Chapter XIII
The Snake Woman
AT THE LOWER end of the bottom opposite that of the Medicine Rock, the Dry Fork of the Marias joins the greater stream. At times in spring it is a raging, muddy torrent, but for the larger part of the year it is a shallow, sometimes dry, stream, the water standing in deep holes or where it has been backed up by the industrious beaver. Why, why do I persist in writing in the present tense? As if there were any beaver there now! But I'll not change the line—The day after we went into camp on the river, there was to be a buffalo run out on the flat beyond the Medicine Rock, where an immense herd of buffalo had been located. Weasel Tail and I, however, chose to go up the Dry Fork on discovery. In our lodges were many a parfleche of dried meat; we wanted no summer skins of the buffalo, and, of course, we could kill what fresh meat was needed at almost any time and place. We crossed the river and rode through the bottom, then followed a broad, deep game trail running up the rather narrow valley of the Dry Fork, crossing and recrossing the stream. We passed a great many beaver dams and saw several of the animals swimming around in their ponds. Here and there were narrow strips of willow along the bank out of which an occasional white-tail deer would break for the hills, scared by our approach. There were solitary cottonwoods, stunted, many of them dead, their trunks worn quite smooth by the buffalo rubbing against them. Rattlesnakes were numerous; every little while we would be startled by one suddenly sounding his warning near the trail, and we killed all we saw save one or two which managed to escape into nearby holes. As we ascended the valley, antelope became more and more numerous. The plain lying between the Dry Fork and the next water to the south, Pend d'Oreille coulée, was one of their favorite feeding grounds in that part of the country. If possible, when we saw a herd of antelope or buffalo ahead, we would ride up a coulée onto the plain and go around them, for we liked not to have the game stam peding from us, betraying our presence and probably our route to any chance enemy thereabouts.
It was at least eight or nine o'clock when we left camp, long after the departure of the buffalo runners, and by noontime we were well up the Dry Fork, twelve or fourteen miles from camp. Off to our right was a long ridge running east and west, the nearer point of it broken by sandstone cliffs. Thither we wended our way, riding up a coulée, which headed there. Arrived at the foot of the ridge we picketed our horses and climbing up, sat down on its crest to get a view of the country. I had brought some broiled antelope ribs, and, opening the little bag, laid them upon a convenient rock. "Take part of them," I said.
Weasel Tail shook his head. "What," I asked, "you will not eat? Take half; I brought them for you."
"It is not wise," he replied, "to eat when out on discovery, on the hunt, or when traveling anywhere away from camp. You should eat plenty after you arise in the morning, eat very much. Then you saddle up and strike out. You feel strong; you ride, and ride, and ride. You may be hunting, you are unlucky perhaps, but you are not discouraged; you go on, and on, with strong faith that the luck will change, that you will soon find a band of antelope or buffalo, or game of some kind. The sun mounts up, and up, arrives at the middle, starts downward to his lodge beyond the edge (edge of the world). You have food tied to your saddle, and you say to yourself, 'I am hungry; I will stop and eat.'
"On the crest of some ridge or butte you dismount, and, half lying on the restful ground, you begin to eat; meanwhile your clear, strong eyes search plain and valley or brush and mountainside for life of some kind. You are very hungry, of course; the food tastes good in your mouth, your stomach keeps crying for its fill, and you keep on eating until the last morsel has disappeared. Then Hai-ya! what a change comes over you! Your flesh suddenly becomes soft, your eyes no longer seek to pierce the far distance, the lids close upon them. The ground feels so good; it is a soft couch. You become sleepy; it is only by great effort that you keep awake. You lie there and the sun goes on, and on, down toward his lodge. You know that you ought to arise, that you ought to mount and ride until you can see what is beyond that high, long ridge, but the food has done its work and you lie to yourself, saying: 'Oh, I don't believe that I would find any game over there ', I'll rest here for a time, and then start homeward. I am sure to kill something on the back trail.' So you recline there, as lazy and sleepy as a full-gorged bear, and toward evening you arise and go homeward, finding no game whatever by the way. You arrive at your lodge, the people see that you bring neither meat nor skins. Your women quietly unsaddle your horse; you go inside and sit down upon your couch, much ashamed and begin to lie, telling how very far you have ridden, how barren the country is, and how you wonder where all the game can be.
"No, friend, no ribs for me. You eat, if you will. Loan me your glass and I will have a look at the country."
