



FOREST AND STREAM. 
[FEB. 17, 1906. 


































In the Lodges of the Blackfeet, 
XIII.—The Snake Woman. 
At the lower end of the bottom opposite that 
of the Medicine Rock, the Dry Fork of the 
Marias joins the greater stream. At times in 
spring it is a raging, muddy torrent, but for the 
larger part of the year is a shallow, sometimes 
dry stream, the water standing in deep holes or 
where it has been backed up by the industrious 
beaver—Why, why do I persist in writing in the 
present tense? as if there were any beaver there 
now! But I'll not change the line—The day 
after we went into camp on the river there was 
to be a buffalo run out on the flat beyond the 
medicine rock, where an immense herd of buffalo 
had been located. Weasel Tail and I, however, 
chose to go up the Dry Fork on discovery. In 
our lodges were many a parfleche of dried meat; 
we wanted no summer skins of the buffalo, and, 
of course, we could kill what fresh meat was 
needed at almost any time and place. We crcssed 
the river and rode through the bottom, then fol- 
lowed a broad, deep game trail running up the 
rather narrow valley of the Dry Fork, crossing 
and recrossing the stream. We passed a great 
many beaver dams and saw several of the ani- 
mals swimming around in their ponds. Here and 
there were narrow strips of willow along the 
bank out of which an occasional white-tail deer 
would break for the hills, scared by our ap- 
proach. There were sciiiary cottonwoods, 
stunted, many of them dead, their trunks worn 
quite smooth buffalo against 
them. Rattlesnakes were numerous; every little 
while we would be startled by one _ suddenly 
sounding his warning near the trail, and we killed 
all we saw save one or two which managed to 
escape into a nearby hole. As we ascended the 
valley, antelope became more and more numer- 
ous. The plain lying between the Dry Fork and 
the next water to the south, Pend d’Oreille 
coulée, one of their favorite 
grounds in that part of the country. If possible, 
when we a herd of antelope or buffalo 
ahead, we would ride up a coulée on to the plain 
and go around them, for we liked not to have 
the game stampedinge 
by the rubbing 
was feeding 
Saw 
from us, betraying our 
presence and probable route to any chance enemy 
thereabouts. 
It was at least 8 or 9 o’clock when we left 
camp, long after the departure of the buffalo run- 
ners, and by noontime we were well up the Dry 
Fork, twelve or fourteen miles from camp. Off 
to our right was a long ridge running east and 
west, the nearer point of it broken by sandstone 
cliffs. Thither we wended our way, riding up a 
coulée which headed there. Arrived at the foot 
of the ridge we picketed our horses and climbing 
up, sat down on its crest to get a view of the 
I had brought some broiled antelope 
ribs, and, opening the little bag, laid them upon 
country. 
a convenient rock. “Take part of them,” I said. 
Weasel Tail shook his head. ‘‘What,” I asked, 
“you will not eat? Take half; I brought them 
for you.” 
“Tt is not wise,” he replied, “to eat when out 
on discovery, on the hunt, or when traveling 
anywhere away from camp. You should eat 
plenty after you arise in the morning, eat very 
much. Then you saddle up and strike out. You 
feel strong; you ride, and ride, and ride. You 
may be hunting, you are unlucky perhaps, but 
you are not discouraged; you go on, and on, with 
strong faith that the luck will change, that you 
will socn find a band of antelope or buffalo, or 
game of some kind. The sun mounts up, and 
up, arrives at the middle, starts downward to his 
lodge beyond the edge (edge of the world). You 
have food tied to your saddle, and you say to 
yourself, ‘I am hungry; I will stop and eat.’ 
