4 ^ 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[July 14, 1906. 
Iii the Lodges of the Blackfeet. 
XXXIII.—The “Black Robe’s” Help. 
During my visits to the various camps, I 
had heard much of a certain’ Black Robe or 
priest, whom the people called Stahk'-tsi kye- 
wak-sin — Eats-in-the-middle-of-the-day. “He is 
a man.” the people told me, “a real kind- 
hearted man. Twice the Agent has ordered him 
off of the reservation, but he returns to talk 
with us, and help us as he can.” 
I learned that he had built a Nat-o-wap'-o-yis, 
or sacred house, on the non-reservation side 
of Birch Creek, and thither f went after visit¬ 
ing the last of the camps. I found the Rev. P. 
P. Prando, S. J., at home in his rude shed-like 
room, attached to the little log chapel, and 
there we two struck up a fine friendship which 
was never broken. I am not a religious man— 
far from it; that is as to a belief in a revealed 
religion and some certain creed. But, how I 
do admire these Jesuits. They • have always 
been at the front here in America; have suffered 
hardships, cold and heat, hunger and thirst, and 
gone through such dangers as the repre¬ 
sentatives of no other creed have done. 
Nothing has daunted them in their zeal to 
propagate their faith in wild and savage lands. 
There was Father De Smet, for instance, who 
ascended the Missouri in 1840, and established 
a mission among the Flathead Indians. You 
should read his story. He crossed the Rockies, 
of course, to reach the Flathead country, and 
then he made a trip with my old friend, Hugh 
Monroe, among the Blackfeet on the east side 
of the Rockies, during which they had several 
narrow escapes from Assinaboine and Yank- 
tonais war parties. But the Father found con¬ 
ditions unfavorable for founding a mission 
among the Blackfeet, for they were forever 
roaming over their vast hunting ground, one 
winter on the Saskatchewan, for instance, and 
the next far to the south on the tributaries 
of the Missouri or the Yellowstone. 
Father Prando made me welcome; made me 
know that I was welcome, and I stopped with 
him for the night. We had supper; some yeast 
powder biscuits, rancid bacon, some vile tea, 
no sugar. “It is all I have,” he said, depre- 
catingly, “but what would you? I have given a 
little here, and a little there, and this is all that 
remains.” 
Even that was better than I had found for 
several days, and I ate a number of the bis¬ 
cuits. We began to talk about the starving 
Indians, and I learned with surprise and pleas¬ 
ure, that the good Father had been trying for 
some time to obtain relief for them. He had 
written to the authorities in Washington, with¬ 
out result. Then he had corresponded with the 
army officers at Fort Shaw, especially with Col. 
—now General—Edward A. Moole, and they 
had accomplished something. Reporting to the 
War Department the condition of the Black¬ 
feet, there had been a lively scene between the 
officials of that and the Indian Department, with 
the result that an inspector was to be sent out. 
He was supposed even then to be on his way. 
“And now,” the good Father concluded, “it 
all depends upon the inspector: If he be honest, 
all will be well; if dishonest, then -—” his 
voice trembled, and he could say no more. 
It seemed that there was nothing more for 
me to do, so I started homeward by way of the 
Agency. When nearing the stockade, I met a 
policeman, and his face was one big broad 
smile. “Yesterday,” he told me, “came a man 
from the home of the Great Father, and we 
are saved. I carry this letter from him to the 
soldiers; they are to bring us food;” and with 
that he hurried on. 
Down at the trader's store, (it contained 
about a wagon load of goods) I at last got the 
details of all that had happened. I am sure 
that never before, nor since, has the Indian 
service had a more efficient man than was 
Inspector, or Special Agent G. Arrived 
at the stockade, he had the driver stop just 
within the gates. “Where is that chicken house? 
he yelled, jumping from the wagon and staring 
at the gaunt forms of the Indians, standing 
apathetically around. The driver pointed it out 
to him, and he ran and kicked open the door, 
shoved the chickens out and piled out after them 
several sacks of corn. “Here, you,” he called 
to the astonished spectators, “take these; take 
the chickens and go and eat something.” 
If the Indians did not understand the words, 
they at least understood his actions—and what 
a scramble there was for grain and fleeing, 
squawking hens. The Inspector hurried on 
across to the office, kicked open the door and 
came face to face with the Agent, who had 
arisen, and was staring at him in astonishment. 
“\ 011-- canting old hypocrite,” he 
cried, “I’ve just given your Indians those 
chickens, and some Government corn. What 
do you mean by denying that your charges are 
starving? Hey? What do you mean, sir?” 
“They are not starving,” the Agent replied. 
“I will admit that they haven't a large ration, 
but they are not starving by any means. Not 
starving by any means, sir. But who are you, 
sir? What right have you, breaking in here 
and questioning me?” 
“Here is my card,” the Inspector replied, 
“and I'll just add that I suspend you right now. 
Your goose is cooked.” 
The agent read the card and sank back into 
his chair, speechless. 
The Inspector drew on the Fort Shaw com¬ 
missary for what supplies could be spared, and 
bought more at Helena, but they were a long. 
long time in coming. Owing to the melting 
spring snow, the roads were almost impass¬ 
able, so, still for a few weeks, Almost-a-Dog 
kept cutting notches in his willow mortuary 
record, and at the end. after a bountiful supply 
of food had arrived, and a new and kind and 
honest Agent was looking out for their welfare, 
the total numbered five hundred and fifty-five! 
Nearly one fourth of the tribe had passed away. 
The living, weakened by their long privation, 
became an easy prey to tuberculosis in its 
various forms. To-day, there are but thirteen 
hundred full-blooded Blackfeet, seven hundred 
less than there were in 1884. They are going 
fast; they might as well, for there is no place 
left for them to abide in even comparative pros¬ 
perity and peace. Since 1884, they have sold 
three million dollars’ worth of land, and the 
money has mostly been used to purchase for 
them food, farm machinery and cattle. Under 
the few good Agents they have had they did 
remarkably well. For instance, under one 
Agent who served two terms, their cattle in¬ 
creased to something like twenty-four thousand 
head, for he allowed them to sell only steers 
and old dry cows. Under a succeeding Agent, 
however, their fine herd practically disappeared. 
Cows, calves, yearlings, were bought by the 
trader, rebranded and driven to his range in the 
vicinity of the Bear’s Paw Mountains. Also, 
the Reservation was always, except during the 
short administration of an army officer, over¬ 
run with the stock of the great cattle kings. 
Their round-ups drove away many of the In¬ 
dian stock, the vast number of steers they kept 
shoving upon the reserve caused the grass to be¬ 
come more and more sparse. To-day, 1 am told, the 
range is about gone, and the Indians are about 
to receive their allotments of land. When that 
happens, and the surplus land is opened to set¬ 
tlement, the sheepmen will drive their flocks 
upon it, and thereafter the Blackfeet will be un¬ 
able to raise either horses or cattle. In a very 
few years, those once richly grassed hills will 
become as bare of verdure as is the middle of 
a country road. 
I could not help but go back to tell the good 
father that his efforts to aid the Indians had 
proved more than successful, and thus I stayed 
another night with him. He told me of his 
work with the Crows, among whom he had been 
for several years, long enough, in fact, to 
learn their language. Like most of those 
frontier Jesuits, he could do things: He had 
a good knowledge of medicine and surgery. He 
could build a log cabin: repair a broken wagon 
wheel; survey and construct an irrigating ditch; 
and he was a successful fisherman and good shot. 
1 came across him one afternoon away down on 
Milk River. He had been visiting some distant 
parishioners, and had tethered out his horses 
for a short rest. He was broiling something 
