142 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[March 18, 1888. 



TO THE WALLED-W LAKES. 



XV.— A CHRISTENING. 



fJVHAT evening I had some conversation with Major Allen 

 about the management of the agency, and among other 

 things he spoke of the Indian police. Of these there are 

 twenty-three, appointed by the agent, who receive $8 per 

 month, and wear a uniform and a shield badge. Their 

 duties are to keep order in the camp and to make such ar- 

 rests as the agent may direct. They are chosen from among 

 the best men in the tribe. When enrolled they are made to 

 understand tbat every man in the service of the United 

 States is obliged to take an oath to obey the laws. This is 

 the form which these Piegans use: "The Sun is good;" as 

 they say this they point to the sun. "The earth is good," 

 pointing to the ground. "I will obey the orders of my chief 

 that I may lire long with my family." 



Major Allen gave me a detailed narrative of the terrible 

 condition of affairs at the agency when he reached here in 

 March, 1884, some account of which has already been pub- 

 lished in Forest and Stream. He speaks of the Indians 

 as now doing well. They are willing to work, but sadly 

 need instruction. A number of competent farmers and 

 mechanics, say one to every twenty-five families, should be 

 appointed to teach these people how to work to the best ad- 

 vantage. Their will is good but they are very ignorant. 



The next morning as we were sitting in the trader's store 

 old Nei-su Ki-yu (Pour Bears), the camp orator, came in and 

 began to tell us about the pursuit of the horse thieves by the 

 Pegunny. All through the previous day warriors on broken 

 down horses had been coming into camp, some of them driv- 

 ing before them other animals from the stolen herd which 

 had been unable to keep up and been left behind by the 

 thieves . These, of course, were the least valuable of those 

 stolen. 



The last Indians who had come in the night before had 

 reported that when they had turned back the trail was very 

 fresh, and that before they were out of sight the fugitives 

 had fired the prairie, and they heard distant shots as if a 

 fight were taking place. All this Four Bears explained at 

 great length and with such expressive gestures that I caught 

 the sense of what he was saying even though I did not com- 

 prehend his word. He is a born orator, has an unending 

 flow of words, a sweetly musical voice, and his gestures are 

 wonderfully graceful and telling. After he had finished 

 telling us about the war party he proceeded to enlarge on the 

 strength of his "medicine" and to explain what wonderful 

 feats of magic he was capable of. He said that if he wanted 

 to he could step out of doors and open his side and have a 

 wagon roll out from between his ribs on to the prairie. "If 

 I go to war," said he, "I cannot be hurt. Even if the bullets 

 hit me they will not go through my skin, they will glance 

 off. I cannot be hurt by them." 



"Come," he continued, "I will show you something which 

 is medicine." He spoke to one of the children, who ran 

 into the living room and returned in a moment with a glass 

 of water and a whistle made from the leg bone of a beaver, 

 and gave them to the old man, who led the way out of doors, 

 behind the store. Here he put the water and the whistle on 

 the ground, and facing about, took off his cap and gazed 

 steadfastly at the sun. In a moment or two he began to pray 

 earnestly in a low voice, and presently opening his mouth 

 wide he seemed to breathe in the sunlight and then stretch 

 upward his open hands to grasp the rays of light and pass 

 them over his head and breast and arms. Then he took the 

 whistle in one hand and raising the glass of water to his 

 mouth and immersing the end of the whistle in the water, 

 he blew a few shrill notes. Now putting down the whistle 

 he took a swallow of the water, and then taking a mouthful 

 of it blew it in fine spray toward the sun. Then he made a 

 motion as if vomiting into his hand, which he at once held 

 out to me, open and palm up. It was wet but there was 

 nothing in it, Again he took a mouthful of the water and 

 went through the same performance, and showed me his 

 hand wet, but empty. A third time this was repeated, and 

 I saw something fall from his mouth into his hand, and when 

 he held it out to me there lay on the palm a spherical body 

 perhaps three-quarters of an inch in diameter, which looked 

 like a polished pebble of clouded whitish quartz. After 

 allowing me to inspect it for nearly a minute, he returned it 

 to his mouth, look a mouthful of water, and apparently 

 swallowed it, choking a little bit in the act as if it was too 

 large to pass down easily. Mr. Kipp examined his mouth, 

 and there was no foreign body in it. Evidently he had swal- 

 lowed it. We had been watching him closely for an hour 

 and he had had no opportunity to put this object into his 

 mouth in that time, and it did not seem that he could have 

 had it there during the whole time that he had been talking 

 to us. He did something very similar to this recently in Mr. 

 Kipp's presence; but in this case the objects disgorged were 

 three or four in number and were much smaller, perhaps 

 one-quarter inch in diameter, and looked like hailstones. 



I thought the exhibition worth a present, and going into 

 the store got a plug of tobacco, which I put in my pocket. 

