CHAPTER XXVI
COUNTRY OF THE NORTH PIEGANS
We stayed several days in the camp of the Bloods, to rest our tired horses and to visit the family of One Spot. The Bloods were fine-looking Indians, both men and women. But they were not popular with other tribes. They were proud and considered themselves the aristocrats of the plains.
The night before we left their camp we picketed our horses close and made ready for an early start. In hot summer weather, early morning is the best time to travel on the plains.
We broke camp before sunrise and followed the shore of the river, looking for a place to ford. The crossing of a broad, swift river is always hazardous, because of washouts, hidden boulders, and stumbling horses. We rode through thickets of poplars and willows. Under the trees lay the golden light of early morning, with purple shadows. Light mists floated along the banks of the river. From the grass and bushes hung countless gems of sparkling dew. Everything was fresh and blooming, the buds and leaves, flowers and perfumes. The fragrant breath of the morning came through thickets, with odors of balsam poplar and wild flowers. Butterflies rested on the first wild roses, bees hummed in the air. Fragrant primroses were in blossom, wild hollyhocks, purple fleabane and the large-flowered agoseris.
When we forded the river, I did not hurry my horse, but let him take his time, holding his head a little upstream, to avoid the full force of the rushing water, bending my body to help him in his balance and fixing my eyes on the top of his head, to keep from getting dizzy in the rapid current.
Out on the open prairie the birds were calling; near and far the air was filled with their songs. Chestnut-collared longspurs were climbing high into the blue sky, then fluttering slowly to the ground, always against the wind, singing their cheerful rippling song. I heard the calls of ducks and the choruses of prairie chickens, repeating it over and over, the strange cries of cranes as they soared high overhead, and the voices of curlew, killdeer, and Western meadow-larks.
Then we climbed to the summit of a ridge and saw before us a great table-land, bounded on the north and west by high hills and distant mountains. It was part in light and part in shadow, with the golden sun rising over a bank of clouds in the east and shining on the snowy peaks of the Rockies in the west—a wide expanse and without any sign of life.
We took an old Indian trail, which was known to Onesta. It led us across a plateau and into a hill country, where the sun shone in a clear sky and the heat was intense. As the day advanced, the sun beat down with ever-increasing heat. My thermometer registered ninety-eight degrees in the shade and a hundred and thirty in the sun.
At mid-day we stopped on the shore of a lake, to let our horses feed on the rich grass. The women made a shelter from the sun by spreading canvas over a tripod of poles, with the sides raised for the wind to blow through.
As we rested under our comfortable shelter, Onesta called my attention to swallows hovering over our horses to get hairs for lining their nests, and to grasshoppers flying high in the air, saying:
“Their wings have no color until they fly into the sunlight; it makes them red, yellow, and black.”
He taught me a song by which he made some sandpipers dance on the shore of the lake. He clapped his hands and sang:
“Ik-sis-a-kuyi! Ik-sis-a-kuyi!” (Meat! Meat!)
He showed me a wild rose bush that was covered with the webs of tent caterpillars; and made them dance by beating time with his hands and singing:
“Ko-me-os-cha! Ko-me-os-cha!” (Worms! Worms!)
At first the caterpillars lay perfectly still. But, after he sang a few moments, they began to wake up and move slowly. Then they all stood up and waved their heads to and fro, dancing as long as Onesta continued his song.
When the heat had passed, we harnessed our horses and moved on, following a trail that led upwards toward the mountains. While making our way slowly, Onesta and Nitana began chanting a religious song in unison. I rode closer and joined them in their song.
Then Onesta explained that it was customary to sing on entering a strange country, as a prayer to the Sun for a safe journey and for protection against the magical arts of its people. On this occasion, he said they were also praying for my success among the North Piegans.
Finally, we gained the summit of a massive ridge of the prairie, which overlooked the country of the North Piegans—a broad river valley with green meadows and groves of cottonwood trees. On the undulating hillsides herds of cattle and horses were feeding. And, as far as the eye could reach, the river rolled eastward from the base of the Rockies, gleaming in the sunlight like a ribbon of silver.
Nestled among the groves of green trees in the valley, I saw a number of white Indian tepees, with blue smoke rising from their tops. North lay the Porcupine Hills covered with forests of pine; west, the snow peaks of the mountains. Onesta said the hills were called “Porcupine,” because the bristling trees on their ridges look like the quills on a porcupine’s back.
