With the Indians in the Rockies

by James Willard Schultz

  CHAPTER II

  I do not know why I cried out. Of course there was no one to answer, toadvise, or assist me. I have often noticed that in times of stress menshout the questions that they ask themselves. Why had Baptiste motionedme to go back, when by doing so I must run right into the Indians? Imust have misunderstood his signal. Clearly, my only chance of escapewas the same as his, and that was by the river.

  Pummeling the old horse with rifle-stock and heels, I headed him for thestream. Not straight toward it, where the bank was apparently very high,but obliquely, toward a point not far above the mouth of theMusselshell. There the bank was certainly not high, for the tips ofwater-willows peeped above it.

  In a few moments I was close enough to look over it. Between the narrowstrip of willows and the edge of the water there was an oozy mudflat,fifty yards wide, impassable for man or horse.

  I looked back at the enemy, and saw that when I had turned downstream,those toward the upper end of the bottom had given up the chase, whilethe rest had turned with me and run faster than ever. Thus there was awide gap between the two parties, and I circled toward it, as my lastchance. First up the river for several hundred yards, then straightsouth, away from it. Both parties immediately perceived my intention,and spurted to close the gap. Harder and harder I thumped the horse,although by this time he had waked up, and was entering into the spiritof the flight. The distance between the two parties of Indians was nownot more than three hundred yards, and I was more than that from thepoint for which we all were heading; but to offset this I was coveringthe ground much faster than they were.

  The Indians were now yelling frightfully, to encourage one another togreater speed. I could see their painted faces, and a little latertheir fierce eyes.

  The gap was very small now; they began shooting, and several pieces oflead ripped by me with the sound of tearing paper. I did not try to usemy rifle. In that first experience there was no anger in my heartagainst the enemy, nothing but fear of them.

  I felt, rather than saw, that they would be unable to head me off, ifonly by a narrow margin, and I bent low over the horse to make myself assmall a target as possible. More guns boomed close on each side of me.Arrows whizzed, too, and the shaft of one struck my rifle-stock, glancedfrom it, and cut the skin on the back of my hand. That was when I passedright between the two parties.

  In a dazed way, I kept urging the horse on, until presently it dawned onme that I was past the danger point. Having looked back to make sure ofthis, I changed my course, crossed the Musselshell, and went on down thebottom, and then along the shore of the river several miles, until Icame to the boat.

  When the cordelliers saw me returning in such haste, they knew thatsomething was wrong. They ceased towing, and let the boat drift in tothe bank, in such a position that I rode right on the deck. I was stillso frightened that it was difficult for me to talk, but my uncle,guessing the parts of the story which I omitted, ordered all the menaboard. In a few minutes we were at the other shore of the river.

  The cordelliers objected to going on with the tow-line, but my uncle wasfirm that they should start without delay, and they did. The steersman,an old and tried employee, was sent ahead of them to scout, and UncleWesley took his place at the sweep. The howitzer was freshly primed, andone of the men instructed to stand by, ready to aim and fire it. I wasanxious about Baptiste, and although my uncle told me not to worry, Idoubted if we should ever see him again.

  In a couple of hours we arrived off the island opposite the mouth of theMusselshell, and lo! Baptiste came out of the brush at the lower end ofit, and signaled us to take him aboard. That was done with the skiff. Assoon as he came on deck he ran to me, in his impetuous French way, gaveme a hug and a thump on the back, and exclaimed, "It is my brave boy!And he is safe! One little wound in the hand? That is nothing. Now, tellme how you made the escape."

  But at this moment my uncle came to consult the hunter, and my story wasdeferred. I learned from Baptiste later that the Indians were Crees,probably on their way south, to raid the Crow horse herds.

  By this time we had passed the island. Baptiste was just asking us tonote how high the cut-bank was from which he had jumped into the stream,when the whole party of Indians rose out of the sage-brush at the edgeof it, and with much yelling, fired their guns at us. As the distancewas three or four hundred yards, only a few of their balls struckanywhere near the boat. Uncle Wesley himself sprang to the howitzer,swung it round, tilted up the barrel, and fired it. Some of the ballsdropped into the water near the far shore, several spatted little puffsof dust out of the dry cut-bank, and others must have passed right amongthe war party. Anyway, the Indians all ducked down and ran back from thebluff. We saw no more of them.