 As I came out again Four Bears asked Mr. Kipp who I was, 

 and he replied that I came from the end of the world, from 

 the edge of the salt water. After a little more talk Four 

 Bears said, "Come, lwill give him a name. Long ago I 

 named White Bull Calf [Mr. TJpham], and now I will name 

 my son, your friend who comes from where the world meets 

 the salt water." 



Stenoins: un to me he took my hand, and leading me out 



of the shadow faced me about so that I looked toward the 

 sun. He threw his cap on the ground and I my hat. Then 

 he prayed, saying: 



"Oh Sun, oh Old Man, look down. Have pity. Look 

 upon this my son and me. Let us live. Listen. Many 

 years ago, when I was a young man, I went upon the top 

 of the Sweet Grass Buttes, where all the Indians are afraid 

 to go, and stayed there long fasting. And while I slept my 

 medicine [secret helper] said to me, 'Take the name Pe-nut- 

 u-ye is Uim-o-kan [Fisher Cap, i. e., a cap made from the 

 skin of a fisher], that is what you shall be called.' For 

 many years I bore this name, but now I am getting old, and 

 before long I must die. I do not longer need this name, and 

 now I give it to this my son. Pity him. Give him long life. 

 Keep him from all dangers of every kind. When he goes 

 into battle let all the bullets miss him, or, if any of them 

 must hit him, let them glance off from his body. Care for him 

 and let live. Make him strong. Let his children live very 

 long and have plenty. Hear, Sun ; hear, Old Man ; pity, pity. " 



As he began his prayer he stretched out his right hand 

 and made as if grasping the sunlight, which he spread slowly 

 over my head on either side, and down over my shoulders, 

 arms and breast. Then he said tome, "That is what you 

 are called — Pe-?iut-u-ye is-tdm-o kan." The prayer was ut- 

 tered with a fervor and earnestness that quite compelled my 

 respect. 



After the ceremony was concluded 1 gave Four Bears the 

 tobacco, which he accepted very pleasantly, aud when, after 

 a little further conversation, he learned that I was going to 

 write down an account of it, he expressed a desire to write 

 his name in my notebook. This he did by making his mark, 

 and I here present the signature as a sort of certificate of 

 baptism from him. 



his 



Nei-su Ki-vtj. 



mark 



These were busy days at the agency. The last of the 

 crops were being harvested, and all the white men about the 

 stockade and every Indian who could be pressed into the 

 service were busily engaged either in hauling the grain or 

 tending the threshing machine. The Indians work hard and 

 faithfully, but, as might be imagined, they did not always 

 put forth their exertions to the best advantage. Everywhere 

 there was seen the need of more instructors. 



After watching for some time the progress of the work, 

 and spending a pleasant hour or two within the stockade at 

 the hospitable home of Major Allen, three of us drove over 

 to the bluffs and the south side of the valley of Badger 

 Creek to look at some of the many graves which stand there. 

 In old times the Pegunny, like many other plains races of 

 Indians, buried their dead on scaffolds placed among the 

 boughs of trees, or sometimes merely raised on poles, as are 

 the graves of the Sioux. Such burial places are naturally 

 most common along the rivers, because it is along the streams 

 that the trees grow. There are many such burial places 

 along the Marias River, and the Piegan name of the St. 

 Mary's River is Ah-klnm-kwo-na. This is often translated 

 the River of the Dead; but a better interpretation of it is 

 Many Chiefs Dead. Ah-kl is a contraction of Ah-kwl-im= 

 plenty; n us-kico=the scaffold or platform upon which the 

 bodies of the dead are placed, and nd is a contraction of the 

 word ne nah=a. chief ; so that the full idea of the name 

 would be the place where many chiefs are on their scaffolds. 



Efforts have been made at the agency to induce the Indians 

 to give up their primitive mode of burial, and during the 

 famine winter many of those who perished were buried in 

 coffins in or on top of the ground. Often the hole excavated 

 was barely deep enough to contain the coffin, so that its lid 

 was level with the ground. Over some of these two or three 

 inches of dirt had been piled which had been partly washed 

 away by the rain. Here and there skeletons of two or three 

 horses would be seen lying on the ground by the grave of 

 some more important or wealthy man. As a rule these latter 

 were placed on the higher bluffs bordering the valley, and 

 the coffins were placed on the ground, while on them were 

 piled blankets and robes, and in the case of medicine men, 

 their bear pipes and other magical implements. 



After death the spirits of the departed— their shadows the 

 Pegunny call them— -go to the sand hills. This is a barren, 

 hilly country near Medicine Hat, and beyond that to the 

 northward. Here too go all the spirits of the animals which 

 die, and upon these the shadows feed. 



Our stay at the agency drew to a close, and late one after- 

 noon we bade a cordial farewell to all those who had been so 

 kind to us, and Appekunny and I drove off over the level val- 

 ley, climbed the long hill, and turning, took our last view of 

 the interesting spot. Then a few days later I bade farewell 

 to Appekunny and started for the East. 



