Chapter XIX
Nät-ah'-ki's Wedding

AT DAYLIGHT AN unusual stir and confusion in camp awoke us, and Nät-ah'-ki went out to learn what it was all about. She soon returned vith the news that our enemy of the night proved to be Crows, that the bodies of seven in all had been found, and that they had succeeded in running off seventy or more horses. A large party had already started in pursuit of them, and we were not to break camp until they returned. I arose and dressed betimes, had breakfast, and went visiting. Turning into Weasel Tail's lodge I found him nursing a gash in the thigh, where a Crow bullet had creased him. I sat with him a long time, while other visitors came and went. All were calling the Crows any bad name their language contained, but unfortunately or fortunately, some may say, in this line their speech was exceedingly limited. The very best they could do was to call their enemy dog faces and present them to the Sun, begging him to destroy them.

I went on to the lodge of the chief, where I found many of the principal men assembled. "I for one," Big Lake was saying when I entered, "will talk against making peace with the Crows so long as I live. Let us all agree never to smoke their tobacco. Let us teach our children that they are like the rattlesnake, always to be killed on sight."

The visitors heartily agreed to this, and I may say here that they kept their word, sending party after party against their Yellowstone enemies until the Government interfered and put a stop to intertribal war. The last raid occurred in the summer of 1885.

There was much scalp dancing during the day, participated in by those who had lost most recently husband or father or some other relative in battle with the Crows. This was not, as has been often luridly pictured, a spectacular dance of fierce exultation and triumph over the death of their enemy. As performed by the Blackfeet, it was a truly sad spectacle. Those participating in it blackened their faces, bands, and moccasins with charcoal, and wore their meanest, plainest clothes. An aged man held the scalp of the enemy tied to a willow on each side. Then wand in front of him, and the others ranged in line, they sang a low and very plaintive song in a minor key, which, to me at least, seemed to express more sorrow over the loss of their kin than it did joy for the death of the enemy On this occasion there were seven scalps, seven parties dancing in different parts of camp at once, and one band of mourners after another took their turn, so that performance lasted until night. There was really no dancing about it, the singers merely stooping slightly and rising in time to the song.

The pursuing party returned at dusk, having failed to overtake the enemy. Some were for starting at once on a raid into the Crow country, but there was now little ammunition in camp and it was decided that we should push on to Fort Benton with as little delay as possible. After obtaining a good supply of powder and ball there, the war party could turn back southward. Four or five days later camp was pitched in the big bottom opposite the Fort. Nät-ah'-ki and I crossed the river, and wended our way to the little adobe house. There we found Berry, his wife and mother, and the good Crow Woman. What a happy lot they were, those women, as they bustled around and got in each other's way trying to get supper ready. And I am sure Berry and I were happy, too, We did not say much as we stretched out on a buffalo-robe lounge and smoked, but words are often superfluous. It was all good enough for us, and each knew that the other so felt. Berry had got my mail out of the office and there it lay on the table, a few letters, a bushel or more of papers and magazines. I read the letters, but the rest mostly remained unopened. I had lost all interest in States' affairs.

In the evening Berry and I went down to the Fort for a while, and, of course, we called in at Keno Bill's place. As usual, at that time of year, the town, if it could be so called, was full of people, traders and trappers, bull-whackers and mule-skinners, miners and Indians, all awaiting the arrival of the steamboats which bad long since left St. Louis, and were soon due to arrive. Every table in Keno's place was so crowded with players that one couldn't edge in to watch a game. Keno himself and two assistants were busy behind the bar, as the kegs still held out despite the heavy draft on them during the winter months. There were even a few bottles of beer left. I gladly paid a dollar and four bits for one of them, and Berry helped me drink it.

We went into the Overland Hotel for a moment on our way home, and there among other guests I saw a man whom I thought to be a preacher; at any rate, a white tie adorned his blue-flannel shirt front, and he wore a black coat which, if not cut in approved ministerial style, was at least of the right color. I went up to him and said: "Excuse ine, Sir, but I'd like to know if you are a preacher?"

"I am," he replied vith a pleasant smile. "I am a minister of the Methodist Episcopal Church. I have been in the mountains for the past year, both preaching and mining, and am now on my way to my home in the States."

"Well," I continued, "if you'll go along with me I guess I can find a job for you."

He arose at once and accompanied us home.

"May I ask," he said on the way, "what is to be the nature of my services? A baptism or marriage, or is there some sick one in need of a few words?"

"It's a marriage," I replied; "that is, providing the other party is willing."

With that Berry shamelessly snickered.

