Aug. 1903. J 
FOHES'T AND STREAM. 
108 
their religious zeal. American ladies are just as active 
for the good cause. Instead of carrying sand and 
stone in their aprons to the builders, they work faith- 
fully in ways well known, and by their sweet smiles 
and winning grace open the purses of their less relig- 
ious lords. 
After dinner and a sweet rest in the sylvan bowers 
of the beautiful garden we set out for Catania. Miss 
Jones bore away a trophy of lovely flowers from the 
Marano Villa. The full moon was wading through 
gossamer clouds high up in the heavens. A broad 
band of silver light was shimmering upon the placid 
sea below us. Our drive downwards through the or- 
ange groves and many villages was most delightful. 
We reached the Catania Consulate about 10 o'clock at 
night, and our excursion, so full of adventure and the 
wonderful, was ended. Albert Woodcock. 
Kut-ai-Nah. 
KuT-Ai-NAH — No Chief — is a grim looking old Black- 
foot who lives on the Two Medicine River. His features 
are not pleasing; his nose has been broken and is dished 
in the middle of its length ; his chin is long, wide, pro- 
truding ; his eyes have a cold, cruel expression ; all in all, 
he is about the very last man one would suspect of hav- 
ing any kind qualities in his moral make up. 
In the winter No Chief lives in a warm and comfort- 
able log cabin ; in summer he camps out in a lodge. 
Around the house is no litter of chips, old clothes and 
tin cans, such as is often seen in the dooryards of even 
white settlers; the grassy sward is clean and well pre- 
served. In the house the floors are always spotlessly 
clean; the iron bedsteads are covered with clean blankets, 
quilts and pillows. You should see how neat the cup- 
board is; No Chief himself often inspects it, and with a 
stick rubs and scrapes the under rims of the tin plates 
where they are most apt to become discolored and rusty. 
His wives are always neatly dressed. He himself, when 
at home,_ wears the old time costume of leggins, breech- 
clout, shirt and blanket, but in a trunk or bureau is al- 
ways a good suit of "white man's clothes" which he puts 
on whenever he visits the agency or the trader's store. 
No Chief's face belies his character. He is a most 
kindly man, good to his wives, his children and grand- 
children, generous to the needy and afflicted, always ad- 
vising the youths to lead sober, industrious lives. More- 
over, he is a living example of my old friend the trader's 
oft repeated assertion that "you never can size an Indian 
up and tell what he is liable to do or not to do." For the 
old man has, and has had for more than thirty years, 
carefully put away in a fringed and painted parfleche sack 
the bones of a human skeleton. And the Blackfeet, 
understand, have a deep rooted dread- — a terrible fear — 
of human remains ; they believe that the ghost or spirit 
of the dead often returns to visit these remains of its 
earthly body, and always causes affliction of some sort, 
often death, to those who disturb or even camp near 
them. It is very odd, then, quite remarkable, indeed, that 
No Chief should keep these bones after having been 
iraised in this belief. For j^ears, whenever he traveled, 
the sack of bones was carefully packed on a led horse. 
In the lodge, in the house, at night and in bad weather, 
it has always hung suspended above his seat at the rear 
of the dwelling, and on fair days swung in the breeze out- 
side, suspended from a painted medicine tripod. 
I have known No Chief for more than twenty years; 
hunted with him, lived in the same camp with him for 
months at a time, but until recently I.,never heard of 
the skeleton he has kept so long and carefully. I scented 
a story at once, and rode over to his house, arriving there 
along in the afternoon, The old man welcomed me, gave 
me the seat of honor, filled his great pipe, and we smoked 
together, talking about the news of the reservation and 
other common matters, I knew better than to broach the 
object of my visit until after dark. In the daytime, as 
every Blackfoot knows, one must not talk of ghosts or 
spirits, or of the doings of the gods, else he will be 
stricken blind. But after the simple evening meal, when 
the candles had been lighted and the great stone pipe re- 
filled, I got the story. 
"There it hangs," said No Chief, in answer to my query, 
pointing to the sack hanging above him against the wall. 
"How I got it, why I have kept it, is in part the story 
of my life; you shall hear it. 