What Weasel Tail said was all very true. Had I not time and again experienced the lassitude, the sleepiness caused by my midday lunch? I resolved never again to take food with me when going for a day's ride. But this time need not count. I ate most of the ribs, joined my friend in a smoke, and fell asleep.
Weasel Tail poked me in the ribs several times before he succeeded in awakening me. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. My throat felt dry; there was a fuzzy taste in my mouth all caused by my midday lunch and nap. I noticed that the sun was midway down toward the distant blue peaks of the Rockies. I had slept long. My friend was looking steadily through the glass at something to the westward of us and muttering to himself. "What do you see?" I asked, yawning lazily, reaching for his pipe and tobacco pouch.
"It does not seem possible," he replied, "that I see that which I see; yet, I am sure neither my eyes nor this glass deceive. I see a woman; a lone woman, a woman on foot walking along the crest of the ridge yonder and coming straight toward us,
"Let me look," I exclaimed, dropping the pipe and taking the glass. "Are you sure that you are awake?"
"See for yourself," he replied. "She is on the third rise from here."
I brought the glass to bear on the slope indicated, and, sure enough, there was a woman striding easily down the grassy incline. She stopped, turned, and, shading her eyes vith her hand, looked awav to the south, then to the north, and lastly back whence she had come. I noticed that she carried a small pack on her back, that she stood erect, and was of slender figure. A young woman undoubtedly. But, why, why was she there, and afoot on that great plain whose vastness and silence must be appalling to one so alone and so defenseless.
"What do you think of this?" I asked.
"I don't think anything," Weasel Tail replied. "It is useless to try to account for so strange a thing. She comes this way; we will meet, and she will tell us the reason of it all."
The woman passed out of sight into the hollow back of the second rise of the ridge, but soon appeared on its crest and kept on down into the next low place. When she arrived at the top of the slope on which we sat, she saw us at once, stopped and hesitated for an instant, and then came on with her natural, easy, graceful stride. I am afraid that we both rudely and coldly stared at her, but there was neither fear nor diffidence in her manner as she walked steadily up to us. My first impression was that she had beautiful eyes; large, clear, kindly, honest eyes, and my next was that her face was exceedingly comely, her long hair glossy and neatly braided, her figure all that one expects a woman's form to be. She came on, quite up to us, and said: "How?"
"How, how?" we answered.
She unslung her pack, sat down, and began to talk in a language unintelligible to us. By signs we interrupted and said that we did not understand her talk.
"She is a Snake woman," said Weasel Tail. "By the cut and pattern of her moccasins I know that she is one of that tribe."
Who was he, I wonder, of what tribe and time, who conceived the idea of the sign language, by means of which all the tribes of the plains from the Saskatchewan to Mexico are able to converse with each other and tell all that their tongues may not utter. Here were we, unable to understand one word of this woman's language, yet by means of this wonderful invention of some ancient one, language mattered not.
"Who are you?" Weasel Tail asked, "and whence come you?"
"I am a Snake," the woman signed, "and I come from the camp of my people far to the south." She paused, and we signified that we understood. For a moment or two she sat thinking, brow wrinkled, lips pursed, and then continued:
"Three winters ago I became Two Bears' woman. He was very handsome, very brave, kind-hearted. I loved him, he loved me; we were happy." Again she paused, and tears rolled down her cheeks. She brushed them away repeatedly, and with much effort resumed her story: "We were very happy for he never got angry; no one ever heard cross words in our lodge. It was a lodge of feasts, and song, and laughter. Daily we prayed to the Sun, asking him to continue our happiness, to let us live long.
"It was three moons ago, two before this one which is almost ended. Winter had gone, the grass and leaves were coming out. I awoke one morning and found that I was alone in the lodge. My chief had arisen while I slept and gone out; he had taken his gun, his saddle and rope, so I knew that he had started on a hunt. I was glad. 'He will bring home meat,' I said, 'fat meat of some kind, and we will give a feast.' I gathered wood, I got water, and then I sat down to await his return. All day I sat in the lodge waiting for him, sewing moccasins, listening for the footfalls of his hunting horse, The sun went down, and I built a good fire. 'He will come soon now,' I said.
"But no, he did not come, and I began to feel uneasy. Far into the night I sat waiting, and fear pressed harder and harder on my heart. Soon the people of the village went to bed. I arose and went to my father's lodge, but I did not sleep.
