FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Dec. 6, 1888.- 



THE MISFORTUNES OF PANI PUK'KOATS. 

 T T was night. Within the lodge all was warm and bright 

 and cheerful. Without, the snow lay deep on the 

 ground, the sky was an intense black, such as we only 

 see in winter, and through this blackness the myriad 

 stars shone or flickered with a brilliance that was won- 

 derful. Some of them, the planets, looked like distant 

 fires, which at one time would die down a little, and then 

 burst into blaze and seem to assume twice their former 

 size; others were clear, steady points of light, and others 

 still smaller, till those in the Wolf's Road resembled a little 

 white dust thinly scattered on the black of the heavens, 

 making it look gray. It was toward the beginning of 

 winter, and over the eastern hills the shining belt of Orion 

 now showed itself as the night wore on. The air was 

 bitter cold, and you felt, if you put your head out of the 

 door, that the snow would creak sharply under your 

 tread were you to step out into it. 



The night was still, and not a breath of air lifted the 

 light snow wreaths or shook the smoke shield. Usually 

 in this wind-swept region the gales howl all night through 

 these narrow valleys, groaning among the peaks, and, 

 as they approach, raising their voices till, as the blasts 

 reach you, the sound is a wild scream. Then comes the 

 rattle of the smoke shield, the shrill creaking of the lodge 

 poles, and the deep, druni-like sound, as gust after gusi 

 thunders against the side of the lodge and presses ttu 

 tightly-stretched canvas in between the poles. On such 

 nights the mountains are vocal with dismal sounds, and 

 one might fancy that a horde of witches were holding theii 

 revels among the rocks and the trees about them, or that 

 a legion of fiends had been released from hell and exposed 

 on the peaks to the fury of the storm. On this night it 

 was still and the air was voiceless. Not even the soft 

 cooing Hoo, hoo, hoo'hoo of the owls was heard, and only 

 once did the petulant call of a lynx sound through the 

 clear atmosphere. 



It was pleasant within the lodge. The day had been 

 one of hard exhausting labor; of work beginning before 

 daylight and ending after dark. Now it was over, wf 

 were content. And why not? On a small quaking aspen 

 tree near the lodge door hung a load of fat sheep meat 

 that had been brought into camp an hour or two before. 

 We had changed our wet garments, had dined well, were 

 warm, dry and full, and felt stealing over us the deliciouf 

 languor which follows the hearty meal after a day of 

 vigorous work. 



I wish that I could paint for you a picture of our home, 

 so that you might see it as I do now with the eye of mem- 

 ory. I cannot do this, I know, but I will try. Our lodge 

 ie an ordinary conical one, such as is commonly used by 

 the Northern Indians, 12ft. in diameter and as many in 

 height. At the, top is the smoke hole, through which, 

 looking up through the cloud of gray vapor that rises- 

 from the fire in the center, one can see dimly a star or 

 two. The fire burns brightly, and every now and then 

 some one puts on it a stick or two of the finely split 

 aspen wood, partly for the warmth, partly for the light 

 and partly to make a high blaze which will keep up a 

 good draught and carry the smoke well upward. At 

 about the height of a man's head the smoke spreads out 

 and fills the upper part of the lodge, but then no one 

 ever stands up in a lodge. On lines stretched about the 

 lodge poles, five or six feet from the ground, are various 

 articles of wearing apparel, placed there to dry. There 

 are socks and shirts, boots and shoes, trousers and a coat. 

 The walls of the dwelling are brownish black, darkest 

 above, where the smoke has done its work, and shading 

 into paler below, where only dirt and actual wear and 

 tear have stained them. Down on the ground floor you 

 would see, if you had this scene to look back on as I 

 have, to the left of the door our cooking utensils and our 

 sacks of flour, bacon and sugar, then the beds, stretched 

 close to the walls, around nearly to the door again, where 

 is the woodpile and the water bucket. The beds are not 

 very wide and there is abundant space for the fire in the 

 middle of the floor. 