I had spent but a short time at the Walled-in-Lakes, and 

 had accomplished but little in the way of shooting and fish- 

 ing, yet I felt that the long journey had been well worth 

 taking. In an experience of the western country extending 

 over many years, I can recall but two trips that were so 

 pleasant and so profitable as this one had been. Of the mar- 

 vellously interesting features of the region I have tried to 

 tell, and if I have failed, it is in part because their grandeur 

 is too surpassing to be adequately treated by my pen. 



The last nights in camp are to me rather sad, full of 

 memories in which the bitter and sweet are oddly com- 

 mingled. There is pain at leaving so much that is delight- 



ful, melancholy in the reflection that one more year is taken 

 from the sum of one's happiest days. But the recollection 

 of these days and their joys is full of pleasure. 



Each year it is harder for me to turn my back on all that is 

 left of the happy free life of the olden time. The return to 

 civilization is like the return to hi3 dungeon of a prisoner 

 who has been shown a glimpse of freedom. The mountain 

 life of to-day i3 not the life of twenty, nor even of ten years 

 ago, and now there is mingled with the pleasure of my tem- 

 porary independence an undercurrent of sadness. I regret 

 the changes that have come and others that I sec near at 

 hand. It is useless to feel these regrets — still more useless 

 to express them, but old men will still be talking, and you 

 will have but little more of my garrulity to endure just 

 now. 



So my camps for another year are at an end. The old rifle has 

 had its final cleaning and is put away, the knife is rusting in 

 its sheath. The story of my summer is at an end, and as I 

 have so often done before, I close the note book and say 

 good-bye. Yo- 



THE HUNTER'S VOW. 



\V/"HERE the peaks pierce the home of the storms, 



" * And stretch in their grandeur divine, 

 Tumultuous, mountainous forms 



Along the Canadian line; 

 'Mid the. hills where the waters divide. 



Some guif wards beginning their flow, 

 Or on the Saskatchewan's side. 



Rushing north to the infinite snow, 

 Where lie, looking up to the skies, 



Blue lakes ringed with precipice walls, 

 Earth's solemn, unchangeable eyes, 



Whose curtaining lid never falls; 

 There, weary of desK and of pen, 



I wandered the free hills to tread 

 And find, among primitive men, 



The rest that from cities has fled. 



The whirling mist had wrapped the peaks, 



A long day's fruitless labor done 

 Was ended by the angry streaks 



That showed where sank the stormy sun. 

 My mountain Indian's tireless stride , 



Had left me panting- far behind. 

 I shouted. Only rocks replied 



With echoes drowned by whistling wind. 

 At length I found our upward track, 



And stumbling, falling, wet and chill, 

 I traced the faint marks slowly back, 



Till in tall woods the wind grew still. 

 Only the boughs, swayed overhead. 



Droned out their deep iEolian air, 

 And startled from his leafy bed, 



Rustled away some half -seen hare. 

 Then, lightening through the deep rich gloom. 



Our camp-fire flashed a yellow star, 

 And homely smells, like rich perfume, 



Caught my starved senses from afar. 

 "What luck?" they cried, as I drew near. 



'•Where are the spoils that hunters bring? 

 At least the saddle of a deer 



Should answer for your rifle's ring." 

 '•I've fired no shot this live-long day. 



My gun is clean. My stomach's light. 

 Just pass the venison this way. 



The game will suffer most at night." 

 The man was feeble, and the jest 



Was weaker still. They passed it by. 

 And soon refreshed, I lay at rest 



Watching my smoke wreaths float and die. 

 Stretched out toward the grateful heat, 



In broken speech, my half-breed guide 

 Tells, beside many a venturous feat, 



Fables by long time sanctified. 

 And from his wakened memory pour 



Grim tales of famine, fight and chase. 

 And fragments of that mystic lore 



Nurse of the youth of every race. 

 Child stories full of shapeless dream, 



Where homely facts of daily life 

 Flow, mixed with marvel in a stream 



Of nightmare-like, chaotic strife. 

 Good Indians, skilled in magic rites, 



Still foil by wonder-working plan 

 That wicked King of evil sprites, 



The strong, malicious, sly "Old Man." 

 And through the gloom of caverns dark 



And deserts wild, the story flows 

 To music of the coyotes bark 



And rumbling march of buffaloes. 

 And with a moral end his tales: 



"Make offering to the mighty Sun; 

 The favored bullet never fails, 



If the All Seer's favor's won." 



The next day opened dull and gray, 



But scarce our kindling flames arose 

 When a young, stalwart Kootenay 



Rode up and broke my long repose. 

 Descendant of the Indian horde 



That ruled this region of the West, 

 He came as if the country's lord 



Were honoring the country's guest. 

 And soon, perhaps, to make us feel 



The more familiarly at home, 

 He volunteered to share our meal 



With gesture eloquent, thoughdumb. 

 His blanket then he backward Iralsed, 



And turning to his offered place 

 He stopped, and reverently crossed 



His brow and whispered earnest grace. 

 A pagan born, a pagan bred, 



He cherished still the holy sign 

 Some Jesuit martyr, long since dead, 



Had taught his sires as rite divine. 

 Tbis symbol of forgotten creed 