  Ever since leaving the mouth of the Yellowstone we had been passingthrough the extraordinary formation of the Bad Lands. From this pointonward the scenery became more and more wonderful. Boy that I was, I wasso deeply impressed with the strange grandeur of it all that thesensations I experienced were at times actually oppressive. At everyturn there was something to astonish the eye. There were gleaming whiteand gray turreted castles, perched high above the stream; cities ofclustering domes and towers and minarets, all wrought by the elementsfrom sandstones of varying hardness, but all so apparently real as tosuggest that men and women in mediaeval dress might pass out of the gatesin the walls at any moment.

  We arrived at Fort Benton just ninety days after leaving Fort Union. Theflag was raised and cannon fired in our honor, and more than fivethousand Blackfeet, headed by the factor, Alexander Culbertson, and theemployees of the fort, crowded to the river-bank to give us welcome.

  I was astonished to see so many Indians. I noticed that they were tall,fine-looking men and women; that they wore beautiful garments of tannedskins; that their hair was done up in long, neat braids; that many ofthe leading men shook hands with my uncle, and seemed glad to meet him.

  My uncle introduced me to that great man, the factor, who patted mekindly on the shoulder. With him we went into the fort, where, just aswe passed through the big gate, a tall, handsome Indian woman, wearing aneat calico dress, a plaid shawl, and beautifully embroideredmoccasins, came running to us, threw her arms round my uncle, and kissedhim. I must have looked as surprised as I felt, especially when I notedthat he was very glad to meet her. Having spoken a few words to her,which I couldn't understand, he turned to me. "Thomas," he said, "thisis your aunt. I hope that you and she will become great friends."

  I was now more surprised than ever, but tried not to show it as Ianswered, "Yes, sir."

  At that the woman gave a smile that was pleasant to see, and the nextinstant she had me in her arms and was kissing me, smoothing my hair,and talking Blackfoot to me in her strangely clear and pleasant voice.My uncle interpreted. "She says that she wants to be your mother now;that she wants you to love her, to come to her for everything you need."

  I do not know just what it was,--her voice, her appearance, the motherlyfeeling of her arms round me,--but there was something about thisIndian woman that made my heart go straight out to her. I gave her handa squeeze, while tears came to my eyes as I snuggled up close to her.Right willingly I went with her and Uncle Wesley to the room in the farend of the long adobe building forming the east side of the fort, whichhe said was to be our home for a long time to come.

  It was the kind of room that gave one a restful feeling at sight.Opposite the doorway was a big fireplace of stone and adobe, with hooksabove the mantel for rifles and powder-horns and ball-pouches. Twowindows on the courtyard side afforded plenty of light. There were astrong table and comfortable chairs, all home-made. A settee coveredwith buffalo-robes was placed before the fire. A curtained set ofshelves in the corner contained the dishes and cooking-utensils. Thenorth end of the room was partitioned off for a sleeping-place. My bed,I was told, would be the buffalo-robe couch under the window at theright of the door.

  The next day my uncle took me all round the fort and made
me known tothe different employees--clerks and tailors, carpenters and blacksmiths,and the men of the trade-room. The fort was a large one, about threehundred feet square, all of adobe. Entering the front gate, you saw thatthree long buildings, of which the easterly one was two stories high,formed three sides of the quadrangle, and that a high wall containingthe gate formed the fourth, or south side, facing the river. The outerwalls of the buildings were thus the defensive walls of the fort. Theywere protected against assault by two-storied bastions, with cannon atthe southeast and northwest corners. All the tribes of the Northwesttogether could not have taken the place by assault without the loss ofthousands of their force, and they knew it.

  Before night the keel-boat was unloaded, and our trunks were brought inand unpacked. My mother's little library and my school-books filled anew set of shelves, and that evening I began, under my uncle'sdirection, a course of study and reading, preparatory to going East toschool in the following year.