This is our home, here we spend our time, laughing at 

 the storms of rain, sleet and snow, which daily burst 

 upon us from the mountains, and lulled to rest by the 

 roar of the warring elements. The sailor in his hammock 

 in a storm at sea rests peacefully and quietly, undisturbed 

 by the fury of the gale; so we, after a hard day's work, 

 hearing nothing of the howling of the storm, the crash of 

 the rock slide or the thunder of the cataract, sleep like 

 tired children on the bosom of our common Mother. 



On the bed nearest the door as you enter the lodge sits 

 Jack, the Outlaw, busy with awl, needle and waxed 

 thread, patching his wornout shoes. He whistles merrily 

 "The Son of a Gamboleer," sometimes interrupting him- 

 self to mutter objurgations on the Jew who charged him 

 $4 for such a pair of worthless shoes, and then changing 

 off to a droning song, which assures us that 



"The days of old were the days of gold. 

 The days of forty-nine." 

 Next to him sat Appekunny, crosslegged like a tailor, 

 and busied in putting a patch on that part of his trousers 

 which is most used when one is at church, or in the sad- 

 dle or at dinner. Yo is the next man, sitting pipe in 

 mouth on his bed and doing nothing, and next to him 

 comes the Small Chief, that ancient Pawnee warrior who 



has been Yo's companion in so many scenes of happiness 

 and of hardship. Once more the same blanket covers 

 their lean and sinewy forms, and the bald head and the 

 gray now rest again on the same pillow. Next to them, 

 and so across the lodge from Appekunny, is the stalwart 

 form of the Rhymer, who with his moccasined feet 

 stretched out toward the fire, and a dainty cigarette held 

 between his lip3, is perhaps composing a poem, but more 

 probably is droppiug off to-sleep. And last of all, near 

 the woodpile, his bronzed face bent toward the fire, and 

 his coal-black hair hanging down toward his hands, is 

 Black coming in sight over the Hill, a noted warrior and 

 hunter of the Pegunny. 



Years ago, before the white men were so many, he was 

 strong in war. Long journeys he made to strike the 

 Crees, the Crows and the Gros Ventres of the Prairie. 

 Many the horses he stole, the scalps be took, the coups he 

 counted. Now all this is changed. Indians have to stay 

 on their reservations, and Brocky, as we call him for 

 short, goes to war no more. 



The last scalp he took was in a fight with a Cree war 

 party that made a foray and stole a lot of horses from 

 the Pegunny. The latter followed, overtook them and 

 recovered the horses; and in the running fight that 

 ensued Brocky closely pursued a Cree, who took refuge 

 in a coulee, and shot his pursuer as he came up. The ball 

 struck him in the forehead high up, and passing around 

 the skull lodged under the skin at the back of the head. 

 Brocky killed the Cree, counted coup on him and took 

 his scalp. This he afterward sent to me as a present. I 

 have it still. Watch him now as he bends toward the 

 fire, industriously fashioning with his knife a new stem 

 for his pipe. His kindly honest face does not look very 

 ferocious, but he is a brave warrior and a strong hunter. 



Yo and the Chief were both of them lame and sore 

 from the exertions of the day, for each of them had 

 packed on his back a heavy load of meat along the rough 

 mountainside, now over smooth, sliding shale, or again 

 over great rocks where the footing was unstable, and 

 4eps had to be now long and now short. As they sat there 

 m this night, side by side, the silence was broken by 

 speech from the Chief, who turned to Yo and said, "Old 

 Man, did you mind my laughing at you to-day when you 

 fell and the sheep fell on you ? I did not mean to, but 

 you looked so funny when you disappeared in that crack 

 with the sheep on top of you that I couldn't help it. Be- 

 sides, I felt sure from the character of the remarks you 

 made that you were not much hurt." 



•'I thought when I plunged into that hole and that 

 sheep came down on top of me that I was broken in two," 

 said Yo, "tuc I got nothing worse than a few bruises." 



