JAN. 27, 1906.] 
FORESEZAND STREAM. 

“Tt is a fine hide,’ I concluded; “long, thick, 
dark hair. I wish you would tan it for me.” 
“Ah!” she exclaimed, “I knew you would ask 
that as soon as I saw it. Have pity on me, for 
I cannot do it. I cannot touch it. Only here and 
there is a-woman, or even a man, who through 
the power of their medicine can handle a bear 
skin. To others who attempt it some great mis- 
fortune befalls; sickness, even death. None of 
us here would dare to tan the skin. There is a 
woman of the Kut-ai’-im-iks (Do-not-laugh 
band) who would do it for you, another in the 
Buffalo-chip band; yes, there are several, but they 
are all far away.” 
I said no more about it, and after a while went 
out and stretched the skin, by pegging it to the 
ground. Nat-ah’-ki was uneasy, repeatedly com- 
ing out to watch me for a moment, and then hur- 
rying inside again. I kept on at work; there was 
still a lot of fat on the skin; try as I would I 
could not get it all off. I was pretty greasy and 
tired of my job when night came. 
I awoke soon after daylight. Nat-ah’-ki was 
already up and out. I could hear her praying 
near the lodge, telling the Sun that she was about 
to take the bearskin, flesh and tan it. She begged 
her God to have mercy on her; she did not want 
to; she feared to touch the unclean thing, but 
her man wished it to be worked into a soft robe. 
“Oh, Sun!” she concluded, “help me, protect 
me from the evil power of the shadow (the spirit, 
or soul) of this bear. I will sacrifice to you. Let 
my good health continue, give us all, my man, 
. my mother, my relatives, me, give us all long life, 
happiness; let us live to be, old.” 
My first thought was to call out and say that 
she need not tan the skin, that I really did not 
care for a bear robe after all; but I concluded 
that it would be well for her to do the work. If 
she did not learn that there was nothing in the 
malevolent influence of the bear’s spirit, she would 
at least beget confidence in herself and her medi- 
‘cine. So I lay still for a while, listening to the 
quick chuck-chuck of her flesher as it stripped 
meat and fat from the skin. After a little she 
came in, and seeing that I was awake, built a fire 
for the morning meal. As soon as it began to 
burn she washed herself in half a dozen waters, 
and then, placing some dried sweet grass on a 
few live coals, she bent over its fragrant smoke, 
rubbing her hands in it. 
“What are you doing?” I asked. 
ing sweet grass this early?” 
“T purify myself,” she replied. “I am fleshing 
the bearskin. I am going to tan it for you.” 
“Now, that is kind,’ I told her. “When we go 
to Fort Benton I will get you the prettiest shawl 
I can find, and is there any sacrifice to be made? 
Tell me, that I may furnish it.’ 
The little woman was pleased. She smiled hap- 
pily, and then became very serious. Sitting down 
by my side she bent over and whispered: 
“T have prayed. I have promised a sacrifice for 
you and for me. We must give something good. 
You have two short guns (revolvers); can you 
not spare one? and I, I will give imy blue cloth 
dress.” 
The blue cloth dress! her most cherished pos- 
session, seldom worn but often taken from its 
parfleche covering, smoothed out, folded, re- 
folded, admired and then put away again. Surely, 
if she could part with that I could afford to lose 
one of my six-shooters. One of them—they were 
the old Colt cap and ball affairs—had a trick of 
“Why burn- 
discharging all the chambers at,once. Yes, I 
would give that. So, after breakfast we went 
out a little way from camp and hung our offer- 
ings in a tree, Nat-ah’-ki praying while I climbed 
up and securely fastened them to a sturdy 
branch. All that day women of the camp came 
and stared at the tanner of the bearskin, some 
begging her to quit the work at once, all pro- 
phesying that she would in some way have bad 
luck. But she heeded them not, and in the course 
of four or five days I had a large, soft bear rug 
with which I promptly covered our couch. But 
there it seemed it could not remain if I cared to 
have any visitors, for none of my friends would 
enter the lodge while it was inside. I was obliged 
to store it away under a couple of rawhides be- 
hind our home, 
We remained on the Cutbank River until about 
the first of June. The flies were becoming trou- 
blesome and we moved out on the plains where 
they were not nearly as plentiful. Swinging over 
the ridge we went down the course of Milk 
River several days’ journey, finally camping for 
a time just north of the east butte of the Sweet- 
grass Hills, where the rest of the Piegans were 
staying. There was much coming and going of 
visitors between the two camps. We learned that 
a great scandal had occurred in the Do-not-laugh 
band soon after leaving the Marias. Yellow Bird 
woman, the young and pretty wife of old Look- 
ing Back, had run away with a youth named Two 
Stars. It was thought that they had gone north 
to the Bloods or Blackfeet, and the husband had 
started in pursuit of them. There was much talk 
about the affair, much conjecture as to what 
would be the end of it. We soon learned. 