The women were gaily talking and laughing when we arrived, but became silent at once when they saw our companion. They were always thus in the presence of strangers. I called Nät-ah'-ki into the back room. "He out there," I said to her, "is a sacred (more correctly sun) white man. I have asked him to sacredly marry us."

"Oh," she cried. "How did you know my wish? It is what I have always wanted you to do, but I—I was afraid, ashamed to ask it of you. But, is he a real sacred white man? He wears no black robe, no cross?"

"He is of another society," I replied. "There are a thousand of them, and each claims that theirs is the only true one. It matters not to us. Come on."

And so, Berry acting as interpreter, we were married, and we sent the preacher forth with a gold piece as a souvenir of the occasion. "I'm hungry," said Berry, "broil us a couple of buffalo tongues, you women. "

Broiled tongue and bread, tea and applesauce comprised the wedding feast, as we may call it, and that also was good enough for us.

"It is this," Nät-a-h'-ki confided to me later. "Many white men who have married women of our tribe according to our customs have used them only as playthings and then have left them, But those who took women by the sacred words of a sacred white man have never left them. I know that you would never leave me, no, never. But how the others have laughed at me, joked about me, saying: 'Crazy girl, you love your man, and you are a fool; he has not married you in the white man's way, and will leave you as soon as he sees another woman with a prettier face.' They can never say that again. No, never."

We had planned, Berry and I, to remain in Fort Benton during the summer and make a camp trade the following winter. The steamboats began to arrive in May and then the levee was a busy place. The traders were also rushed, the Indians crowding in to dispose of the last of their robes and furs. But we had no part in this, and in a few weeks we became restless. Berry decided to make a couple of trips to Helena with his bull train, although it was not necessary for him to go, as he had hired a train-master, or, in the language of the bull-whacker, a "wagon boss." The women decided that they wanted to go berrying. The Piegans had long since crossed the river and were camped on the Teton, only a few miles away. We proposed to join them, Nät-ah'-ki sending word to her mother to have our saddle and pack horses driven in.

A couple of weeks before this, I was sitting on the levee one day when a stranger came along and sat down by my side, and we fell to talking about various things. I saw at once that he was a man of education and refinement, and from the moment I first saw him I took a liking to him. He was tall and well built, brown-eyed and brownhaired, and had a pleasing, frank expression of countenance, although it was rather a sad one. Also, he seemed to have no enthusiasms, He seldom smiled, never laughed outright, and was often so lost in thought over—to judge from his sad eyes—something near his heart that he was entirely oblivious to his surroundings. I invited him over to the little abode for dinner, and Berry immediately took to him as I had done. So did the women, who were usually very distant and dignified in the presence of strangers. He soon passed the most of his time with us, and nothing, in the estimation of our household, was good enough for him. Old Mrs. Berry rigged up a fine robe couch with willow back-rests for his especial use. The Crow Woman gave him a beautiful pair of moccasins. Nät-ah'-ki and Berry's wife got out their choice stores of pemmican, depuyer, dried meats, and berries for our little evening feasts.

"See here," I said to Nät-ah'-ki one day, "I'm getting jealous of this man. You women think more of him than you do of Berry and me."

"He is so sad feeling," she said, "that we pity him. What is it that troubles him? Has he lost some loved one?"

I knew no more than she what troubled him; that he was grieving about something was evident. We never questioned him, never even asked his name, nor whence he came. And that is where the Westem people differed from those of the East. They never gossiped, never tried to pry into one's secrets, nor demanded his pedigree. They simply gave him the hand of good-fellowship and used him as they wished to be used.

The women named him Kut-ai'-imi, Never-Laughs; and thus among themselves they ever spoke of him. It was a long time before he knew it, and then it didn't matter. He told Berry and me that his name was—well, what it was is not necessary, for this story; we will call him Ashton. He also informed us that his home was in Boston, and that he had come west merely to see something of Western life. When he learned that the women and I were to join the camp, he asked to be allowed to go with us, and of course we were glad to have him go. He purchased a horse and saddle, blanket and rifle, and various other things necessary for the trip.

So, one evening we returned to camp, to our very own lodge, which Nät-ah'-ki's mother had again set up and furnished for our homecoming. On every hand there was song and laughter, and beating of drums, and calls for feasts. The women broiled some meat, made some bread and tea, and we ate the simple meal vith relish. Then Ashton and I lay back on our soft lounges and smoked, talking little. I was perfectly content; my friend, judging by his dreamy and faraway expression, had gone back eastward, in thought, a couple of thousand miles. The women soon washed the dishes, and got out their porcupine quill, or bead embroidery work. "Grandmother," I said, "tell me a story; something about your people in the long ago."

