




FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Marcu 3, 1906. 




















mi To oie (f yy 
mY rai ET 
phe Swen mes. TAME 






mM PAL A jon pup 






ae 
In the Lodges of the Blackfeet. 

XV.—I Return to My People. 
The long summer days went one by one, 
lingeringly, peacefully, happily. No war parties 
attacked us, and the young men who went out 
to war upon other tribes returned spoil-laden, 
without loss to their numbers. Perhaps in those 
times I was not much given to thinking about 
things; but I knew when I was content, was 
fully satisfied with the returns of each day and 
hour and looked not to the future nor what it 
might have in store for me. But one thing 
troubled me, the insistent letters from home, 
commanding me to return. They were several 
months old when I got them, as were my New 
York Tribunes and other papers. I ceased read- 
ing any more than the headlines of the papers; 
they had no more interest to me, but I could not 
help worrying about the contents of ther letters. 
There were grave reasons why I should heed 
them, should go home on or before the date 
that I became of age. Many an unpleasant half 
hour I passed after breaking their seals, 
then, consigning them 
lodge fire. 
and 
to the flames of the 
I would go out with Nat-ah’-ki for 
a ride, or to some feast or social gathering. It 
was interesting to note the extreme care with 
which my mail was handled. 
bunched up by my 
It was securely 
Fort Benton friends, and 
then those to whom it was intrusted re-wrapped 
and rebound it in various coverings. The Black- 
feet ever regarded the art of writing and reading 
as the greatest of accomplishments. Some of 
them would sit for hours inspecting the pictures 
in my magazine and papers, and although they 
persisted in holding them sideways, or even up 
side down, they seemed, nevertheless, to grasp 
their significance. Nat-ah’-ki was wont to 
spread out my letters and endeavor to learn 
what they told, although, of course, she knew 
not even a letter of the alphabet. She early 
came to know my mother’s handwriting, and 
when I received letters from others written in 
characteristically feminine style, she would 
watch me closely as I read them and then ques- 
tion me as to the writers. ‘Oh,’ I would care- 
lessly answer, “they are from relatives, women 
of our house, just telling me the news and 
asking if IT am well and happy.” 
And then she would shake her head doubt- 
fully, and exclaimed: “Relatives! Oh, yes, rela- 
tives! Tell me truly how many sweethearts 
you have in the land from whence you came?” 
Then I would truthfully answer, swearing by 
the Sun, calling upon him to bear witness that 
I had but the one sweetheart, she there present, 
and she would be content—until I received an- 
other bundle of letters. As the summer wore 
on these letters became more frequent, and I 
realized with ever-increasing regret that my days 
of happy, irresponsible wandering were about 
over, that I must go home and begin the career 
which was expected of me. 
We leit the Marias not long after the death 
of the Snake woman, moved south by the way 
of the Pend d’Oreille Coulée and the Knees, and 
camped on the Teton River, the stream whicn 
Lewis V. Clark named the Tansy, and which 
the Blackfeet rightly call Un’-i-kis-is i-si-sak-ta, 
Milk River, for its waters in its lower course 
are ever of a milky color. Late in August we 
moved to a point on this stream only three 
miles north of Fort Benton, and every day or 
so I used to ride in there often accompanied 
by Nat-ah’-ki, whose desire for various bright- 
colored prints, ribbons, shawls and beads, was 
well night insatiable. There we found Berry 
and his good wife, his mother and the Crow 
woman, the two latter recently returned from 
a sojourn with the Mandans. And thither, one 
day, came Sorrel Horse and his outfit. He and 
Berry were making preparations for the winter 
trade. I was beginning to feel pretty blue. I 
showed them my letters, told them what was 
expected of me, and declared that I must re- 
turn east. They both laughed long, loudly, up- 
roariously, and slapped each other on the back. 
and I gazed solemnly, reproachfully at them. 
I could not see that I had joked or said any- 
thing funny. 
“He’s goin’ 
he’s goin’ 
antiere 
“And go to church,” said Berry. 
“And walk the straight and narrer path, 
world without end, and so forth,’ Sorrel Horse 
concluded. 
“Well, you see how it is,” I said. “I’ve got to 
go—much as I would like to remain here with 
you; I simply must go.” 
“Yes,” Berry acquiesced; “you have to go 
all right—but you'll come back. Oh, yes! you'll 
come back, and sooner than you think. These 
plains and mountains, the free life have you, 
and they'll never let go. I’ve known others to 
return to the States from here, but unless they 
died back there right quick, they soon came 
back. The couldn’t help it. Mind you, I’ve 
been back there myself; went to school there, 
and all the time old Montana kept calling me, 
and I never felt right until I saw the sun 
shining on her bare plains once more and the 
Rockies looming up sharp and clear in the 
distance.” 
“And then,’ Sorrel Horse put in, speaking 
Blackfoot, which was as easy to him as English, 
“and then, what about Nat-ah’-ki? Can you for- 
get her, do you think?” 
He had, indeed, touched the sore spot. 
was what was worrying me. 
“ee 
home,” said Sorrel Horse, “and 
to be a good, quiet little boy ever 
That 
I couldn’t answer, 
We were sitting in a corner of Keno Bill’s 
place. I jumped up from my chair, hurried out, 
and mounting my horse, rode swiftly over the 
hill to camp. 
We ate our evening meal: dried meat and 
black fat (o-sak’i), stewed dried apples—how 
good they were—and yeast powder bread. In 
due timé we went to bed, and for hours I rolled 
and tossed uneasily on my couch. “Nat-ah’-ki,” 
I finally asked, “are you awake?” 
“Ah!” 
“IT want to tell you something: 
away for a time; my people call me.” 
“That is not news to me. I have long known 
that you would go.” 
“How did you know?” I asked. 
one,” 
“Have I not seen you read the little writings? 
Have I not watched your face? I could see 
what the writing told you. I know that you are 
going to leave me. I have always known that 
you would. You are no different from other 
white men. They are all unfaithful, heartless. 
They marry for but a day.” 
She began to cry; not loud, 
pairing, heart-broken sobs. Oh, 
myself. How I did hate myself. But I had 
opened the subject. I felt that I must carry it 
through, and I began to lie to her, hating my- 
self more and more every moment. I told her 
that I was now twenty-one, at which time a 
white youth becomes a man. ‘That there were 
papers about the property which my father had 
left, that I must go home to sign. “But,” I 
said, and I called on the Sun to witness my 
words, “I will return; I will come back in a few 
moons, and we will once more be happy. While 
I am away Berry will look out for you and your 
good mother. You shall want for nothing.” 
And thus, explaining, lying, I drove away her 
fear and sorrow, and she fell peacefully asleep. 
But there was no sleep for me. In the morning 
I again rode in to the Fort and talked long with 
Berry. He agreed to look after the girl and her 
mother and keep them supplied with all neces- 
sary food and clothing, until such a time, I ex- 
plained, “as Nat-ah’-ki will forget me and be- 
come some other man’s woman.” I nearly 
choked when I said it. 
Berry laughed quietly. 
another man’s woman,” 
only too glad to return. 
inside of six months.” 
The last steamboat of the season was dis- 
charging freight at the levee, and was to leave 
for St. Louis in the morning. I went back to 
camp and prepared to leave on it. There was 
not much to do, merely to pack up a few native 
things I wished to take home. Nat-ah’-ki rode 
back with me, and we passed the night with 
Berry and his family. It was not a festive time 
I must go 
‘Tetold” no 
just low, des- 
how I hated 
“She will never be 
he said. “You will be 
I shall see you again 