One evening Nat-ah’-ki informed me _ that 
the guilty couple had arrived from the north, 
and were in the lodge of a young friend 
of theirs. They had eluded the husband when 
he arrived in the Blood camp, and doubled back 
south. He would probably go on to the Black- 
foot camp in search of them, and they, mean- 
while, were going on to visit the Gros Ventres. 
After a time they hoped he would give up the 
chase, and then, by paying him heavy damages, 
they would be allowed to live together in peace. 
The very next morning, however, soon after sun- 
rise, Our camp was aroused by a woman’s pierc- 
ing terror-stricken shrieks. Everyone sprang 
from bed and ran out, the men with their 
weapons, thinking that perhaps some enemy was 
attacking us. But no, ’twas Yellow Bird woman 
who shrieked, her husband had found and seized 
her as she was going to the stream for water, he 
had her by one wrist and was dragging her to 
the lodge of our chief, the. woman hanging back, 
crying and struggling to get loose. Breakfast 
was prepared in the lodges, but that morning the 
camp was very quiet. There was no singing, no 
laughter, no talking, even the children were still. 
I remarked upon it to the little woman. 
“Hush,” she said, “she is to be pitied; I think 
something dreadful is about to happen.” 
Presently we heard the camp crier shouting out 
that there was to be a council in Big Lake’s—our 
chief’s—lodge, and he called over the names of 
those requested to be present; medicine pipe men, 
mature hunters and warriors, wise old men. One 
by one they went over to the place; a profound 
silence settled over the camp. 
We had our breakfast and I had smoked a 
couple of pipes when the camp crier was again 
heard: “All women! all women!” he shouted. 
129 
“You are to assemble at once at the lodge of our 
chief, where a punishment is about to take place. 
A woman has been guilty of infidelity; you are 
to witness what happens to one who so disgraces 
her husband, her relatives and herself.” 
I imagine that few women wanted to go, but 
following the camp. crier were the Crazy Dog 
band of the All Friend Society, camp police, as 
it were, who went from lodge to lodge and or- 
dered the women out. As one raised the flap of 
our doorway Nat-ah’-ki sprang over to me and 
grasped me convulsively. 
“Come,” said the policeman, looking in. “Come, 
hurry! Didn’t you hear the call?” 
“She is no longer a Piegan,” I said quietly, al- 
though I felt angry enough. “She is a white 
woman now, and she does not go.” 
I thought there might be some argument about 
the matter, but there was none; the man dropped 
the door flap and went away without a word. 
We waited in surprise. “What are they going 
to do?” I asked. “Kill her or—the other thing?” 
Nat-ah’-ki shuddered and did not answer, cling- 
ing to me more closely than ever. Suddenly we 
heard again those piercing shrieks; then again 
all was silence until a man, our chief, began to 
talk. 
“Kyi!” he said. “You all here standing, have 
witnessed what befalls one who proves untrue 
to her husband. It is a great crime, unfaithful- 
ness. In the long ago our fathers counciled to- 
gether as to what should be the punishment of a 
woman who brought sorrow and shame to the 
lodge of her man and her parents. And as they 
decided should be done, so has it been done to 
this woman to-day that all you witnessing it may 
take warning. She is marked with a mark she 
will bear as long as she lives, Wherever she 
goes people will look and laugh and say: ‘Ha, a 
cut-nosed woman! There goes a woman of loose 
character; isn’t she pretty!” 
Then, one after another, several men made lit- 
tle speeches, each one to the same effect, and 
when they had finished the chief told the people 
to disperse. The woman in the case went to the 
river to wash her bleeding face; her nose had 
been cut off. From the bridge to the lip it had. 
been entirely remdved with one deep concaved 
slash. She was a horrible sight, an animated 
human skull. 
The youth? He had hurried away to his own 
camp and lodge as soon as the woman was 
caught. Nothing was said nor done to him. In 
that we civilized and uncivilized people are alike. 
The woman always suffers but the man goes 
free. \ 
“You see,’ Nat-ah’-ki told me, “the womar 
was not to blame; she had always loved Two 
Stars, but he is very poor and her bad father 
made her go to bad old Looking Back, who had 
already five women, and is very mean and cruel 
to them. Oh, I pity her.” 
WALTER B. ANDERSON, 
[TO BE CONTINUED. ] 
The Mild Winter. 
Ir is proper that it should be put on record in 
ForEST AND STREAM that this winter, so far, has 
been the mildest in the memory of man, I was 
in Prospect Park last Sunday and the conditions 
there reminded me of a day in spring. The grass 
was springing up fresh and green, the buds were 
swelling on the trees and the air was actually 
balmy. I looked around to see if there were any 
robins in view, and it would not have surprised 
me in the least had I heard a song sparrow sing. 