"Hai!" the Crow Woman exclaimed. "Just hear him. He is always wanting stories. Before long, if we are to keep him contented, we will have to make up some, for he has heard about all we know."

"But just think how selfish he is," said Nät-ah'-ki, looking at me mischievously. "He gets all of our stories, but tells us none of his."

I was obliged to acknowledge that the little woman was right, and promised to tell some later. Old Mrs. Berry, after some thinking, began:

THE STORY OF NO-HEART

"It was before my grandfather's time, yes, far back of that, for he said that the old people whom be had heard relate it, told about having heard it from their grandfathers. So it is surely a story of great age.

"It was in the spring time. The people were scattered out on the plain one day, busily digging the white root,* when a terrible thunderstorm came up. It was far to the lodges, so the diggers, knowing that they would get wet whether they ran or stayed, just sat down where they were, covered themselves with their robes, and waited for the storm to pass by. One family happened to be all near each other when the rain began to fall, and all huddled up closely together.

"'This is a very cold rain,' said the mother. 'I am shivering.'

"'Yes,' said the father, 'it is cold. Crowd closer together, all of you.'

"Thus they sat, when thunder crashed above them, and a ball of ligbtning, falling in their midst, broke with a big noise, and knocked them all flat and limp on the wet ground. There they lay, the father and mother, two sons and a daughter, and none dared go to aid them, for fear the angry god would strike them, too. But when the storm passed by, the people ran to do what they could for the stricken ones. At first they thought that all of them were dead, and four of them surely were; the fifth one, the girl, still breathed. In a little while she sat up and, seeing what had befallen the others, wept so piteously that the women there wept with her, although none of them were related to her. The father had been an orphan since childhood; so had the mother; and the poor girl was now alone. In the whole camp she had not one relation.

"Kind friends buried the dead, and the many different ones asked the girl to come and live with them; but she refused them all. 'You must go and live with someone,' said the chief. 'No one ever heard of a young woman living by herself. You cannot live alone. Where would you procure your food? And think of what people would say should you do so; you would soon have a bad name.'

"'If people speak evil of me, I cannot help it,' said the girl. 'They will live to take back their bad words. I have decided to do this, and I will find a way to keep from starving.'

"So this girl lived on alone in the lodge her parents had built, with no company, save her dogs. The women of the camp frequently visited her and gave her meat and other food; but no man, either young or old, ever went in and sat by her fire. One or two had attempted it, but only once, for she had told them plainly that she did not wish the society of any man. So the youths gazed at her from afar, and prayed to the gods to soften her heart. She was a handsome young woman, a

*The pomme blanche of the French Trappers, Psoralea esculenta.

hard and ceaseless toiler; no wonder that the men fell in love with her, and no wonder that they named her No-Heart.

"One young man, Long Elk, son of the great chief, loved the lone girl so much that he was nearly crazy with the pain and longing for her. He had never spoken to her, well knowing that her answer would be that which she had given to others. But he could not help going about, day after day, where she could always see him. If she worked in her little bean and corn patch, he sat on the edge of the river bank nearby. If she went to the timber for wood, he strolled out in that direction, often meeting her on the trail, but she always passed him with eyes cast down, as if she had not seen him. Often, in the night, when all the camp was fast asleep, Long Elk would steal out of his father's lodge, pick up a water-skin, and filling it again and again at the river, would water every row in No-Heart's garden. At the risk of his life he would go out alone on the plains where the Sioux were always prowling, and hunt. In the morning when No-Heart awoke and went out, she would find hanging in the dark entranceway choice portions of meat, the skin of a buffalo or the deer kind. The people talked about this, wondering who did it all. If the girl knew, she gave no sign of it, always passing the young man as if she did not know there was such a person on earth. A few low and evil ones themselves, hinted wickedly that the unknown protector was well paid for his troubles. But they were always rebuked, for the girl bad many friends who believed that she was all good.

"In the third summer of the girl's lone living, the Mandans and Arickarees quarreled, and then trouble began, parties constantly starting out to steal each other's horses, and to kill and scalp all whom they could find hunting or traveling about beyond the protection of the villages. This was a very sad condition for the people. The two tribes had long been friends; Mandan men had inarried Arickaree women, and many Arickaree men had Mandan wives. It was dreadful to see the scalps of perhaps one's own relatives brought into camp. But what could the women do? They had no voice in the councils, and were afraid to say what they thought. Not so No-Heart. Every day she went about in the camp, talking loudly, so that the men must hear, scolding them and their wickedness; pointing out the truth, that by killing each other, the two tribes would become so weak that they would soon he unable to withstand their common enemy, the Sioux. Yes, No-Heart would even walk right up to a chief and scold him, and he would be obliged to turn silently away, for he could not argue with a woman, nor could he force this one to close her mouth; she was the ruler of her own person.