THE COUNTRY OF THE NORTH PIEGANS
The Rocky Mountains in the distance
He pointed to some rocks on the prairie and said: “A big grizzly once lived in a cave there. Now many kinds of berries grow around it, from the seeds carried there by that bear.” He showed me a mountain in the main range of the Rockies, with a great landslide on its eastern slope, and said:
“We call it ‘Lodge-Lining-Mountain,’ because it looks like the inside lining of a lodge. The river that rises there is named after Old Man; and in the mountains near its source is Old Man’s sliding place and the place where he gambled.” On our way down from the summit, we met some young men of the North Piegans, who were watching over their tribal herds of horses and cattle. One of them, the son of Crow Eagle, a famous chief, rode with us. He was hospitable and invited us to his camp. But Onesta told him we were going to visit Brings-Down-the-Sun, the medicine man. Before the young chief left us, he pointed out the camp we were seeking, among some big trees on the north side of the river.
Then we crossed a table-land, which rose gradually from the river, and descended into the valley. On the face of the hills and in little ravines were clusters of chokecherry bushes, bearing a fruit like a wild cherry, only larger and better flavored. I saw a coyote standing motionless in a ravine, but it was only for a moment; because of his protective coloring, I quickly lost sight of him.
The river valley, with its fragrant masses of flowers, thickets, and shady trees, seemed like a Promised Land, after the heat and dust of the plains. A soft wind blew over the meadows, bearing odors of wild flowers and ripened grasses. Wild roses were in bloom, sky-blue forget-me-nots, purple geraniums, yellow clusters of puccoon and rose-colored heads of horsemint, called “manekape” (young man) by the Blackfoot. They used its blossoms for inflammation of the eyes.
We followed a trail through rich meadows, and thickets of aspen and willows; and then entered one of those beautiful groves of cottonwood timber, that are sometimes found along the larger rivers of the prairies. Finally we stopped in an open meadow densely sheltered by poplars and willows and canopied by wide-spreading cottonwood trees. Through the thick foliage I saw the gleam of white Indian tepees. It was the camp of Brings-Down-the-Sun, the medicine man, and the end of our journey. Here he lived surrounded by his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
I saw a group of women and children on a high cliff overlooking the valley. They had been watching our approach, their figures sharply outlined against the deep blue sky. Onesta recognized one of the women as Long Hair, favorite daughter of Brings-Down-the-Sun. Her long black hair was flying in the wind; she had a baby on her back and a group of children clinging to her skirts.
Then the venerable figure of the patriarch chieftain came from one of the lodges. With hand shading his eyes, he stood under a cottonwood tree and gazed intently at our outfit. He recognized his nephew, Onesta, and welcomed us saying:
“My children, I am glad in my heart that you have come to visit my camp.”
I went closer and saw that he was an old man, with long gray hair falling in waves over his shoulders. He had high cheek bones, and clean-cut Indian features. In his face were deep lines, as though he were burdened with care and responsibility. He wore a bright-colored blanket wrapped closely around him, a red band across his forehead and encircling his head. His tall figure was bent with age; but he had a keen and penetrating gaze, and the dignified bearing of a chief who was accustomed to command.
He stood a moment without speaking, and then he said:
“You may pitch your lodges close to mine if you wish. But the best place to camp is in the open meadow. Sometimes heavy winds come, which break the big trees. If you should be camped underneath in a storm, some of the branches might fall and do you harm. Take your horses to feed on the hills beyond the valley, where the grass is more nourishing. You will find a cold spring on the north side of the meadow with good water to drink.”
Thus he spoke and disappeared into his tepee, while we made ready to camp, choosing a place among the big trees, near the camp of the old medicine man; and there we unloaded our wagons.
Soon the women of the North Piegans, Bird, the wife of Brings-Down-the-Sun, with her daughter, Long Hair, and daughters-in-law, came bearing presents. It was always interesting to watch the exchange of presents by the women. On this occasion, Nitana received an old pot, a bag of dried beans, a big knife, and a copper kettle. She gave in return two blankets, two pairs of moccasins, and some mineral paints. Such articles, which might seem of little value to white men, were cherished by Indian women.
That evening we had an invitation from Brings-Down-the-Sun to eat with him in his tepee. So at sunset, in company with Little Creek and Onesta, I walked along a well-worn trail that led among the cottonwoods to the camp of the North Piegans. Near the lodge of the chief, we came upon a charming picture of a happy and contented Indian family.
A bright fire burned under the big trees, sending a shower of golden sparks into the air, lighting up the white lodges with their clusters of tapering poles and shining on the massive trunks and green foliage of the cottonwoods. Gathered round the fire were women and girls dressed in bright colors, busily at work, cooking, making moccasins and clothes; groups of children were at play—all were merry and light-hearted.
A baby hammock was stretched between two trees, the mother rocking it gently and singing a cradle song. But the approach of a strange white man changed this peaceful scene abruptly. A barking dog rushed suddenly out, and a woman shouted:
“Puks-i-put! Kops-ksisse!” (Come back! Swollen Nose!)
For a moment the merry throng was silent; and then quickly vanished.