"When my father died, he was killed in a battle with 
;he Assinaboines, I was about twelve years old; my 
irother, perhaps two years younger, and my good mother 
:omposed our little family. As soon as it was known that 
ny father was dead, his relatives came and took the 
lorses he had owned, leaving us but one poor old travois 
mimal. Our lodge was old, torn and leaky; we had 
but few robes to cover us ; we were very poor. We had 
□o weapons ; the enemy who killed my father got them as 
well as his scalp. Those were very miserable times for 
Us; my brother and I herded horses for some of the large 
Eierd owners ; my mother tanned robes, embroidered moc- 
:asins and war clothes for the great hunters, and in that 
way we finally got another horse ; the two could pack our 
)oor outfit, and we were enabled to move camp, all three 
)f us walking, of course. It is a dreadful thing to be 
)oor. I made up my mind that I would not remain so 
ong. The years passed and I attained the age when I 
Sr-ould be permitted to go with the older men to war. I 
lad gone through the long fast, my dream had given me 
jood medicine. I had earned a bow and a quiver of good 
irrows. I was ready, impatient to start, to begin the life 
3f a man. It was early in the spring that the chance 
:ame; I _ went with a party as servant to the partizan, car- 
rying his moccasins and ropes, his medicine sack and 
■obe, waiting on him whenever we camped. I had not 
istened uselessly to the stories of my elders by the lodge 
ire for many an evening; I knew what to do and was 
)rompt to act ; the partizan was pleased with me and very 
cind. At last, after many days' travel, we discovered 
I great camp of the enemy on Little River (Milk River), 
n the long timbered bottom where it joins the Missouri. 
kVe cached among the cottonwoods and willows all that 
lay, and when night came the partizan instructed us. He 
5oid that we should all go into the camp, each man for 
Jimself, remembering to be very cautious, very quiet, to 
:ake no chances of discovery by hurried work, for the 
ives of all depended upon the actions of each one. Yes 
I was allowed to go in, too, instead of waiting at the 
place it had been agreed that we should meet, as a servant 
is generally required to do in order to help hold the 
horses as they are driven in. 1 was not much afraid when 
I entered that great camp. I thought of my poor mother, 
of my brother, of the hard life we had led. I determined 
to take all the horses I could, for their sake as well as 
mine. I would be very careful, but if I was discovered— 
well, I could die. I entered the circle of the village, pray- 
ing my dream to give me success. The fires in the lodges 
had long since died out, and the people slept; here and 
there I could hear their loud snoring as I passed along. 
'Remember,' our partizan had said, 'not to prowl around 
too slowly, nor to crawl, nor go stooped over, lest the 
dogs become suspicious of you and give the alarm.' 
"Well, there were many horses picketed in that camp, 
all around between the lodges. I cut the ropes of two and 
led them to our meeting place, where I tied them and re- 
turned for more. I made thi-ee trips and got six head in 
all. My companiens had done much better, taking, some 
of them, as many as fifteen. I wanted to go back once 
more, but the partizan gave the word and we started for 
home, driving the band before us, at first slowly, and then, 
when beyond hearing of the enemy, as rapidly as possi- 
ble, often stopping to catch and ride fresh horses. The 
Assinaboines, when they discovered their loss, may 
have followed our trail ; most likely they did, but we 
never saw them. There never was a prouder and happier 
youth than I was when I rode into our camp and gave my 
mother and brother the horses I had taken, reserving only 
one for myself. 'The days of our poverty are over,' I told 
them, 'I can now run buffalo, and we will have a plenty 
of good robes and meat. I will go to war again and 
again; we will own a big herd.' My mother cried from 
joy at my words and embraced me. 
_ "Hai-yah ! It was not to be as I had said. I have long 
since learned never to say, I will do this or that, but I 
hope to do this. Sometimes, no matter how deserving we 
may be, the gods seem to forsake us. But a short time 
after I returned I was stricken by a very painful disease; 
my feet swelled up, I could not sleep, I could not walk ; 
I could do nothing but suffer. In vain the doctors and 
medicine men strove to cure me; they could do no good, 
and I suffered; oh, what terrible pain I endured, not for 
a month, nor a winter, but for three long years. My 
brother and mother were more than kind ; they helped me 
in and out of the lodge, laced me on a travoi when camp 
v/as moved, did all they possibly could for my comfort. 
With my bow and arrows, riding the swift horse I had 
taken, my brother kept us well supplied with buffalo hides" 
and meat. In the second summer of my sickness he had 
grown to be a tall strong youth, and in turn he went to 
war with a party, servant to the partizan as I had been. 