“On the crest of some ridge or butte you dis- 
mount, and, half lying on the restful ground, 
you begin to eat, meanwhile your clear, strong 
eyes search plain and valley or brush and moun- 
tainside for life of some kind. You are very 
hungry, of course; the food tastes good in your 
mouth, your stomach keeps crying for its fill, and 
you keep on eating until the last morsel has dis- 
appeared. Then, Hai-ya! what a change comes 
over you! Your flesh suddenly becomes soft, 
your eyes no longer seek to pierce the far dis- 
tance, the lids close upon them. The ground 
feels so good; it is a soft couch. You become 
sleepy; it is only by great effort that you keep 
awake. You lie there and the sun goes on, and 
on, down toward his lodge. You know that you 
ought to arise, that you ought to mount and ride 
until you can see what is beyond that high, long 
ridge, but the food has done its work and you 
lie to yourself, saying: ‘Oh, I don’t believe that 
I would find any game over there; I’ll rest here 
for a time, and then start homeward. I am sure 
to kill something on the back trail So you 
recline there, as lazy and sleepy as a full-gorged 
bear, and toward evening you arise and go home- 
ward, finding no game whatever by the way. You 
arrive at your lodge, the people see that you 
bring neither meat nor skins. Your women 
quietly unsaddle your horse; you go inside and 
sit down upon your couch, much ashamed, and 
begin to lie, telling how very far you have rid- 
den, how barren the country is, wonder where all 
the game can be, 
“No, friend, no ribs for me. You eat, if you 
will. Loan me your glass and I will have a look 
at the country.” 
What Weasel Tail said was all very true. Had 
I not time and again experienced the lassitude, 
the sleepiness caused by my midday lunch? I 
resolved never again to take food with me when 
going for a day’s ride. But this time need not 
, 
count. I ate most of the ribs, joined my friend 
in a smoke, and fell asleep. 
Weasel Tail poked me in the ribs several times 
before he succeeded in awakening me. I sat up 
and rubbed my eyes. My throat felt dry; there 
was a fuzzy taste in my mouth all caused by my 
midday lunch and nap. I noticed that the sun 
was midway down toward the distant blue peaks 
of the Rockies. I had slept long. My friend 
was looking steadily through the glass at some- 
thing to the westward of us and muttering to 
himself. ‘“‘What do you see?” I asked, yawning 
lazily, reaching for his pipe and tobacco pouch. 
“It does not seem possible,” he replied, “that 
I see that which I see; yet, I am sure neither 
my eyes nor this glass deceive. I see a woman; 
a lone woman, a woman on foot walking along 
the crest of the ridge yonder and coming straight 
toward us. 
“Let me look,” I exclaimed, dropping the pipe 
and taking the glass. ‘“‘Are you sure that you 
are awake?” 
“See for yourself,” he replied. 
third rise from here.” 
I brought the glass to bear on the slope indi- 
cated, and, sure enough, there was a woman 
striding easily down the grassy incline. She 
stopped, turned, and shading her eyes with her 
hand, looked away to the south, then to the 
north, and lastly back whence she had come. I 
noticed that she carried a small pack on her back, 
that she stood erect and was of slender figure. A 
young woman undoubtedly. But why, why was 
she there, and afoot, on that great plain whose 
vastness and silence must be appalling to one so 
alone and so defenseless. 
“What do you think of this?” I asked. 
“T don’t think anything,’ Weasel Tail replied. 
“Tt is useless to try to account for so strange a 
thing. She comes this way; we will meet, and 
she wiil tell us the reason of it all.” 
The woman passed out of sight into the hollow 
back of the second rise of the ridge, but soon 
appeared on its crest and kept on down into the 
next low place. Wher she arrived at the top of 
the slope on which we sat, she saw us at once, 
stopped and hesitated for an instant and then 
came on with her natural, easy, graceful stride. 
I am afraid that we both rudely and coldly stared 
at her, but there was neither fear nor diffidence 
in her manner, as she walked steadily up to us. 
My first impression was that she had beautiful 
eyes; large, clear, kindly, honest eyes, and my 
next was that her face was exceedingly comely, 
her long hair glossy and neatly braided, her fig- 
ure all that one expects a woman’s form to be. 
She came on, quite up to us, and said: “How?” 
“How, how?” We answered. 
She unslung her pack, sat down and began to 
talk in a language unintelligible to us. By signs 
we interrupted and said that we did not under- 
stand her talk. 
“She is on the 
