FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Marcu 17, 1906. 

















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— = TTL, =s 
“Thi TORT TAN TOURIST 

In the Lodges of the Blackfeet. 

XVII.—A FriendJy Visit from the Crows. 
In the days of which I write the Blackfeet 
were not, as they are now, cursed with the 
different forms of tuberculosis. Yet there were 
of course occasional cases. The wife of Four 
Horns, a young man of the Small Robe band 
had it, and was growing steadily worse. As the 
lodge of the young couple was quite near ours, 
we naturally saw much of them. Four Horns 
was an exceedingly tall, well-built, pleasant- 
featured man of twenty-eight or thirty, and his 
wife was also good looking, neat in person and 
habits, but the disease had sadly shrunken her 
once fine form. The man was a famous raider, 
a tireless hunter, and with what he had taken 
from the enemy, and by careful breeding, had 
acquired a large band of horses. In his lodge 
were always bundles of fine robes and furs, 
ready to be bartered for anything that was 
needed or which took his wife’s fancy. Nothing 
was too good for his woman; he thought the 
world of her, and she of him. 
When the disease appeared a doctor 
called in, and given a fee of three horses. His 
medicines and prayers did no good, however, 
and another one was tried, fee, five horses, but 
with like results. In succession the doctors of 
the whole tribe attended the patient, and now 
the end was near. The fine herd of horses had 
shrunk to less than a dozen head. Robes, furs, 
costly blankets and finery had also been given 
to the doctors. 
was 
Late one evening a messenger 
hurriedly entered our lodge: ‘You are called,” 
he said, “by Four Horns; he bids you, both of 
you, make haste.” 
We found the poor woman gasping for breath. 
Four Horns was sitting on the couch beside her, 
his face buried in his hands. An old woman, 
robe thrown her head, was feeding the 
fire. I poured out a large drink of whiskey, 
added some sugar and hot water to it, and 
Nat-ah’-ki it to the sufferer. It revived 
her; she soon breathed more easily, and then 
said to me, speaking very slowly and interrupt- 
edly: “Never in all my life have I done a 
wrong thing. I have never lied, nor stolen, nor 
done that which brings shame upon a woman's 
parents and upon her. Yet our gods have for- 
saken me and I am near to death. You have 
gods as well as we. I have heard of them. The 
Maker, His Son, the Mother of the Son. Pray 
to them, I beg you; perhaps they will take pity 
and make me well.” 
I cannot explain, I fear, how I felt upon hear- 
ing that simple request. I wished that I could 
grant it, and knew that I could not. How was 
it possible for one to pray who had no faith? 
I cast about in my mind for some excuse; for 
over 
gave 
something to say, for some way to explain my 
inability to do it. I looked up and found Nat- 
ah’ki earnestly, expectantly gazing at me. We 
had talked about religion, the white man’s re- 
ligion, several times, and she knew that I had 
no faith in it. Nevertheless, I could see that 
she expected me do what the dying woman had 
requested. I made the sign of negation; no. 
She moved at once to the side of the sufferer 
and said: “I will pray to those gods for you. 
Long ago, when I was a little girl, a Black- 
robe and my uncle taught me the way,” and she 
began: “Ap’-ai-stu-to-ki, kin’-ah-an-on, etc.” 
*Twas the Lord’s prayer! Some zealous Jesuit, 
perhaps Father De Smet himself, had translated 
it into Blackfoot, and good Blackfoot, too. 
But even as the prayer ended, a dark stream 
flowed from the woman’s mouth, the last and 
fatal hemorrhage. “That which kills you,” 
cried Four Horns, “shall kill me. I follow you 
soon to the Sandhills.’ And bending over he 
drank of the blood flowing from his loved one’s 
lips. With one last effort she clasped her thin 
arms around his neck, and died. It was a dread- 
ful scene. © 
“Come,” I said presently, gently lifting him. 
“Come with me to my lodge; the women now 
have their work to do.” 