  No boy ever had a happier time than I had in that fort so far beyond theborders of civilization. Day in and day out there was always somethingworth while going on. Hundreds, and often thousands, of Indians came into trade, and I found endless pleasure in mingling with them and learnedtheir language and customs. In this I was encouraged by Tsistsaki(Little Bird Woman), my uncle's wife. She had no children, and all hernatural mother love was given to me. In her way of thinking, nothingthat I did could be wrong, and the best of everything was not goodenough for me. The beautifully embroidered buckskin suits and moccasinsshe made for me fairly dazzled the eye with their blaze of color. Thesewere not for everyday wear, but I took every possible occasion forputting them on, and strutted around, the envy of all the Indian boys inthe country.

  The winter passed all too quickly. With the approach of spring my unclebegan to plan for my long trip to St. Louis, and thence to the home ofmy mother's Connecticut friend, where I was to prepare for Princeton. Isaid nothing to him, but I had many talks with my aunt-mother,Tsistsaki; and one night we poured out such a torrent of reasons why Ishould not go, ending our pleadings with tears, that he gave in to us,and agreed that I should grow up in the fur trade.

  A frequent visitor in our cozy room in the fort was a nephew ofTsistsaki, a boy several years older than I. We liked each other atsight, and every time we met we became firmer friends than ever."Friend" means much more to Indians--at least, to the Blackfeet--than itdoes to white people. Once friends, Indians are always friends. Theyalmost never quarrel. So it came to be with Pitamakan (Eagle Running)and myself.

  My uncle Wesley was as much pleased as his wife. One day he said to me,"Pitamakan is an honest, good-hearted boy, and brave, too. He gets allthat from his father, who is one of the very best and most trustworthyIndians in all this country, and from his mother, who is a woman of finecharacter. See to it that you keep his friendship."

  Except, of course, Baptiste Rondin, the hunter of the fort, Pitamakanwas almost the only one with whom I was allowed to go after the buffaloand the other game which swarmed on the plains near by. What with mydaily studies, occasional hunts, and the constant pleasure I had in thelife of the fort, time fairly flew; no day was too long. And yet, forfour years, I never once went more than five miles from the fort.

  During this time my one great desire was to go on a trip into the RockyMountains. Clearly visible from the high plains to the north and southof the river, their pine-clad slopes and sharp, bare peaks always seemedto draw me to explore their almost unknown fastnesses.

  In the fall of 1860 there came an opportunity for me to do this. TheSmall Robes band of the Blackfeet, of which Pitamakan's father, WhiteWolf (Mah-kwi'-yi ksik-si-num), was chief, outfitted at the fort for anexpedition to trap beaver along the foot of the great mountains, and,much to my surprise and delight, I was permitted to accompany them.

  At this time there were ninety lodges--about six hundred people--of theSmall Robes (I-nuk-siks) band of the Blackfeet. They had severalthousand horses, and when the moving camp was strung out on the plain,the picturesque riders, the pack-animals laden with queerly shaped,painted rawhide and leather pouches and sacks, made a pageant of movingcolor that was very impressive.

  Our first camp after leaving the fort was on the Teton River. A couchwas made up for me in White Wolf's lodge. The lodge of the plainsIndians was the most comfortable portable shelter ever devised by man.One of average size was made of sixteen large cow buffalo-hides, tannedinto soft leather, cut to shape, and sewed together with sinew thread.

  This cone-shaped "lodge skin" was stretched over tough, slender poles ofmountain-pine, and the lower edge, or skirt, was pegged so that it wasat least four inches above the ground. Within, a leather lining, firmlyweighted to the ground by the couches and household impedimenta of theoccupants, extended upward for five or six feet, where it was tied to arope that was fastened to the poles clear round. There was a space aswide as the thickness of the poles between the "skin" and the lining, sothat the cold, outside air rushing up through it created a draft for thefire, and carried the smoke out of the open space at the top. Thislining, of course, prevented the cold air from coming into the lowerpart of the lodge, so that even in the coldest weather a small fire wasenough for comfort.

  Traveling leisurely up the Teton River, we came in three or four days tothe foot of the great range. There we went into camp for several weeks,long enough for the hunters to trap most of the beavers, not only on themain stream, but on all its little tributaries. Pitamakan and I hadtwelve traps, and were partners in the pursuit of the animals.

