APRIL 7, 1906. | 
FORESICAND STREAM. 
537 

and sat down by my side, and we fell to talking 
about various things. I saw at once that he was 
a man of education and refinement, and from 
the moment I first saw him I took a liking to 
him. He was tall and well built, brown-eyed and 
brown-haired, and had a pleasing, frank ex- 
pression of countenance, although it was rather 
a sad one. Also, he seemed to have no enthus- 
iasms. He seldom smiled, never laughed out- 
right, and was often so lost in thought over— 
to judge from his sad eyes—something near his 
heart that he was entirely oblivious to his sur- 
roundings. I invited him over to the little abode 
for dinner, and Berry immediately took to him 
as I had done. So did the women, who were 
usually very distant and dignified in the presence 
of strangers. He soon passed the most of his 
time with us, and nothing in the estimation of 
our household was good enough for him. Old 
Mrs. Berry rigged up a fine robe couch with 
willow back rests for his especial use. The 
Crow Woman gave him a beautiful pair of 
moccasins. Nat-ah’-ki and Berry’s wife got out 
their choice stores of pemmican, and depuyer, 
dried meats and berries for our little evening 
feasts. 
“See here,” I said to Nat-ah’-ki one day. “I’m 
getting jealous of this man. You women think 
more of him than you do of Berry and me.” 
“He is so sad feeling,’ she said, “that we 
pity him. What is it that troubles him? Has 
he lost some loved one?” ; 
I knew no more than she what troubled him; 
that he was grieving about something was evi- 
dent. We never questioned him, never even 
asked his name, nor whence he came. And 
that is where the western people differed from 
those of the east. They never gossiped, never 
tried to pry into one’s secrets, nor demanded 
his pedigree. They simply gave him the hand 
of good-fellowship and used him as they wished 
to be used. 
The women named him Kut-ai‘imi: Never- 
Laughs, and thus among themselves they ever 
spoke of him. It was a long time before he 
knew it, and then it didn’t matter. He told 
Berry and I that his name was—well, what it 
was is not necessary for this story; we will call 
him Ashton. He also informed us that his home 
was in Boston, and that he had come west 
merely to see something of western life. When 
he learned that the women and I were to join 
the camp, he asked to be allowed to go with us, 
and of course we were glad to have him go. He 
purchased a horse and saddle, blanket and riflq, 
and various other things necessary for the trip. 
So, one evening we returned to camp, to our 
very own lodge, which Nat-ah’-ki’s mother had 
again set up and furnished for our home coming. 
On every hand there was song and laughter, 
and beating of drums, and calls for feasts. The 
women broiled some meat, made some bread and 
tea, and we eat the simple meal with relish. 
Then Ashton and I lay back on our soft lounges 
and smoked, talking little. I was perfectly con- 
tent; my friend, judging by his dreamy and far- 
away expression, had gone back eastward, in 
thought, a couple of thousand miles. The 
women soon washed the dishes, and got out their 
porcupine quill, or bead embroidery work. 
“Grandmother,” I said, “tell me a story; some- 
thing about your people in the long ago.” 
“Hai!” the Crow Woman exclaimed. “Just 
hear him. He is always wanting stories. Before 
long, if we are to keep him contented, we will 
have to make up some, for he has heard about 
all we know.” 
“But just think how selfish he is,” said 
Nat-ah’-ki, looking at me mischievously. “He 
gets all of our stories, but tells us none of his.” 
I was obliged to acknowledge that the little 
woman was right, and promised to tell some 
later. Old Mrs. Berry, after some thinking, be- 
gan: 
The Story of No-Heart. 
“Tt was before my grandfather’s time, yes, far 
back of that, for he said that the old people 
whom he had heard relate it, told about having 
heard it from their grandfathers. So, it is surely 
a story of great age. 
“Tt was in the spring time. The people were 
scattered out on the plain one day, busily digging 
the white root, when a terrible thunder storm 
came up. It was far to the lodges, so the 
diggers, knowing that they would get wet 
whether they ran or staid, just sat down where 
they were, covered themselves with their robes, 
and waited for the storm to pass by. One 
family happened to be all near each other when 
the rain began to fall, all huddled up closely to- 
gether. 
“*This is a very cold rain,’ said the mother. 
‘I am shivering.’ 
seVies se Saide thes iatierwmnite 155 Cold: 
closer together all of you.’ 
