Chapter IV: Part 4

It was hard for the man who had led such an active life to sit idly in his lodge day after day. He visited but little from lodge to lodge, for he did not like to ask any one to lead him about here and there. His wife was kind, cheering him with her constant talk and making light of their great misfortune. She worked hard to provide things as of old, by tanning for a share the hides and skins brought in by hunters. The people were all kind. They did not forget how generous the blind one had been in his prosperous days, and they came daily to relieve his poverty with gifts of meat, and even tongues and pemmican. Of an evening the chiefs and warriors would assemble in his lodge as before, to smoke and talk and cheer his spirits. Through all the pain, and the darkness of constant night, Pi-waṕ-ōk kept up a good heart, though at times, when he thought of the sunlight shimmering over the yellow prairie and painting the tops of the distant mountains with wondrous color, he was very sad to think that he was never again to behold it all, never again to join in the chase, never again to experience the fierce joy of battle. One thing that kept him up was the thought that by some good chance he might, some day, be cured. He remembered the stories of the ancient ones who had been made well by their brothers, the animals of the plain and forest, of the air and the water, and he thought that they might help him too, if only he had an opportunity to meet them.

The people were camping along the foothills of the mountains, and one evening, after a long day’s travel, the lodges were pitched by a wooded stream, and right under a high sandstone cliff which formed one side of the valley. The next morning, while yet the people slept and even the dogs were quiet, while not a stir of any kind broke the stillness of the camp, Pi-waṕ-ōk, restlessly turning on his bed, heard the shrill cry of a bald eagle (Ksiḱ-i-kinni, whitehead), now near, now far, as it circled around and around above the valley. In his mind he saw the great bird soar, now high, now low, with scarcely a movement of its powerful wings, saw the flash of golden light on its body as it turned to the rising sun. “Ah,” he thought, “if my sight were only as good as that bird’s, how happy I should be! Far up in the air, it looks down upon the world, and nothing escapes its eye, from the great brown buffalo quietly grazing to the little ground squirrel hunting about its hole for a root of grass.”

Presently the camp awoke to another day of the chase, of toil, of feasting, and of play. Í-kai-si arose, built a fire, and cooked the morning meal. A friend dropped in to share it and tell of a recent exciting bear hunt. Pi-waṕ-ōk scarcely heard him, for he was still thinking of the great bird swinging so strong and free in the blue sky above. All at once he realized that here, perhaps, was the opportunity he had long sought; here, close by, was a “little brother,” as his fathers called them, more keen-eyed than any other living thing. Surely it knew how to keep the eyes bright and clear, how to cure them if they became diseased. “Friend,” he said to his guest, “this morning, when all was still, I heard a whitehead sounding its cry as it circled around above us. Did you happen to see it?”

“Yes,” the man replied, “it has a nest here, and just as I came in I saw it carrying something to feed its young. Far up on the cliff by which we are camped is a short pine-tree, growing out from the climbing rock; there, in the branches, the bird has built its home.”

“Friend,” Pi-waṕ-ōk cried; “it is as I thought: my chance has come. I beg you to guide me to that place, for I believe the traveller of the sky can cure me.”

“Hai-yu,” the friend exclaimed, “you know not what you ask. With my good eyes, and seeing plainly where to cling and step, it would be a hard task to reach that height; for you it would be sure death to attempt the climb.”

“Even so,” the blind one replied, “yet must I try to do it. Death comes in many ways. It stares us in the face at every turn. Wherever we go, whatever we do, it lies in wait for us, like a panther for the deer by a forest trail. I am not afraid; have pity and help me try to reach that nest.”

Í-kai-si cried, and begged him to think no more of such a dangerous thing; the friend told how straight and high the cliff was, how difficult to climb, but they talked in vain. He said that if no one would help him, he would go alone, on until he fell and died. At length, seeing that he was not to be turned from this which he had set his mind upon, the friend consented to be his guide, and they started.

It was but a few steps to the foot of the cliff, where the fallen rocks made a sloping hill; they soon surmounted this, and then the climb began. Sometimes they were side by side, the leader guiding the blind one’s hands and feet, and again he was ahead, and reaching down would pull Pi-waṕ-ōk up on a narrow shelf. All the people of the camp stood watching them with wide-staring eyes, and as the two went on, higher and higher, over places where it seemed there was no jutting rock to offer foothold, they held their breath, fearing, expecting, that the next step would be the climbers’ last.