They went southward to the Yellowstone country in 
search of the Crows. Each day of their absence, as the 
medicine man rode around through the camp calling out 
their names and reminding the people to pray for their 
success and safe return, we cut a notch in a stick to mark 
the time of their absence. Those days seemed very long; 
my mother and I worried so much that we could scarcely 
eat ; from the very first day we feared the worst. At last, 
one afternoon, the party returned, not riding joyously into 
camp astride horses of the enemy. No; they came in 
afoot, silently, slowly, what there was left of them, and 
my brother was one of the missing. His body lay on the 
banks of the Yellowstone ; the Crows, surprising the party, 
had killed him and four others. This was a terrible blow 
to us ; my mother nearly died of grief. I don't know how 
we got through the next few months; it was a very miser- 
able time. Early in the following winter, after I had 
about given up hope of ever being well again, my feet 
began to improve. I got up and walked. Slowly and for 
a short distfince at first; then more steadily and further, 
until by spring, strange to sa}', I was as sound as ever, 
and able to take part in the hunt. 
'Tt was sometime after the grass became green that a 
party was made up to go against the Crows, and I joined 
it. It was the opportunity I had been looking for. Two 
of my companions had been members of the party my 
brother had joined, and when we arrived at the Yellow- 
stone they pointed out to me the battle ground and the 
place where my brother had fallen. I went to it and 
found his remains. Strange to say, the wolves had not 
disturbed them; every bone was there, a little dried, hard 
flesh adhering to some of them. The Crows had taken 
his clothing, his weapons, even his beaded necklace. 
'Brother,' I said, addressing his shadow,* which I felt sure 
was near, 'I am not going to leave you here in the land 
of the enemy. I am going to take you home, and care for 
you, and when I die you shall be buried with me.' And 
with that I gathered up the bones, tied them in one of my 
blankets, and rejoined my companions. 'What have you 
there?' they asked. And when I told them, they were 
surprised and angry. 'Drop them,' they said. 'Don't you 
know that you will cause us bad luck of some kind? 
Leave them at once, and the blanket you have wrapped 
them in, and wash your hands good, rubbing them with 
the purifying sweet grass.' 
"I refused to_ do so. 'It is my brother,' I said. 'He 
was good and kind to his mother and me, and I am going 
-to take him out of this country of the enemy.' 
"'Then you will travel alone,' said the partizan. We 
cannot risk having this ghost with us ; it will surely bring 
bad luck to some, perhaps all, of us. Drop it at once, or 
leave us.' 
"I turned away at once and went into the timber bor- 
dering the river. I could not blame them for what they 
had said ; I was not angry, but I felt very sad. Deep in 
the thicket of willows and briers I built a little war house 
of dead poles and brush, and there I remained three days, 
cooking my food at night, the meat of a deer I had killed, 
sleeping much and resting. I wanted to give my friends 
plenty of time to find the camp of the enemy and get out 
of the country before I started forth. On the third day 
I built a small raft of driftwood, lashing the logs together 
with strips of deer skin. I left the skeleton in the war 
house. 'Brother,' I told him, 'I am going to avenge you. 
I will be very careful and return as soon as I can, and 
then take you home with me.' 
"The moon had risen when I pushed the raft out into 
the current and floated down the river. It was nearly as 
light as day, and I had no trouble to see the channel 
• Blackfoot equivalent for ghost or spirit. 
ahead; the trouble was to keep the raft in it, for often I 
could not touch bottom with my pole. All that night I 
drifted along, listening for the barking of dogs, the neigh- 
ing of horses, looking for water trails along the shore, but 
I heard nothing save the howling of wolves and the owls 
hooting above the murmur and roar of the bank-full river. 