"One night a large number of Arickarees succeeded in making an opening in the village stockade and, passing through, they began to lead out the horses. Someone soon discovered them, however, and gave the alarm, and a big fight took place, the Mandans driving the enemy out on the plain, and down into the timber below. Some men on both sides were killed; there was both mourning and rejoicing in the village.

"The Arickarees retreated to their village. Toward evening No-Heart went down into the timber for fuel, and in a thick clump of willows she found one of the enemy, a young man, badly wounded. An arrow had pierced his groin, and the loss of blood had been great. He was so weak that be could scarcely speak or move. No-Heart stuck many willow twigs in the ground about him, the more securely to conceal him. 'Do not fear,' she said to him, 'I will bring you food and drink,'

"She hurried back to her lodge and got some dried meat and a skin of water, put them under her robe, and returned to the wounded one. He drank much, and ate of the food. No-Heart washed and bound the wound. Then she again left him, telling him to lie quiet, that in the night she would return and take him to her home, where she would care for him until he got well. In her lodge she fixed a place for him, screening one of the bed places with a large cowskin; she also partly covered the smoke hole and hung a skin across the entrance, so that the interior of the lodge had but little light. The women who sometimes visited her would never suspect that anyone was concealed, and especially an enemy—in a lodge where for three summers no man had entered.

"It was a very dark night. Down in the timber there was no light at all. No-Heart was obliged to extend her arms as she walked, to keep from running against the trees, but she knew the place so well that she had little trouble in finding the thicket, and the one she had come to aid. 'Arise,' she said, in a low voice. 'Arise, and follow me.'

"The young man attempted to get up, but fell back heavily upon the ground. 'I cannot stand,' he said; 'my legs have no strength.'

"Then No-Heart cried out: 'You cannot walk! I had not thought but that you could walk. What shall I do? What shall I do?'

"'You will let me carry him for you,' said someone standing close behind her. 'I will carry him wherever you lead.'

"No-Heart turned with a little cry of surprise. She could not see the speaker's face in the darkness, only his dim form; but she knew the voice. She was not afraid. 'Lift him then,' she said, 'and follow me.'

"She herself raised the wounded one up and placed him on the newcomer's back, and then led the way out of the timber, across the plain, through the stockade, in which she had loosened a post, and then on to her lodge. No one was about, and they were not discovered. Within, a fire was burning, but there was no need of the light to show the girl who had helped her. He was Long Elk. 'We will put him here,' she said, lifting the skin in front of the couch she had prepared, and they laid the sick man carefully down upon it. Then Long Elk stood for a little, looking at the girl, but she remained silent and would not look at him. 'I vill go now,' he said, 'but each night I will come with meat for you and your lover.'

"Still the girl did not speak, and he went away. But as soon as he had gone, No-Heart sat down and cried. The sick man raised up a little and asked, 'What troubles you? Why are you crying?'

"'Did you not hear?' she replied. 'He said that you are my lover.'

"'I know you,' said the man. 'They call you No-Heart, but they lie. You have a heart; I wish it were for me.'

"'Don't!' the girl cried. 'Don't say that again! I will take care of you, feed you. As your mother is to you, so will I be.'

"Now, when night came again, No-Heart went often out in the passageway, staying there longer and longer each time, returning only to give the sick man water, or a little food. At last, as she was sitting out there in the dark, Long Elk came, and feeling for the right place, hung up a piece of meat beyond the reach of the dogs. 'Come in,' she said to him. 'Come in and talk with the wounded one.'

"After that Long Elk sat with the Arickaree every night for a time, and they talked of the things which interest men. While he was in the lodge No-Heart never spoke, except to say, 'Eat it,' when she placed food before them. Day after day the wounded one grew stronger. One night, after Long Elk had gone, he said, 'I am able to travel; tomorrow night I will start homeward. I want to know why you have taken pity on me, why you saved me from death?'

"'Listen, then,' said the girl. 'It was because war is bad; because I pitied you. Many women here, and many more in your village, are crying because they have lost the ones they loved in this quarrel. Of them all, I alone have talked, begging the chiefs to make peace with you. All the other women were glad of my words, but they are afraid, and do not dare speak for themselves. I talked and feared not; because no one could bid me stop. I have helped you, now do you help me; help your women; help us all. When you get home tell what was done for you here, and talk hard for peace.'

"'So I will,' the Arickaree told her. 'When they learn all that you have done for me, the chiefs will listen. I am sure they will be glad to stop this war.'