“Thus they sat, when thunder crashed above 
them, and a ball of lightning, falling in their 
midst, broke with a big noise, and knocked them 
all flat and limp on the wet ground. There they 
lay, the father and mother, two sons and a 
daughter, and none dared go to aid them, for 
fear the angry god would strike them, too. But 
when the storm passed by, the people ran to do 
what they could for the stricken ones. At first 
they thought that all of them were dead, and 
four of them surely were; the fifth one, the girl, 
still breathed. In a little while she sat up and, 
seeing what had befallen the others, wept so 
piteously that the women there wept with her, 
although none of them were related to her. The 
father had been an orphan since childhood; so 
had the mother; and the poor girl was now 
In the whole camp she had not one 
Crowd 
alone. 
relation. 
“Kind friends buried the dead, and then many 
different ones asked the girl to come and live 
with them; but she refused them all. ‘You must 
go and live with some one,’ said the chief. ‘No 
one ever heard of a young woman living by her- 
self. You cannot live alone. Where would you 
procure your food? And think of what people 
would say should you do so; you would soon 
have a bad name.’ 
“ “Tf people speak evil of me, I cannot help 
it, said the girl. ‘They will live to take back 
their bad words. I have decided to do this, and 
I will find a way to keep from starving.’ 
“So this girl lived on alone in the lodge her 
parents had built, with no company save her 
dogs. The women of the camp frequently visited 
her and gave her meat and other food; but no 
man, either young or old, ever went in and sat 
by her fire. One or two had attempted it, but 
only once, for she had told them plainly that 
she did not wish the society of any man. So the 
youths gazed at her from afar, and prayed the 
gods to soften her heart. She was a handsome 
young woman, a hard and ceaseless toiler; no 
wonder that the men fell in love with her, and 
no wonder that they named her No Heart. 
“One young man, Long Elk, son of the great 
chief, loved the lone girl so much that he was 
nearly crazy with the pain and longing for her. 
He had never spoken to her, well knowing that 
her answer would be that which she had given 
to others. But he could not help going about, 
day after day, where she could always see him. 
If she worked in her little bean and corn patch, 
he sat on the edge of the river bank nearby. If 
she went to the timber for wood, he strolled 
out in that direction, often meeting her on the 
trail, but she always passed him with eyes cast 
down, as if she had not seen him. Often, in the 
night, when all the camp was fast asleep, Long 
Elk would steal out of his father’s lodge, pick 
up a water skin, and filling it again and again 
at the river, would water every row in No 
Heart’s garden. At the risk of his life he would 
go out alone on the plains where the Sioux 
were always prowling, and hunt. In the morning 
when No Heart awoke and went out, she would 
find hanging in the dark entrance way, choice 
portions of meat, the skin of a buffalo or the 
deer kind. The people talked about this, 
wondering who did it all. If the girl knew, she 
gave no sign of it, always passing the yoyng man 
as if she did not know there was such a person 
on earth. A few low and evil ones themselves, 
hinted wickedly that the unknown protector was 
well paid for his troubles. But they were al- 
ways rebuked, for the girl had many friends who 
believed that she was all good. 
“Tn the third summer of the girl’s lone living, 
the Mandans and Arickarees quarreled, and then 
trouble began, parties constantly starting out to 
steal each other’s horses, and to kill and scalp 
all whom they could find hunting or traveling 
about beyond the protection of the villages. 
This was a very sad condition for the people. 
The two tribes had long been friends; Mandan 
men had married Arickaree women, and many 
Arickaree men had Mandan wives. It was 
dreadful to see the scalps of perhaps one’s own 
relatives brought into camp. But what could 
the women do? They had no voice in the 
councils, and were afraid to say what they 
thought. Not so No Heart. Every day she 
went about in the camp, talking loudly, so that 
the men must hear, scolding them and their 
wickedness; pointing out the truth, that by kili- 
ing each other, the two tribes would become so 
weak that they would soon be unable to with- 
stand their common enemy, the Sioux. Yes, 
No Heart would even walk right up to a chief 
and scold him, and he would be obliged to turn 
silently away, for he could not argue with a 
woman, nor could he force this one to close her 
mouth; she was the ruler of her own person. 
“One night a large number of Arickarees suc- 
ceeded in making an opening in the village 
stockade and, passing through, they began to 
lead out the horses. Some one soon discovered 
them, however, and gave the alarm, and a big 
fight took place, the Mandans driving the enemy 
out on the plain, and down into the timber be- 
low. Some men on both sides were killed; 
there was both mourning and rejoicing in the 
village. 
“The Arickarees retreated to their village. 
Toward evening No Heart went down into the 
timber for fuel, and in a thick clump of willows 