When morning came, I ran the raft ashore on an island, 
went into the willows and slept Along in the afternoon, 
having slept and rested and eaten some of the cooked 
meat I brought along, I climbed one of the tall cotton- 
woods on the island for a view of the country. Away 
below, at a bend in the river, I saw some horsemen riding 
down into the valley. There was no game in sight, no 
buffalo, not even a band of antelope, and I concluded that 
the Crow camp was there by the river where the horse- 
men were heading. As soon as night came I went across 
to the mainland and walked down the shore in that direc- 
tion. It was not long before I heard dogs barking and 
howling in answer to the wolves out on the hills, and then 
I saw the camp, a very large one, pitched on a broad open 
flat and along the edge of a belt of timber fringing the 
river. I_ got into the timber and went carefully down 
through it. I had no plan, and went to see whatever was 
to be seen. I was opposite the center of the village and 
only a few yards from the nearest lodges, when I saw a 
rnan come out of one of them, pull his robe well up about 
his face, and come toward me. I stood still in the deep 
shadow of the brush and watched him pass on a path that 
ran toward the river. As soon as he got by I followed 
him, stepping lightly but quickly. Just as I was about to 
jump on to him he turned, saw me, and we grappled each 
other. He had good strength, but I had more; I got one 
hand on his throat so he could not cry out, and with the 
other drew my knife and stabbed him. He had got out 
his knife, also, and slashed me here on this arm, but it 
was not a bad cut. Before he could strike again I felt 
him shiver, and then he fell back, quite dead. I took his 
scalp, his knife and belt, and went back toward the upper 
end of the camp. Fires still burned brightly in the lodges, 
and I could hear the people talking and laughing. There 
were some horses tied near a lodge which was pitched 
close to the timber. I knew I was running great chances, 
but I walked out there in the bright moonlight and cut 
one loose, leading him back into the timber without being 
discovered. I kept leading until I had passed the bend 
and was out of sight, and then I mounted and rode swiftly 
away up the river. He was a good, finely paced horse. 
About daybreak I got back to my war house. 'Brother,' 
I said, as I entered and took down the sack, 'Brother, you 
are avenged. I have killed a Crow, here is his scalp, and 
now for home.' 
"I arrived there safely, and the people were greatly sur- 
prised, for the rest of the party had returned and told 
them about me. Even my mother did not expect to see 
me again. That was thirty-three years ago. Ever since 
I have kept and cared for these remains of my brother, 
and the time is now not far off when we will lie down to- 
gether. No, in all this time he has never appeared to me, 
never spoken to me, and I think this is strange. In times 
of doubt and distress I have thought that he might come 
to my aid. After all, it may be as the white men say: 
that there are no ghosts; that when a person dies his 
shadow departs from it and from this world, at once and 
forever. I have had my share of trouble and bad luck 
since I brought my brother home. One of the women I 
afterwards married is dead. I have lost three children. 
One time when I was in a battle I captured an enemy, a 
young man, and was going to kill him, but he pleaded so 
hard for his life, making signs while the tears streamed 
down his face, that I let him go. When cripiney (lirst 
son) was born I named him Sai-kim-ai-kim-Takes-pity-on- 
the-other-side, in memory of this incident. I thought that 
it would be a lucky name; that my boy would do well 
under it— would live to great age. But when he had at- 
tained the age of young manhood he sickened and died. 
Oh, that was terrible, and most unjust. On the other 
hand, I have prospered in many ways. My mother lived 
to great age. I have grown sons and daughters, good, 
kind, well-to-do. I have more than a hundred head of 
horses, and have sold hundreds, living comfortably on the 
proceeds. No, I do not think that my brother's shadow 
has brought me either evil or good. 
"Shall we smoke another pipe? No? Well, then, my 
wife shall spread you a couch here, right beneath my 
brother. I know you are not afraid. You white men do 
not fear anything — ghosts nor the under-water-people. 
Sleep well." J, W. Schultz, 
An Appteciation, 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
I would ask to correct a statement which I made re- 
cently in regard to the number of deer which the late 
law in this State allows one person to kill in a season. 
Instead of it being ten, as it read, it should have read 
two, which sounds more reasonable. The mistake was 
made through a misprint in the report, and I am glad 
to make the correction. 
I have been so highly gratified in the reading of the 
reminiscences of the long ago by Cabia Blanco and J. 
W. Schultz and others, that I feel inclined to express 
my appreciation of their contributions. No particular 
class of contributors so intensely interests me as the 
reminiscences of the old timers who have been active, 
participants in the stirring events of the days of the 
buffalo, Indians and the frontier life in general. While 
still a few of the old survivors of the early days are 
with us, we should encourage them by every possible 
means to give as much as possible of their past ex- 
perience for publication, that those who come after 
may know something of the pleasures as well as the 
hardships of those who opened up the way. After 
opening the Forest and Stream and reading the edi- 
torial page, I leaf over the first thing to see what the 
old timers have called to mind of their past; if nothing 
of the kind appears, I am disappointed, in spite of the 
many other good things which always appear. 
Emerson Carney. 
All communications intended for Forest ahd Stream should 
always be addressed to the Forest and Stream Publishing Co., 
New York, and not to any individual connected with the paper, 
