CHAPTER XIX
THE MAD INDIAN
Next morning there was a below-zero temperature inside the cabin. The stove was as cold as ice; and the kettle, which was boiling when I went to bed, was frozen solid. I built a fire and cooked breakfast—bacon, potatoes, and rutabagas. The wounded Yellow Bird lay gloomily in bed. Then I fed the cows and calves in the sheds. Many of the chickens were frozen in their snug house underground. The cats, which lived in the cattle-sheds, were like savage beasts. When I drew off my gloves to feed them, a cat sprang at my hand and fastened its teeth in my thumb. They fought over the meat and tore it with snarls.
I found our two dogs in a deep hole under the haystack. One named Red Rover showed his fangs and slunk away. He was wild and suspicious by nature; his father was a coyote and while young he ran with a coyote pack. But after I fed him, he watched for my coming. He was no longer afraid and became my faithful friend.
Kutenai, my saddle horse, I kept in the cattle-shed. Every day he liked to play in the corral, trying to escape me by running, until I swung myself on his bare back and we went for a swift gallop in the pasture, where the snow had been trampled by the cattle.
From early morning until night I was busy, feeding the crippled Yellow Bird and the live stock and chopping wood for the hungry stove. I cooked three meals a day and washed the dishes; baked bread and swept the cabin; shoveled snow and kept the ford at the river open for horses and cattle to drink.
Every afternoon near sunset, I fed the big cattle herd, chopping hay from the frozen stack and carrying it to them in the pasture. I had narrow escapes on foot from wild steers trying to kick the hay from my fork; and from cows with calves—sometimes they drove me on a run to the fence.
I tried to save time in the feeding, by scattering the hay in long windrows near the stack. But this only gave me more trouble. When the hungry cattle saw me spreading hay on the other side of the fence, they began to bellow and paw the snow. A steer tried to get over the fence, but stuck in the middle; another followed; and then the entire herd made a rush through the fence. I had to saddle my horse to drive them away from the stack.
One cold night, when Yellow Bird and I sat smoking with our feet against the stove, we heard a strange thumping against the cabin wall, at the back of the kitchen. Yellow Bird was afraid and showed it. He had a superstitious dread of the mysterious, of big storms and of going about in the dark. I was not superstitious by nature; yet I had a queer feeling when that mysterious sound began again.
Something struck the cabin and was followed by a rhythmic beating against the outside wall. The weather was cold, but windless. When the sound died away there was silence. I got up and peered through the frost-covered window. Yellow Bird quickly blew out the light. At that moment the same thought came to both of us—it was the Mad Indian. He had come to get a shot at us. People were afraid on both sides of the line, in Alberta and Montana. Ever since the fall we had been hearing blood-curdling tales. He came silently in the dark and shot people who stood in the light; outside he stabbed them with a long knife.
We got our rifles and held them ready, standing in the shadow, away from the glow of the fire, expecting any moment to hear a shot, to feel the sting of a bullet, or to see a wild face at the window. But nothing happened and we got tired of waiting; we hung blankets over the windows and went to bed.
Then came another blow that shook the cabin. I sat up to listen; Yellow Bird made no sound; he did not move in his bed. After the mysterious beating had died away, I was no longer afraid; even a mad Indian would not wait so long in the snow and bitter cold.
So I put on my heavy socks and coat and, taking my rifle, went cautiously to the door and waited. When the sound came again, I opened the door and ran to the back of the cabin. An animal, the size of a large cat, bounded away in the dark. It went so fast I had no time to shoot. Then, under the roof and hanging from the outside cabin-wall, I found the mangled body of a goose, which we had left there forgotten. Beneath the goose hung a long timber-saw. When the starving cat jumped at the carcass, it clung with teeth and claws and struggled, thus moving the big saw, which made the rhythmical beating.
A mounted policeman, an Indian named Many Guns, came to our cabin for shelter from the blizzard. He entered without a word and for a while sat silently by the fire. Then he said abruptly, “I came from the north. I had a bad trip.”
We gave him food, and after a smoke he spoke again:
“My horse is worn out and my arm is frozen. Yesterday I crossed the Hudson Bay Divide; the snow lies in terrible drifts. My horse broke through the ice in crossing a river. I nearly froze to death. But some Indians helped me. Out there they starve; their food is nearly gone.”
That night Many Guns, one of the Indian Mounted Police, told us about his north journey. He said:
STORY OF THE MAD INDIAN
“In the autumn, I went across the line to hunt Opiowan, a Blood Indian. He killed many people, both Indian and white. He was once a peaceful man who lived with his two wives. The youngest, Pretty Wolverine, was his favorite. They were happy until a former lover of the youngest wife came to their lodge. Then Opiowan was jealous. He warned the man to stay away.
“One day the husband told his wives he was going away on a journey. But he did not go far. He hid and watched his tepee. He saw the lover and his youngest wife go together into the woods. The husband followed and caught them. He killed that rival and mutilated him with his knife; but he did not harm the woman. He told her to go home; and then he went on his journey. Soon the body of the lover was found by the North-West Mounted Police; but no one knew the murderer.
“Then Opiowan came home and lived with his wives as formerly. But he was afraid and did not want to see any one.
“And what was the cause of his fear?” I asked
“He was afraid of everything,” said Many Guns. “At night he kept seeing the face of the man he killed and could not sleep. He believed every one was against him; he trembled at every sound—the barking of a dog, a running horse. He was afraid of the police, and whenever he heard the sound of hoofs near his tepee, he wanted to hide. He thought he was going mad; he no longer cared to live. Then he made a vow, that he would kill as many people as he could before he died. He told his wives he would die fighting like a brave warrior.
“One night he went to the cabin of a white man. He shot him through the window as he stood in the light. He saw him fall; he sang his war-song and danced; he painted his face and started on the warpath; he was ready to die.
“He made his wives take down their tepee and they fled to the mountains. From a cliff he saw the Mounted Police who had come to take him. He escaped with both his wives and they hid in the forest. They went north along the mountains. Whenever they got hungry, Opiowan took all the food he wanted from Indian camps. One night he stole into a white settlement near the foot of the mountains. He shot a white man and took all the ammunition he could get. The police followed his trail, but he escaped into the hills.
“By this time it was the end of autumn, and winter came quickly with cold and deep snow. But Opiowan was always on the move. He had a way of shooting people through cabin windows, as they stood in the light. He was like a myth. He was said to be in many places at the same time, and to travel miraculous distances.
“But, one night a heavy snow fell in the mountains and his wives left him. They fled to an Indian camp on the plains. Then Opiowan was driven from the mountains by cold and hunger. He came to the tepee of his brother in the Blood camp. His brother took him in and tried to hide him. But the Mounted Police trailed the murderer and surrounded the camp. Then Opiowan the Mad Indian killed himself. He cut his wrists with an awl and bled to death; and that is the end of my story.”
Not till then was the feeling of dread removed from the people both Indian and white who lived near the border-line, on the lonely prairies and in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. The tales about him may have been exaggerated but the story of the Mounted Policeman proved that the Mad Indian was not a myth.