Chapter XXV
Little Deer's End
THEN THERE WERE days when the warm chinook was blowing, that simply drew one out of the Fort and away on the plain. Nät-ah'ki and I would saddle a couple of horses and ride a great circle, returning home tired and hungry and ready to retire right after the evening meal, to sleep soundly through the long winter night. One fine day we were out, and along about 2 or 3 o'clock struck the river some five or six miles above the Fort and turned homeward down the valley. Riding along the trail through a grove of cottonwoods we met mine enemy, Little Deer, in quest of beaver, as he had some traps tied to his saddle. He leered at Nät-ah'-ki, who happened to be in the lead, and scowled savagely at me as we passed. I must confess that I bent in the saddle once or twice, pretending to adjust my stirrup leather, but really furtively looking back under my arm. I was certainly afraid of him and felt relieved when I saw him disappear around a bend of the trail without once, so far as I could determine, turning to look back at us.
Passing through the grove we crossed an open flat, went into another piece of timber, and then out on a wide, bare bottom. When about 150 or 200 yards from the last grove a gun boomed behind us and a bullet whizzed past my left side and kicked up the dust when it struck the ground farther on. Nät-ah'-ki shrieked, whipped up her horse, and called to me to hurry, and we made pretty good time the rest of the way home. When the shot was fired I looked back and saw a thin cloud of smoke in front of some willows, but no man. It was Little Deer who had shot, of course, and he had come near hitting me. He had done just what I had always predicted he would do—attack me from behind; and from such a position as he was in it would have been folly to attempt to dislodge him.
Nät-ah'-ki was well-nigh speechless from terror and anger. I was angry, too, and swore that I would kill Little Deer at sight. Berry listened quietly, but made no comment until after supper, when we had quieted down.
"You see," he began, "that fish has some powerful relations in camp, and although they know well enough that he needs killing, they are nevertheless bound to avenge his death."
"Well?" I asked, "and am I to do nothing, and some day be potted from an ambush?"
"No," he replied. "We've got to kill him, but it must be done in such a manner that we will never be suspected. Just lay low and we will find some way to do it."
After that day Little Deer came no more to the Fort. If he needed anything he sent someone to purchase it for him. When Nät-ah'-ki and I rode, we went out on the open plain, avoiding the coulées and the timber in the valley. Sometimes, of a night, Berry and I would try to devise some way to effectively get rid of my enemy, but we never succeeded. Could I have waylaid him, or shot him from behind, as he had attempted to do to ine, I would gladly have done so—one should always fight the devil with his own weapons.
It was a day in the forepart of March when Little Deer was missed from the camp. The previous morning he had gone out with some other hunters on the plains north of the river to kill some meat. They had separated finally, but late in the afternoon several of them had seen the missing man on a butte skinning a buffalo. During the night his horse had returned and joined the band to which it belonged, still saddled and trailing its lariat. Relatives of Little Deer went out and continued to search for him for several days, and at last they found him a long distance from the carcass of the buffalo he had skinned and cut up. He was lying in a coulée, and the top of his head was crushed in. His wives and female relatives buried him, but the wives did not mourn; he had been very cruel to them and they were glad to be free. The meat of the buffalo he had killed had all been neatly cut up and prepared for loading on the horse. It was thought that he had left the place to kill something else and had been thrown, or that, perhaps, his horse had fallen vvith him and had kicked him in its struggles to rise.
Nät-ah'-ki and I rejoiced when we learned this. She herself was the first to hear of it and came running in, all excitement, her eyes sparkling, and gave me a hearty squeeze.
"Be happy," she cried. "Our enemy is dead; they have found his body; we can ride where we please and without fear."
One night my old friend whom I have variously called Bear Head and Wolverine—he took the former name after a successful battle he was in—paid us a visit. He stayed long after all the others had gone, silently smoking, much preoccupied about something. Both Berry and I noticed it and spoke about it.
"He probably wants a new gun," I said, "or maybe a blanket or a new dress for his woman. Whatever it is I'll give it to him myself."
