Campfire Stories of Indian Qiaracter 509 



was benevolent and kindly, not less sweet and gentle was 

 the spirit that animated the man. Simple, honest, generous, 

 tender-hearted, and yet withal on occasion merry and jolly. 

 Such men, once known, commanded universal respect and 

 admiration. They were like the conventional notion of 

 Indians in nothing save in the color of the skin. They 

 were true friends, delightful companions, wise counselors 

 — men whose conduct toward their f ellowmen we all 

 might profitably imitate. We do not commonly attribute 

 a spirit of altruism to Indians, but it was seen in these old- 

 time chiefs. 



Such a chief was White Calf, long chief of the Blackfeet. 

 In his day he had been a famous warrior, and in the battle 

 which took place in 1867, when the great chief, Many 

 Horses, was killed, White Calf with two others had rushed 

 into a great crowd of the enemy — the Crows and Gros- 

 Ventres — who were trying to kill Wolf Calf, even then an 

 old man, and, scattering them like smoke before the wind, 

 had pulled the old man out of the crush and brought him 

 safely off. It was not long after this that he put aside the 

 warpath forever, and since then had confined himself to 

 working for the good of his people by the arts of peace. 

 No sacrifice was too great for him to make if he thought 

 that by it the tribe might be helped; yet he possessed a 

 sturdy independence that bullying and intimidation could 

 not move — even that threats of soldiers and the guard 

 house could not shake. When he was sure that he was right 

 he could not be stirred. Yet, if reasons were advanced 

 which appealed to his judgment, no man was qmcker to 

 acknowledge error. 



Though nearly eighty years old the chief was not bowed 

 with the weight of time nor were his natural forces greatly 

 abated. He was still erect and walked with a briskness 

 and an elasticity rare for one of his years. Yet in a degree 