With one last, long look, he arose and fol- 
lowed me. I gave him the guest couch, and 
handed him a cupful of whiskey which he 
quickly swallowed. After a time I gave him 
another cupful; worn out with long watching, 
overcome by the strong liquor, he laid down and 
I covered him with a robe. He slept soundly 
until after noon the next day; by that time 
Nat-ah’-ki and others had bound the body in 
robes and blankets and lashed it in a tree some- 
where down the river. I know not whether 
Four Horns had long since contracted the dis- 
ease, or if he was infected there at the woman’s 
death bed. He died of the same dread scourge 
some six weeks later. If there is a Sandhills, 
let us hope that his shadow found hers, and that 
together the dreariness of that abode of shadows 
became lightened. 
The uncle Nat-ah’-ki had mentioned was a 
French creole, one of the earliest employees of 
the American Fur Company. He had married 
the sister of her mother, and had been very 
kind to his various relatives. Nat-ah’-ki had 
passed two winters in his quarters at Fort 
Benton, and much time in his lodge when he 
traveled with the tribe. A devout Catholic him- 
self, he had tried to spread the doctrine among 
his adopted people. I would have said nothing 
about the prayer she had made, but she opened 
the subject an evening or two later by asking 
me why I had not done what her dying friend 
asked of me. 
“How could I, not believing, as I have told 
you, that which the Blackrobes and others tell 
is?” I asked in turn. 
“Surely,” she said, “if I can believe, I who 
can neither speak your language nor read the 
Blackrobes’ sacred writings, then you should be 
able to do so, you who can understand it all.” 
“In that very writing,” I explained, “the 
Maker says that we shall have no other god than 
Him, and that if you pray to others than Him, 
He will punish you in some fearful manner. 
Therefore, if you do pray to Him, you must no 
longer pray to the Sun, to Old Man, or to any- 
thing else whatever.” 
“Nevertheless,” said Nat-ah’-ki, decidedly, “I 
shall pray to Him, and to our gods also. That 
writing was not meant for us; only for the 
white people. We are poor; we are like a blind 
person feeling his way along high cliffs; we need 
the help of all the gods we can find.” 
“Right you are,’ I told her. “We do need 
help; pray to them all; and since I cannot, why, 
pray for me.” 
“Ah!” she sighed. “As if I did not always do 
so! There is the Sun; you can see him every 
day. How good he is, giving us light and heat. 
Can you not believe in him? 
“Yes,” I replied, ‘I do believe in him, he is 
the life of this earth.” 
That pleased her, 
work happily singing. 
In February we were visited by a deputation 
from the Crows, who were wintering on Tongue 
River, away to the south of us. They came with 
tobacco and other presents from their chief to 
ours, and the message that their people offered 
to make a lasting treaty of peace with the 
Piegans. Their leader was one Rock Eater, 
half Crow and half Blackfoot. His mother had 
been captured by the former tribe when a young 
girl, and in due time became the wife of her 
captor’s son. Rock Eater, of course, spoke 
both languages perfectly. The envoys were well 
received, and became guests of the more prom- 
inent men. Their proposition was one which 
required mature deliberation, and while the 
chiefs and head warriors were discussing it, 
they were feasted and given the best of every- 
thing in the camp. Rock Eater himself became 
my guest, and many an interesting talk I had 
with him by the evening fire. 
“Is your mother happy with the Crows?” I 
asked him one night. “And how do you your- 
self feel—that you are Piegan, or Crow, or 
bothe” 
“It is this way,’ he replied. “My mother 
loves my father, and I love him, for he has al- 
ways been kind to us. Generally, we are quite 
happy; but there are times, when a party re- 
turns with Piegan scalps, or horses taken from 
them, boasting loudly of their victory, calling 
the Piegans cowardly dogs. Ah! then we feel 
and she went about her 
” 