We were getting sleepy. Berry brought out a drink and handed it to him. "Well," he said, "tell us about it; what is on your mind?"
"I killed him," he replied. "I killed him and carried his body to the coulée and dropped it."
This was news indeed. We knew at once to whom be referred, none other than Little Deer. "Ah!" we both exclaimed, and waited for him to continue.
"I rode up to where he was tying his meat and got off my horse to tighten the saddle. We got to talking and he told about shooting at you. 'I don't see how I missed,' he said, 'for I took careful aim. But I'm not done. I'll kill that white man yet, and his woman shall be my woman, even if she does hate me.'
"His words made me mad. 'Kill him!' something said to me. 'Kill him, lest he kill your friend who has been so good to you.' He was bending over tying the last pieces of meat; I raised my rifle and struck him right on top of his head, and he fell forward, his shadow departed, I was glad that I did it."
He arose and prepared to leave. "Friend," I said, grasping his hand and heartily shaking it, "what is mine is yours. What can I give you?"
"Nothing," be replied. "Nothing. I am not poor. But if I ever am in need then I will come and ask for help."
He went out and we closed and barred the door. "Well, I'll be damned if that isn't the best turn I ever knew an Indian to do for a white man," Berry exclaimed. "He's sure a friend worth having."
For obvious reasons we kept what we had learned to ourselves, although I had a struggle to do so. It was years afterward when I finally told Nät-ah'-ki about it, and when the time came that our friend certainly did need help he got it.
We had with us that winter one Long-haired Jim, bull-whacker, a man about forty years of age. He wore hair that was at least two feet long and which fell in dark, rippling waves very gracefully over his back and shoulders. When on the road or out at work in the wind he kept it braided, but in camp it was simply confined by a silk bandage bound around his head. He was very proud of it and kept it nicely washed and combed.
Jim had made various trips, he claimed, on the Santa Fe and the Overland Trails, and had drifted up into Montana from Corinne. According to his own story, he was a great fighter, a successful gambler, but these advantages, he said, were offset by the fact that he was terribly unlucky in love. "I have set my affections on four different females in my time," be told us, "an' I'll be doggoned ef I got ary one of 'em."
"I come mighty close to it once," he continued. "She was a redhaired widow what kept a boardin'house in Council Bluffs. We rolled in there one evenin', an' as soon as we had corralled, all hands went over to her place fer supper. As soon as I set eyes on her I says to myself, 'That's a mighty fine figger of a woman.' She was small, an' slim, an' freckled, with the purtiest little turn-up, peart nose as ever happened. 'Who is she?' I asked a feller settin' next me.
"'A widder,' he says, 'she runs this here place.'
"That settled it. I went to the wagon-boss, told him I quit, drew my pay, an' packed my beddin' and war-sack over to her place. The next evenin' I caught her settin' out on the steps all by herself and walked right up to her. 'Mrs. Westbridge,' I says, 'I've sure fell in love with you. Will you marry me?'
"'Why, the idear!' she cried out. 'Jest listen to the man; an' him a stranger. Scat! git out o' here!' An' she up an' run into the house, an' into the kitchen, an' slammed an' locked the door.
"That didn't make no difference to me. I wa'n't ordered to leave the house, so I staid right on, an' put the question to her every chanct I got, sometimes twict a day. She got sost she didn't run, took it kinder good-natured like, but she always gave me a straight 'No' for an answer. 1 wa'n't no way discouraged.
"Well, it run along a matter of two weeks, an' one evenin' I asked her again; 'twas the twenty-first time, which number bein' my lucky one, I considered it sure to win. An' it did.
"'Yes, Sir, Mr. Jim What's-yer-name,' she says, straight out, 'I'll marry yer on certain conditions:
"'You must cut your hair.'
"'Yep.'
"'An' throw away them six-shooters an' that long knife.'
"'Yep.'
"'An' quit gainblin'.'
"'Yep.'