Pi-waṕ-ōk’s courage won. At last, tired and breathless, they came to where the gnarled and stunted tree hung to the cliff’s face by its giant roots. “Hai!” said the guide; “I never thought we would reach it; here we are at last. And now, what next?”

“Help me up into the nest.”

“That I cannot do. There is no room for more than one. The limb would break if both of us were on it.”

“Then,” said Pi-waṕ-ōk, “I will go alone,” and he began to climb out on the trunk, his friend telling him just where to reach for a hold on the spreading branches. Then came the most dangerous feat of all, to climb over the rim of the wide and loose-sticked nest; but that too was accomplished, and the tired man lay down in its hollow beside the scared and hissing fledglings. “Go,” he called out to his friend, “go and leave me for a time here alone.”

The young man climbed on up to the summit of the cliff, and walked away to a distant point, where he waited until he should be called.

Pi-waṕ-ōk lay motionless; the young birds ceased their frightened cries, and all was still save for the breeze, which sung through the tree-top with a mournful sound. If the limb on which the nest was built gave way from his added weight, he knew that he would fall upon the rocks far below, a crushed and shapeless mass. It was an uneasy and frightful thought.

And now from afar the parent bird espied him in the nest, and swooped down with a terrible rushing roar, like far-off thunder. Down, down, she came, swift as an arrow, to the very edge of the nest, and then soared upward with a bound, the rushing air behind swaying the tree as if a hurricane was passing. Again and again, four times in all, the bird made a rushing dive at the helpless man, and each time he heard its nearing cry he prayed, crying out that he had not come to harm its young, but to ask its aid. And at last the whitehead seemed to understand, for after the fourth fierce rush, it slowly sailed around and settled on the edge of the nest.

“Hai-yu,” Pi-waṕ-ōk cried, “be you male or female, father or mother of these young birds, as you love them, pity me.”

“I am their mother,” the bird replied, “and, since you have called upon me in their name, say what is in your mind; I will help you if I can.”

Then the blind one told of his affliction, and how through great danger and sore distress of mind he had climbed the cliff, hoping the great bird might cure him.

“Alas,” said the whitehead when he had finished, “what you ask is beyond my power; nor could my husband, who is away hunting, help you. None of my kind could make you see again, for we have never had occasion to treat the eyes. We live to great age, but our eyes remain strong and clear to the very end.”

Pi-waṕ-ōk wept. “Alas!” he cried, “how my hopes have fallen. This long and dangerous climb, after all, brings no relief.”

“Not so,” said the bird. “I cannot give you sight, but in other ways I can do much for you. Here is a feather from my tail; take it, and keep it carefully, and you shall live to old age. And since you are helpless in your blindness, I will do more. I will teach you many wonderful things, and will give you power to heal the sick. Then you will not sit sad and idle in your lodge. The people will keep coming for you to go here and there to heal them and to practise your mysterious rites, and you will be so busy that you will forget your blindness.”

Then the bird began, and through the long morning taught Pi-waṕ-ōk, showing him the secret of many wonderful things, telling him how and what to use for certain ailments. It took a long time to explain it all, and just as the bird finished, the blind one fell asleep.

After a little he awoke. “Put out your hand and feel,” the whitehead said. He did so and found he was lying on grassy ground.

“You are on the prairie at the top of the cliff,” the bird continued; “your friend is sitting away over there on a point. Rise up and motion him to come, for I must leave you now.”

When the young man saw him beckoning, he came running with all his might. “Ah!” he cried, as he came near, “you are cured.”

“No,” Pi-waṕ-ōk replied. “I am still as blind as ever.”

“Then how came you here? How could you climb that awful cliff and still be blind?”

“I do not know,” said Pi-waṕ-ōk. “I was asleep in the whitehead’s nest, and when I awoke I was here.”

The way home was easy, for they followed the rim of the valley to a point beyond the cliff, and then descended a sloping hill. And when they had arrived at camp the people came crowding around to hear all that had happened.

As the whitehead had said, Pi-waṕ-ōk became a great medicine man and healer of the sick, and, through the secret power that the bird gave him, he was able to do many strange things. He and his wife, Í-kai-si, lived to a great age. He was the greatest healer the Bloods have ever had.

RAGGED HEAD

Many years ago there was a Nez Percé Indian whose name was Ragged Head. He wore the long hair on the front of his head tied up in a bunch, and the ends hanging over were ragged and of different lengths. This was why they gave him this name. This man was a great warrior. He could not be killed. When he was a young man his dream helper had come to him in his sleep and had spoken to him, saying:

“My son, you are a man who need not fear to go into battle, for neither arrow nor bullet nor lance nor knife can hurt you. You may rush into the very midst of the enemy, and they will all run away from you. Take courage, therefore, take great courage.” Then his dream helper smoked with him.