  From the Teton we moved northward to Back-Fat Creek, now Dupuyer Creek.From there we went to the Two Medicine waters, and then on to theCut-Bank River. The trapping area of this stream was small. On the firstday of our camp there Pitamakan and I foolishly went hunting, with theresult that when, on the next day, we began looking for a place to setour traps, we found that all the beaver-ponds and bank-workings had beenoccupied by the other trappers.

  It was late in the afternoon, after we had followed up the south forkto a tremendous walled canon, where it was impossible for the beavers tomake dams and homes, that we made this discovery. Our disappointment waskeen, for from Cut-Bank the camp was to return to Fort Benton, and wehad only thirty-seven of the fifty beaver pelts that we had planned totake home with us.

  We were sitting on a well-worn trail that stretched along themountainside above the canon, when Pitamakan suddenly exclaimed:--

  "Listen to me! We will get the rest of the beaver! You see this trail?Well, it crosses this backbone of the world, and is made by theother-side people,--the Kootenays and the Flatheads,--so that they cancome over to our plains and steal our buffalo. You can see that it hasnot been used this summer. It will not be used at all now, since winteris so near. Now, down on the other side there are many streams in thegreat forest, and no doubt there are beavers in them. We will go overthere to-morrow, and in a few days' trapping we will catch enough tomake up the number we set out to get."

  This plan seemed good to me, and I said so at once. We left the traps onthe trail and started to camp, to prepare for an early start in themorning. We decided to say nothing to any one of our intentions, toWhite Wolf least of all, lest he should forbid our going.

  At dusk we picketed near camp two horses that we selected for the trip,and during the evening we refilled our powder-horns and ball-pouches tothe neck. Rising the next morning before any of the others were awake,and each taking a heavy buffalo-robe from our bedding, we quietly leftthe lodge, saddled and mounted our horses, and rode away. Some driedmeat and buffalo back fat taken from the lodge furnished us asubstantial breakfast.

  The trail was plain and easy to follow. We picked up the traps, andmounting steadily, arrived at the extreme summit of the great range notlong after midday. From where we stood, the trail ran slightly downward,along a narrow divide, across to the next mountain. The south side ofthe divide was a sheer drop of several thousand feet. The top was anarrow, jagged knife of rock, along which a man could
not have passed onfoot. On the north side the sharp reef dropped almost precipitously to anarrow and exceedingly steep slope of fine shale rock, which terminatedat the edge of a precipice of fearful depth.

  It was along this shale slope that the trail ran, but there were nosigns of it now, for the tracks of the last horses that passed had beenfilled. Even while we stood there, small particles of shale wereconstantly rolling and tinkling down it and off into abysmal space.Shuddering, I proposed that we turn back, but Pitamakan made light ofthe danger.

  "I have been here before, and know what to do," he said. "I can make itso that we can safely cross it."

  With a long, thin and narrow slab of rock he began gouging a trail outof the steep slide. The small and the large pieces of detritus which hedislodged rattled off the edge of the cliff, but strain my ears as Imight, I could not hear them strike bottom. It was fully a hundred yardsacross this dangerous place, but Pitamakan soon made his way along it,and back to me.

  His path seemed more fit for coyotes than for horses, but he insistedthat it was wide enough, and started leading his animal out on it. Therewas nothing for me to do but to follow with mine. When part way across,my horse's hind feet broke down the little path, and he went with thesliding shale for several feet, all the time madly pawing to get back onthe sound portion on which I stood. When I tried to help him by pullingon the lead-rope, the shale began sliding under my feet. At that,Pitamakan, starting to run with his horse, shouted to me to do the same.

  For the rest of the way across, the strain on me and my animal waskilling. We tore out all trace of the path in our efforts to keep fromgoing down and off the slide. Wherever we put down our feet the shalestarted slipping, and the struggle to climb faster than it slippedexhausted our strength. When finally we did reach the firm rock where mycompanion stood waiting, we were utterly fatigued and dripping withsweat.

  Pitamakan's face was ashy gray from the strain of watching my struggles.He drew me to him, and I could feel him trembling, while he said, in achoking voice, "Oh, I thought you would never get here, and I just hadto stand and look, unable to help you in any way! I didn't know. Ishould have made a wider, firmer path."