"The next night, when Long Elk entered the lodge, he found the man sitting up. By his side lay his weapons and a little sack of food. 'I was waiting for you,' he said. 'I am now well, and wish to start for home tonight. Will you take me out beyond the stockade? If any speak you can answer them, and they will not suspect that their enemy passes by.'

"'I will go with you, of course,' Long Elk told him. Whereupon he arose, slung on his bow and quiver, the sack of food, and lifted his shield. No-Heart sat quietly on the opposite side of the lodge, looking straight at the fire. Long Elk turned to her: 'And you?' he asked. 'Are you also ready?'

"She did not answer, but covered her face with her robe.

"'I go alone,' said the Arickaree. 'Let us start.'

"They went out, through the village, through the stockade, and across the bottom to the timber, where they stopped, 'You have come far enough,'the Arickaree said, 'I will go on alone from here. You have been good to me. I shall not forget it. When I arrive home I shall talk much for peace between our tribes. I hope we may soon meet again in friendship.'

"'Wait,' said Long Elk, as he turned to go, 'I want to ask you something: Why do you not take No-Heart with you?'

"'I would if she were willing,' he answered; 'but she is not for me. I tell you truly, this: She has been a mother to me; no more, no less. And you,' he continued, 'have you ever asked her to be your woman? No? Then go now; right now, and do so.'

"'It would be useless,' said Long Elk, sadly. 'Many have asked her, and she has always turned them away.'

"'I have seen much while I lay sick in her lodge,' the Arickaree continued. 'I have seen her gaze at you as you sat talking to me, and her eyes were beautiful then. And I have seen her become restless and go out and in, out and in, when you were late. When a woman does that, it means that she loves you. Go and ask her.'

"They parted, Long Elk returned to the village. 'It could not be,' he thought, 'that the young man was right. No, it could not be.' Had he not kept near her these many winters and summers? and never once had she looked at him, or smiled. Thinking thus, he wandered on, and on, and found himself standing by the entrance to her lodge. Within he heard, faintly, someone crying. He could not be sure that was it, the sound of it was so low. He stepped noiselessly in and carefully drew aside the door skin. No-Heart was sittingwhere he had last seen her, sitting before the dying fire, robe over her head, and she was crying. He stole past the doorway and sat down beside her, quite close, but he dared not touch her. 'Good Heart,' he said, 'Big Heart, don't cry.'

"But she only cried harder when she heard his words, and he was much troubled, not knowing what to do. After a little be moved closer and put his arm around her; she did not draw away, so then he drew the robe away from her face. 'Tell me,' he said, 'why are you crying?'

"'Because I am so lonely.'

"'Ah! You do love him then. Perhaps it is not too late; I may be able to overtake him. Shall I go and call him back to you?'

"What do you mean?'cried No-Heart, staring at him. 'Who are you talking about?'

"'He who has just left; the Arickaree,' Long Elk answered. But now he had edged up still closer, and his arm was tighter around her, and she leaned heavily against him.

"'Was there ever such a blind one?' she said. 'Yes, I will let you know my heart; I will not be ashamed, nor afraid to say it. I was crying because I thought you would not return. All these summers and winters I have been waiting, hoping that you would love me, and you never spoke.'

"'How could I?' he asked. 'You never looked at me; you made no sign,'

"'It was your place to speak,' she said. 'Even yet you have not done

"'I do, now, then. Will you take me for your man?'

"She put her arms around his neck and kissed him, and that was answer enough.

"In the morning, like any other married man, Long Elk went out and stood by the entrance to the lodge which was now his, and shouted feast invitations to his father and friends. They all came, and all were pleased that he had got such a good woman. Some made jokes about newly married ones, which made the young woman cover her face with her robe. Yet she was so happy that she would soon throw it back and laugh with the others.

"In a few days came a party from the Arickarees, and the wounded young man was one of them—asking for peace. The story was told then, how No-Heart had taken in the young man and brought him to life again, and when they heard it many women prayed the gods to be good to her, and give her and her man long life. Peace between the two tribes was then declared, and there was much rejoicing.

"There, my son, I have finished."

"Well, what was all that about?" asked Ashton, rousing up and reaching out for his pipe and tobacco.

"Oh!" I replied, "'twas the story of a girl and a man." And I proceeded to give him a translation of it. After I had finished, he sat quietly thinking for some time, and then remarked:

"This gives me a new and unexpected view of these people. I had not thought that love, that self-sacrifice, such as the story depicts, was at all in their nature. Really, it's quite refreshing to learn that there are occasionally women who are true and steadfast in their love."

He said this bitterly. I could have told him things, but contented myself by saying, "Keep your eyes open, friend. You may find much in these people to be commended."

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