"When morning came the men rode out to look for my chief; all day they hunted through the little prairies, through the forests, along the river, but they did not find him, nor any signs of him, nor of his horse. For three days they rode the country in all directions, and then gave up. 'He is dead,' they said; 'he has drowned, or a bear or some enemy has killed him. It must have been an enemy, else his horse would have returned to its mates.'
"My own thought was that he lived; I could not believe him dead. My mother told me to cut off my hair, but I would not do it. I said to her: 'He is alive. When he returns should he find my long hair gone he will be angry, for he loves it. Many a time he has himself combed and braided it.'
"The days passed and I waited, waited and watched for him to come. I began to think that he might be dead, and then one night my dream gave me hope. The next night and the next it was the same, and then on the fourth night, when my dream again came and told me I knew that it was true, that he lived. 'Far away to the north,' said my dream, 'on a river of the plains, your chief lies wounded and ill in a camp of the prairie people. Go find him, and help him to get well. He is sad and lonely, he cries for you.'
"So I got ready and, one evening after all were asleep, I started; it was the only way. Had they known what I was about to do, my father and mother would have stopped me. I carried some food, my awl and sinews, plenty of moccasin leather. When my food was gone I snared squirrels, rabbits, dug roots, so I was never hungry But the way was long, very, very long, and I feared the bears prowling and snuffing around in the night. They did not harm me; my dream person must have kept them from doing me wrong. The camp, my dream said, was in sight of the mountains. After many days I came to the Big River, and for many more days I followed it down, until I came in sight of the white men's houses, but I found no camp of those I sought. I turned north, and coming to the next stream, followed it up to the mountains; still I found no people. Then I went north again until I came to this little creek and now I meet you. Tell me, is my chief in your camp?"
Crazy, say you? Well, that depends upon the point of view. Some there are who believe in "a prophet's paradise to come." Some, for instance, have faith in the revelations said to have been made to a certain Joseph Smith; some believe in Allah; others in Christian Science; still others in diverse creeds and faiths, If they are crazy then indeed was this Indian woman also, for she had faith in a dream, doubted not for one instant that by following its instructions she would find her loved, lost man. Dreams, to most Indians, are a reality. They believe that they really do commune with spirits in their sleep, that their shadows—souls—temporarily released from the body, then travel far and meet with strange adventures. If a Blackfoot, for instance, dreams of seeing green grass he is absolutely certain that he will live to see another season of spring.
We were, of course, obliged to tell the wanderer that her lost one was not in our camp. Weasel Tail also informed her that some North Blackfeet and some Bloods were visiting us, and advised her to accompany us and question them. She readily consented to that, and we started homeward. My friend was riding a vicious little mare which would not carry double, so I was obliged to take the woman up behind me, and we created a big sensation when we rode into camp about sundown. Weasel Tail had agreed to give her a place in his lodge, and I had hoped to drop her near it unobserved by the mistress of a certain home a little farther along. But no such luck. I espied Nät-ah'-ki from afar standing and gazing at us, at the handsome young woman perched behind me, her arms tightly clasped about my waist. But when I rode up to my own lodge there was no one to greet me, and for the first time I was permitted to unsaddle my animal. I went inside and sat down. Nät-ah'-ki was roasting some meat and neither spoke nor looked up. Still in silence she brought me water, soap, a towel and comb. After I had washed she set before me a bowl of soup, some meat, and then what a sad, reproachful look she gave me. I grinned foolishly, vacuously, and, although I had been guilty of no wrong, somehow I could not return her gaze and quickly busied myself with my food. The little woman fled to the other side of the lodge, covered her head with her shawl, and began to cry. Somehow, although I had thought I was hungry, my food did not taste good. I nervously ate a little of it and then went out and over to Weasel Tail's.
"Send your mother over to my lodge," I said, "and have her tell Nät-ah'-ki all about it."
"Ah ha!" he laughed, "the young ones have quarreled, have they? The little one is jealous? Well, we'll soon fix it out," and he bade his mother go over.
An hour or two later, when I went home, Nat-ah'-ki was all smiles and welcomed me joyously, insisted that I should have another supper, and gave me a pair of gorgeous moccasins which she had been surreptitiously making for my adornment.
"Oh, that poor Snake woman," she said just before we fell asleep, "how I pity her. Tomorrow I shall make her a present of a horse."