ever widening, passing great black forests, until at last we came almost to a great lake which had no other side, which was nearly all the time mad with great waves, and lost in thick fog. It was a dreadful place. There we made camp with many more of these same fish-eaters, and besides fish we now ate the flesh of water devils which could swim faster than an otter. It tasted very bad.
"Now, little by little I became able to speak some of this hard language, to make myself understood. After a time I was allowed to take a bow and arrows and hunt, and I killed many deer, a few black bears, some elk. But I was not happy; winter was coming on, there was no use in trying to start for my country until spring. When I did start, how was I, who could not manage a heavy, long boat, to get back up this great river, to cross others that we had passed? True, there was this shore we were camped upon. I could follow it back to the place of the terrible rapids and cross away above them, but the route was long, through deep forests, down-timber, thick brush. It was very bad, but I should have to try it.
"It was my dream that showed me the way. One night he said to me: 'Ask the girl; she likes you, will help you.'
"When I awoke in the morning I looked across the lodge at her; she was looking at me and her eyes were kind; she smiled. It was a good sign. I said that I would go hunting, and after eating I picked up the fish-eater's weapons and went out. But I did not hunt; I went back in the timber a little way and hid. She would be after wood some time in the day, and, if alone, I could speak with her. When I went out I had given her a strong look, which she seemed to understand, for she came almost at once, and seeing me, began picking up a piece of wood here, a piece there, but all the time coming nearer, often looking back toward camp. I slipped behind the roots of an overturned tree, and she soon came around, too, and we stood side by side, watching through the little roots as we talked. I was afraid to begin; I could talk but little of her language, so little, I tried for the right words, but they would not come. She looked up at me, put a hand on my shoulder, and said: 'You wish to go to your people?
"'Yes,' I told her. 'Yes, I want to go, but the big river—don't understand boat.'
"She laughed a little, looked carefully to see if anyone was coming, and then said in little words I could understand: 'I know boat—I take you—you be good to me—I like you.'
"'Yes,' I said, 'I will be good to you. I make you my woman. I give you everything, many horses, good lodge, pretty things to wear.'
"She laughed low, a happy laugh, 'Tonight, when all sleep, we go.'
"I stopped her. 'It is far, much snow, we must wait until leaves come.
"She gave me a little shake, and went on: 'I said tonight; I know where to go, what to do, you go with me tonight; I take everything; when ready I call you, so.' She pulled my arm a little.
"I sneaked away, but soon walked around to camp, said I was sick and could not hunt. One of the old women gave me some medicine, She was afraid her slave would not be able to work, and hunt, and bring in skins. I had to drink the medicine, and it tasted very bad. I should have told some other lie. I thought night would never come, but when it was time the sun went down, we bad our supper and lay down. The fire went out, and it was very dark in the lodge. After a while the fish-eater and his woman began to snore, and at last I felt the little pull on my arm, for which I had been waiting. I arose very slowly, picked up the bow and arrows and the knife, which I had laid carelessly by my couch when I came in from hunting, and stole noiselessly out of the lodge. The girl took my hand and led me down to the river to a small boat which belonged to another family. Already she had placed in it some robes, some little food, a skin of good water, for the water of that dreadful lake was salt, and every little while it fought with the great river and beat back its water from the snows and springs. We got into the boat, I in front, the girl behind, pushed off without making the least sound, and she paddled us out into the darkness and stillness of the wide deep stream. After awhile she gave me a paddle, and I pawed the water with it, making much noise, but noise no longer mattered. On we went, and on, speaking no word, until day began to break; then we went ashore at a place where there were many small rocks, with which we loaded the boat until it sank out of sight. Then we went into the deep timber and felt that we were safe; any pursuers could see neither our boat nor us, nor even suspect that we might be hiding there.
"Thus for three nights we went up that great river, and then turned into a small one flowing from the north. It was a beautiful stream, clear and quite swift, and everywhere its shores were tracked with game. Half a day we traveled up it, then cached our boat and walked up a little narrow stream into high hills. There I killed a deer, my woman made a little lodge of poles and brush. We built a small fire and feasted. We were in a safe place now. Here we were to stay until spring. I would hunt and get many skins, she would build a good lodge. That is what my woman said. And I, for the first time in many moons, I was happy. I had someone to care for, one who cared for me. When summer came we would travel together to my people and live happily. Oh, yes, I was happy; I would sing all day, except when I was hunting. At night we used to sit by our little fire and feast, and I would teach her my language, which she quickly learned, and I would tell her about my people and my country, the plains, the mountains, and the game.
"I was no longer impatient for summer to come; the days went fast and every one of them was a happy day. But soon the leaves began to show on the willows, the grass to grow, and one evening we got out our boat and floated down into the big river, traveling up it by night until we came to the terrible rapids. There we sunk our boat, that none might know we had passed that way, and started on the long trail over which I had come with my lost friends. The wide forest did not now seem so gloomy, nor the way so long. At last we came to the lake of the Pend d'Oreilles. 'From here on,' I said, 'we will ride; I am going to take some horses from these people.'
"My little woman objected to this, but I would have my way. She was tired out from our long walk, more tired I could see every day. I felt that I must take at least one horse for her. I could see the camp and plenty of horses near it. After the people slept, although it was bright moonlight, I went right in among the lodges, stole a woman's saddle, and cut out two of the best horses I could find and led them to where I had left my woman. She was terribly scared, for she had never ridden a horse. I saddled one, got on him, and rode around a little; he was gentle. So I fixed the saddle, put her up in it, shortened the stirrup straps, and showed her how to hang to the saddle. Then I mounted the other horse, and leading hers, we started over the trail I knew so well.
"We had not gone very far when it happened. The little woman cried out, her horse broke from me and began bucking around. By the time I had run back there she was dead. The saddle cinch had parted, she had fallen, her horse had kicked or trampled her.
"At first I could not believe it. I took her in my arms, called to her, felt her all over, and then at last I found the place; the top of her head was crushed. I must have gone crazy for a time. I jumped up and killed her horse; and then killed mine. I prayed to her gods and to mine, to bring her to life, but it was no use, no use. Morning came. I carried her to a place a little way off the trail and buried her as best I could. I looked back to the west, toward the country where I had suffered so, had lost rny companions, been made a slave, had found a loving woman only to lose her, and I cried in anger and sorrow; then, alone, I tore myself away from where she lay and started once more on the trail to my people. I am an old man now, but many winters have not buried my sorrow. I still mourn for her, and I shall do so as long as I live."
Nät-ah'-ki often reverted to this story of the old man. "Kyai'-yo!" she would exclaim. "How poor, how sad."
"Who—what?" I would ask.
"Why, the Kutenai's young woman, of course. Only think, to die just as she had found happiness; never to see again the sunshine, and the mountains, and these beautiful plains."
"She never saw these plains," I said once, when we were talking about the story. "Hers was a country of forests and great rivers, of rains and fogs."
Nät-ah'-ki shivered. "I do not wish to see that country!" she exclaimed. "I hate the rain; always I want to live on these sunshine plains, How good Old Man* was to give us this rich country."
*The Blackfoot Creator, the Sun.