"I ought to have killed that other sheep the first shot," 

 continued the Chief. 'Tf I can't do better shooting than 

 that, I shall be like old Pani Puk'koats pretty soon." 

 "Who is that?" questioned the Rhymer. 

 "H^'s a Pawnee Indian," replied the Chief, "Yo knows 

 him right well. I never think of him without laughing 

 at his story of the cow." m 



"Well now, let us have it at once," said the Rhymer, 

 "1 am just in the mood to listen to a gocd story." 



"It was in 1S76," said the Chief, "and our scouts who 

 numbered about one hundred had just been mustered out 

 at Sydney. There we received rations to carry us as 

 far as Fort McPherson, where we were to get additional 

 provisions. But on the Platte, near Ogallalla, our horses 

 stampeded and ran off, some of them going sixty miles 

 up the river, beyond Julesburg:. It took us two days to 

 gather them, and when we got to North Platte we had 

 nothing to eat. This is only about sixteen miles from 

 McPherson. We camped at the Platte, and the next day 

 went on to the post, where we got food. 



"That same day there came to the fort a man named 

 JimMcCann or Jim McKunn— I can't remember his name 

 — anyhow it was Jim Mc something, and with him a 

 sheriff, with a writ to take our whole command back to 

 North Platte because Jim claimed that one of our In- 

 dians had killed a cow of his. Frank spoke to Jim, and 

 asked him what he meant by it. 



" 'My Indians did not kill your cow,' said he, 'they don't 

 do that sort of thing; but we'll go back with you and let 

 you prove it.' 



" 'Well now, Major,' said Jim, 'you know I don't want 

 to take these hundred Indians back to the Platte, and if I 

 did, it ain't likely I could prove the killing by any par- 

 ticular- one of them; but I know they killed her. I saw 

 where they'd cooked and eaten part of her and the 

 bones split for marrow, and I know they killed her. But 

 I don't want to take them back. Let them pay for her 

 and that will satisfy me. She was a good milk cow, 

 worth $45 of anybody's money, and the sheriff's fees are 

 ~5. Give me $50, and I'll say no more about it.' 



" 'No sir,' said Frank, 'I don't believe my Indians ever 

 killed that cow, and I won't have them pay for her. 

 We'll go back with you.' 



"Old Pani Puk'koats, with some other Indians, was 

 standing near during this conTersation, and he said to 

 Frank, 'What's that man talking about?' 



"Frank answered, 'He claims that some of us killed 

 one of his cows, and wants to take us all back to North 

 Platte, so we'll saddle up and go with him.' 



" 'We don't want to go back to the Platte,' said Pani 



Puk'koats. 'We want to go home. We've been out 31 

 year now, and we want to go home and see our families,! 

 We'd rather pay him for his cow and go on.' 



" 'No,' said Frank, 'We'd better go back and prove thajj 

 none of the boys did it.' 



" 'We'd rather pay for it than go back,' said Pani Puk'. 

 koats. 'We all want to get home. How much does j$ 

 want for his old cow? I'll give a horse toward it.' 



"Some of the other boys said they'd chip in rather thaft 

 go back, and so presently the amount was raised, valuing, 

 the horse at $30." 



"Jim said he did not want the horse, but Frank said 

 that he would give him $30 for it, for it was a good one. 

 So he took the horse and gave Jim the $50, and he we^i 

 away satisfied." 



"The next day we started on down the river, and abouti 

 the middle of the afternoon old Pani Puk'koats came! 

 riding up to Frank and me, and in rather a shame faoaijl 

 and at the same time confidential way he said to Frank;! 

 'Ah-ti-us (Father) I have got something to tell you. It's 

 about that cow,' and then he went on to tell the story. 



It seems that when the Indians were paid off at Syal 

 ney, Pani Puk'koats saw a little .38-caliber Smith M 

 Wesson rifle that took his fancy, and bought it and 

 some cartridges, and took it along with him. 