  We sat down, and he told me about this pass: that after the winter snowscame neither man nor horse could cross it, since the least movementwould start the snow sliding. Three Blackfeet had once lost their livesthere. In that manner, the avalanche which they loosened had swept themwith it over the cliff, to the horror of their comrades who stoodlooking on. Upon our return, he said, he would make a safe path there,if it took him all day to finish the task.

  Soon we went on, turned the shoulder of the twin mountain, and felt thatwe had come into another world. Near by there were some tremendouspeaks, some of them covered with great fields of ice, which I learnedlater were true glaciers.

  In other ways, too, this west side was different from the east side ofthe Rockies. As far as we could see there were no plains, only onegreat, dark, evergreen forest that covered the slopes of the mountainsand filled the endless valleys. Here, too, the air was different; it wasdamp and heavy, and odorous of plants that grow in moist climates.

  Working our way from ledge to ledge down the mountain, we came, towardsunset, to what my friend called the Salt Springs. Farther west thanthis point he had never been.

  Early the next morning we pushed on, for we were anxious to reach thelow valleys where the beavers were to be found.

  Still following the trail, we struck, about mid-afternoon, a largestream bordered with alder, cottonwood, and willow, the bark of which isthe beaver's favorite food. There were some signs of the animals here,but as we expected to find them more plentiful farther down, we kept onuntil nearly sundown, when we came to a fine grass meadow bordering thenow larger river. Here was feed for the horses; in a pond at the upperend of the meadow there were five beaver lodges.

  "Here is the place for us," said Pitamakan. "Let us hurry and picket thehorses, and kill a deer; night is at hand."

  We started to ride into the timber to unsaddle, when we heard a heavytrampling and crackling of sticks off to the left of the beaver-pond,and so sat still, rifles ready, expecting to see a band of elk come intothe open.

  A moment later thirty or forty Indians, men, women, and children, rodeinto the meadow. Perceiving us, the men whipped up their horses and cameracing our way.

  "They are Kootenays! It is useless to fire at them, or to run!"Pitamakan exclaimed. "I do not think they will harm us. Anyhow, lookbrave; pretend that you are not afraid."

  The men who surrounded us were tall and powerfully built. For whatseemed to me an endless time, they sat silently staring, and notingevery detail of our outfit. There was something ominous in theirbehavior; there came to me an almost uncontrollable impulse to make amove of some kind. It was their leader who broke the suspense."_In-is-saht!_" (Dismount!) he commanded, in Blackfoot, and wereluctantly obeyed.

  At that they all got off their horses, and then at word from the chief,each crowding and pushing to be first, they stripped us of everything wehad. One man got my rifle; another the ammunition; another snatched offmy belt, with its knife, and the little pouch containing flint, steel,and punk, while the chief and another, who seemed to be a great warrior,seized the ropes of our horses. And there we were, stripped ofeverything that we possessed except the clothes we stood in.

  At that the chief broke out laughing, and so did the rest. Finally,commanding silence, he said to us, in very poor Blackfoot:--

  "As you are only boys, we will not kill you. Return to your chief, andtell him that we keep our beaver for ourselves, just as the plainspeople keep the buffalo for themselves. Now go."

  There was nothing to do but obey him, and we started. One man followedus a few steps, and struck Pitamakan several blows across the back withhis whip. At that my friend broke out crying; not because of the pain,but because of the terrible humiliation. To be struck by any one was thegreatest of all insults; and my friend was powerless to resent it.

  Looking back, we saw the Kootenays move on through the meadow anddisappear in the timber. Completely dazed by our great misfortune, wemechanically took our back trail, and seldom speaking, walked on and on.When night came, rain began to fall and the wind rose to a gale in thetreetops. At that Pitamakan shook his head, and said, dejectedly, "Atthis season rain down here means snow up on top. We must make strongmedicine if we are ever to see our people again."

  Hungry and without food or weapons for killing any game, wet and withoutshelter or any means of building a fire, we certainly were in aterrible plight. Worse still, if it was snowing on the summit, if winterhad really set in, we must inevitably perish. I remembered hearing theold trappers say that winter often began in October in the RockyMountains; and this day was well on in November! "Pitamakan! We are notgoing to survive this!" I cried.

  For answer, he began singing the coyote song, the Blackfoot hunter'sprayer for good luck. It sounded weird and melancholy enough there inthe darkening forest.