"'An' help me run this yere boardin'house.'
"Yes, I agreed to it all , an' she said we'd be married the comin' Sunday. I asked her fer a kiss, but she slapped my face an' run off into the kitchen. 'Never mind,' I says, settin' down on the steps, 'I'll wait till she comes out an' ketch her.
"Wal, Sir, I was a settin' there all peaceful an' happy like, when along comes an ornery-lookin' one-leg cripple an' asks, 'Is this whar Miss Westbridge lives?'
"'lt are,' I said. 'An' what might you want of her?'
"'Oh, nothing,'he says, 'cept she's my wife.'
"I allow I might have swatted him, even if he was a cripple, if the woman hadn't come out just then. When she see him she just throwed up her hands and cried out: 'My Gawd! Wherever did you come from? I thought you was dead. They told me you was. Are you sure it's you?'
"'Yes, Sairy,' he said. 'It's me all right; that is, what's left of me. it was reported that I died, or was missin', but I pulled through. I been trailin'you a long time. It's a long story—'
"I didn't wait to hear it. Went up to my room and sat down. After a while she come up. 'You see how 'tis,' she said. 'I've got to take care of him. Yer a good man, Jim; I admire yer spunk, a askin' and a askin', an never takin' "no" fer an answer. As it is, ef you care fer me I wisht you'd go.'
"I packed right up an' pulled out. No, I never did have no luck with women. Sence that happened I ain't had a chance to tackle another one.
Jim took great interest in Nät-ah'-ki and me. "My Gawd!" he would say, "just hear her laugh. She's sure happy. I wisht I had such a nice woman."
He spent much time in the trade room, and went often through the camp seeking to make a conquest of some fair damsel. He was really ridiculous, smiling at them, bowing, and saying something in English which none could understand. The maidens turned away from him abashed. The men looking on either scowled or laughed and joked and named him the One-unable-to-marry, a very bad name in Blackfoot.
The main trouble was that he wore an immense mustache and chin whiskers. The Blackfeet abhorred hair, except that of the head. An old acquaintance never buttoned his shirt winter nor summer; his breast was as hairy as a dog's back. I have seen the Blackfeet actually shudder when they looked at it. But a happy day was coming for Jim. On a trip out from Fort Benton, Berry brought him a letter containing great news. A woman back in Missouri whom he had known from childhood had consented to marry him. He left for the States at once by the way of Corinne. We heard from him several months later: "Dear friends," be wrote, "she died the day before I got here. I'm sure grievin'. They's anuther one here, but she's got seven children, an' she's after me. I take the Santy Fe trail tomorrer. Hain't I sure out of luck?"
By the same mail we heard from Ashton. He was in Genoa, Italy, and expected to be with us in the spring. He also wrote that he was getting good reports of his protégée's progress, A little later there came a letter for Nät-ah'-ki from the girl herself, which was very touching. It was in print, and read, including some additions by the Sisters: "I can read. I can write. The Sisters are. good to me. I have pretty dresses. When I sleep I see the lodges and the people, and I smell the kak-sim-i (sage). I love you. Diana Ashton."
Dear me! but Nät-ah'-ki was proud of that letter. She carried it around and showed it to her friends and had me translate it many times. She made several beautiful pairs of moccasins for the child, and after we returned to Fort Benton in the spring had me ship them on a steamboat vith a lot of pemmican, dried meat and tongues, and a big bunch of sagebrush. I objected to sending the pemmican and meat, saying that the girl had all the food she wanted and the very best.
"Yes," she said, contemptuously, "white people's food; nothing food. I know she is hungry for real food."
We had a good trade that winter, but troublous times succeeded. A part of the Piegans, the Bloods, and Blackfeet became a real terror to the whites in the country, and it was really unsafe to try to trade outside of Fort Benton. We passed the following two winters there. In January of the second one the Baker massacre occurred, and the Indians at once quieted down. In the spring of 1870 we began to plan for another season at some more or less distant point.