"When we got to the Platte and camped, some of the 

 boys took the horses over to an island where the grass 

 was good, and staid there watching them. Among those 

 who went with the horses was Pani Puk'koats, and he 

 took his little gun with him. A lot of the boys wetm 

 sitting together smoking, when one of them picked te| 

 this gun and said: 



" 'That gun's no good. It's too small. It won't kill 

 anything.' 



" 'Won't it?' said Pani Puk'koats as he put his hand in 

 his pocket, pulled out a cartridge, and slipped it into the* 1 

 gun, 'Just put it against your breast and pull it off, and 

 you'll know whether it will kill anything or not.' 



"Just as he said this an old cow walked out of the wflfi 

 lows about a hundred yards off, and stood there looUnffl 

 at them. 



" 'Well,' said the boy who was running down the guM 

 'it might kill a man if he held it against his breast, but it. 

 wouldn't kill anything far off. It wouldn't kill that cow.' 



" 'Yes it would,' said Pani Puk'koats; 'it would kill her 

 dead.' 



" 'It wouldn't,' said the other. 'Just you try it. I dare 

 you to.' 



M 'No,' said Pani Puk'koats, resolutely; 'I should kill her,' 

 " "No, you wouldn't,' said the other boy. 'In thefirsfcj 

 place you couldn't hit her, and in the second, if you didj 

 the bullet -wouldn't go through her skin, I dare you tun 

 do it. But you're afraid to. Ha! hal' 



"This was more than Pani Puk'koats could stand. Bra 

 wouldn't be stumped. As he told it himself to us: 



" 'Now, Father, you know I never in all my life hit mm 

 thing that I fired at, but this time I just threw up my gam 

 to my shoulder and fired, and the old cow tumbled dowm 

 dead, shot just between the eyes.' 



"When they found what they had done the boys wem 

 all sorry and scared, but Pani Puk'koats rose to the occsk 

 sion. He said to them: 'Now we'd drag her out into th#. 

 river, and stick her head down in the sand and leave her-i 

 there, and they'll think she drowned.' 



"They were preparing to do this when one of the boys* 

 said, 'She's pretty fat, and we have not had anything to 

 eat to-day.' They looked at one another, and in about, 

 two minutes they had a ham off, and a fire built and were^ 

 cooking the meat. 



" 'I wanted,' said Pani Puk'koats to Frank, 'to cut off a 

 nice fat piece of the meat and carry it over and give ta- 

 you. Then if you had eaten it you would have been £te.L 

 much to blame as any of us.' 



" 'And what do you think I would have said to you if 

 you had brought it?' said Frank. 



" 'I knew very well,' was the reply, 'what you would 

 have said. You would have asked me where 1 got 

 That's the reason I did not bring you any.' 



"After they had eaten, Pani Puk'koats had to go over to 

 camp, but he told the boys just what to do. That they 

 must take the cow out to a deep hole where the water 

 had swept the sand out, and sink her there, leaving only 

 part of her head out of water. Then they must take all 

 the bones and throw them in the deep water, and sprinkle 

 sand over the fire and blood, and generally must cover 

 up the traces of their crime. 



" 'And Ah-ti-us,' said he solemnly, 'that's where I 

 missed it. I ought to have staid there and attended to 

 this myself instead of leaving it to others. After I went 

 away, the boys lay down and went to sleep, and when 

 they woke tip it was late and they had to hurry back with 

 the horses, and they just left everything lay there, and of 

 course when the man came out to look for his cow he 

 saw what had happened.' And he heaved a deep sigh. 



" 'It's a pretty expensive dinner, Pani Puk'koats,' saidl, 

 'when you have to pay a horse for it.' 



" 'Your words are true, Father,' he answered, and then 

 he fell back to his place in the ranks." 



"And was he, whatever his name is, such a very bad 

 shot?" asked the Rhymer. 

 "As bad as could be," replied the Chief. "I think 



