Chapter XIV
The Snake Woman's Quest
NAT-AH'-KI WAS THE proud owner of a little band of horses, some of which had sprung from mares given her by relatives at various times. She loved to talk about them, to describe the color, age, and peculiarities of each one. A Blackfoot who was horseless was an object of reproach and pity. Horses were the tribal wealth, and one who owned a large herd of them held a position only to be compared to that of our multimillionaires. There were individuals who owned from one hundred to three and four hundred. Were the owners sonless, each employed some orphan boy to herd them, to drive them twice and thrice daily to water. And they liked to sit out on the plain or hills for hours at a time to be among them and gloat over them as they cropped the rich grass. When a man died, the bulk of his property was divided among the male relatives, and they were so numerous that it was rare for one to inherit any number of animals. He who could count his horses by the hundred, had gained them by a strenuous life, by many a long raid against bordering tribes, by stealing into their camps at night, by hand to hand conflict with them on many a field. No wonder, then, that he was proud of them, and of himself, and that the people honored him.
Nät-ah'-ki's band was herded by her uncle, Fish Robe, who himself had a large herd. When they were driven in the morning after our discovery of the Snake woman, she selected a fat, pot-bellied roan, begged an old woman's saddle from an aunt, placed it in position, and led the animal over to Weasel Tail's lodge. She handed the end of the lariat to the Snake woman; at first the stranger did not comprehend the meaning, of the act; but when Nät-ah'-ki signed that the horse was to be hers, was a gift, her joy was pleasant to witness. The two women became great friends, and she lived a part of the time with us. "I am resting," she said, "and questioning arriving visitors from other tribes. If I do not soon hear of my chief, I shall again set forth in quest of him."
But that was not to be. One day when she and Nät-ah'-ki were gathering wood, a party of Bloods passed by on their way to our camp, and she ran after them as fast as she could, Nät-ah'-ki following and wondering if the poor woman had lost her wits. The visitors dismounted and entered our chief's lodge. The Snake woman, excited, trembling, pointed at one of the horses they rode, a black and white pinto, and signed: "I know it; my chief's horse. Ask the man where he got it."
Nät-ah'-ki went inside and made known the request to one of the women of the lodge, and the latter, as soon as there was a break in the conversation, repeated it to Big Lake. All heard her, of course, and one of the visitors spoke up: "The pinto is mine," he said, "my taking."
"Bring the woman in!" Big Lake ordered, and he told his guests about our finding her alone on the plain, about her dream and her quest.
She came inside all eagerness, the inbred diffidence of a woman facing a number of chiefs and men of distinction forgotten. "Who, who," she quickly signed, "is the rider of the pinto horse?"
"I am," the Blood signed. "What about it?"
"It is my horse—my man's horse, the one be rode away one morning three moons ago. And what of my man? Did you see him? How came you by his horse?"
The Blood hesitated for a moment, and then replied: 'We went to war. Away south of the Ground-of-many-gifts,* at daylight one morning, a man riding the pinto horse surprised us, and I killed him. I took the animal for my own."
*The country in the vicinity of Helena, Montana, which city, by the way, the Blackfeet have given the same name. It was a land rich in game and berries, hence the appellation:
Ah'kwo'to-kwü-si sak-öm. Much giving ground
As he gestured his answer, the woman suddenly noticed a bear's claw necklace be wore, and pointing to it, she gave a fearful, heartbroken, gasping sob, and fled from the lodge. She went crying through the carnp, and at the edge of the timber sat down, covered her head with her robe, and began to wail for the one who was dead.
Did you, reader, ever hear a woman of the plains mourn for a lost loved one, calling his or her name heartbrokenly, despairingly, over and over again for hours at a time? Nothing else in all this world is so
mournful, so expressive of the feelings of one whom death has bereaved of a dear child, relative, companion. I can liken but one thing to it, and that is the cry of the mourning dove. It embodies all the feelings, the thoughts, of one utterly desolate, forsaken. Somewhere I have read, or heard, that an Indian's loss of today is forgotten on the morrow. That is certainly not true of the Blackfeet, nor of the Mandans. Often and often I have heard many of the Blackfeet mourn for one dead long years since. The Mandans used to care for the bones of their departed ones. Those of each family were placed in a little circle on the burying ground, and thither the survivors would repair frequently to deposit choice food, and to talk to the skulls of their dear ones, just as if they were alive and in the flesh. It is not for the Anglo-Saxon to boast of affection, of constancy, for he can take lessons from the despised red men. Never, with the Indians—I speak only of the two tribes before mentioned—was there a separation except for adultery, and that was rare indeed; nor did they ever abuse or desert their offspring. The affection of parents for their children, their pride in them, their sacrifices for them, were practically limitless. And such also was the regard in which the young held their elders. Family ties were something sacred.
I have often heard the Blackfeet speak of various white men as utterly heartless, because they had left their parents and their youthful home to wander and seek adventure in a strange land. They could not comprehend how one with right feeling might absent himself from father and mother, as we do, for months and years. "Hard hearts," "stone hearts," they call us, and with some reason.
The Snake woman continued to mourn, passing the greater part of the time up on the hill, or at the edge of the timber, wailing. She cut off her hair, scarified her ankles, ate little, grew thin and listless; and finally a day came when she remained on her couch instead of arising with the others in Weasel Tail's lodge. "I am to die," she signed, "and I am glad. I did not understand my dream. I thought that I was told to seek my chief in the flesh. Instead, it was meant that my shadow should look for his shadow. I see it plainly now, and in a few nights I start. I know that I shall find him."
And start she did. She died on the fourth day of her illness, and the women buried her decently, respectfully, in a not far distant tree.