But when the dream helper had spoken to him in his sleep, and had told him that he need not be afraid of his enemies, and had smoked with him, it had said further:

“My son, some day you must die, and it may be that you will be killed by your enemy, for there is one thing that can hurt you. Only one thing, but of this you must be careful. If you should be shot with a ramrod, it will pierce your flesh and you will die.”

After Ragged Head had returned to the camp, he told this part of his dream to no one, except to two of his close friends, for he did not wish it to be known and talked about. None of these three men thought much about it, nor felt afraid, for every one knows that people when they are in battle and are trying to kill their enemies, do not shoot ramrods at them, but bullets.

When this man went to war he did not carry a gun, nor arrows, nor a lance. His weapon was a great war-club, made from the butt of an elk antler. With this he used to beat down his enemies. In the end of the club he had put a lash, and he used it also as a riding quirt.

Every summer Ragged Head used to cross the mountains from his country to the plains, to hunt buffalo and to make war on the Piegans. When he saw a party of his enemies, he would charge down upon them, shaking his war-club and shouting out the war-cry; and when the Piegans saw who it was that was coming they all tried to get out of his way, for they knew that he could not be killed, and that they could not do anything to hurt him. So he killed many of his enemies, and had great fame among his own people and among those against whom he fought. He was a leader of war-parties and always successful. Everybody was afraid of him, for all people knew that he had strong spiritual power, and that he could not be killed.

It was early summer. The grass had started. The snow was melting on the mountains. Already the streams were high. It was time to go to war.

From their camp on the plains a party of Piegans set out on the war-path to cross the mountains and take horses from their enemies on the other side—Snakes, Flat Heads, or Nez Percés. On foot they made their way along the lower hills, climbed up through the narrow pass, and at length stood on the top of the mountain range, from which they could look out over the lower country to the west. There, in the wide gray plain before them, they could trace the winding courses of many streams, and from some of them rose smokes which showed that people were camped there, and they knew that these people were their enemies.

While they were stopping here, overlooking the country, the leader of the war-party said to his young men:

“Now, here we will separate and go off in small parties to see what we can discover, and after ten nights we will all meet again at the Round Butte at the foot of this mountain, and return to our camp together.”

So here the party divided, going off by twos and threes to try to find the camps of their enemies.

There were two young Piegans who went off together. The younger of the two carried a bow and arrows, and the other had an old shot-gun the barrels of which had been cut off short, so that he could carry it under his robe without its being seen. The tube which had held the ramrod in its place had been broken off, and there was no way to carry the rod except in the barrel of the gun. When the boy was shooting, he held the ramrod in his hand.

After a few days’ travel these young men found a trail where people had passed not long before, and following this trail, they saw a camp, and hid themselves near by to wait for night and then to go to it and take horses. This was the camp of the Nez Percés, and Ragged Head was its chief.

In the night, after it was dark and the camp had become quiet, the young men crept down to the river, close to the lodges, to see what they might do. The older boy said to his companion, “I will go first into the camp and see how things are there, and perhaps take a horse or two, and then I will come back here and tell you, and we can both go back and take more horses if all goes well.” The other said, “It is good; I will wait for you here.”

The older boy crossed the stream and crept into the camp and looked about. The people were sleeping; it was all quiet, and in front of the lodges were tied many fine horses. He found two that he liked, and cut the ropes that held them, and led them back across the stream to where he had left his friend; but when he reached the place his friend was not waiting there. So the young man led the horses into the brush and tied them, and crossed the stream again for more. As he was wading through the water, carrying his gun muzzle up so that the ramrod should not fall out, and when he was near the other bank, he saw a man standing there, and thought it was his friend.

When he came close to him he said: “Why did you not wait for me on the other side, as you said you would?” The person did not answer, but stretched out his left hand and caught the boy by the hair, pulled him forward, and raised a great club, as if to strike him.

Then the young Piegan was frightened. He put up his left hand to ward off the blow, and with his right he pushed the muzzle of his shot-gun against the person’s body and pulled both triggers. The gun went off. The man fell, and the young Piegan quickly ran away.

At the sound of the shot all the Nez Percés rushed out of their lodges and up and down the stream to learn what had happened. On the river-bank they found Ragged Head dead. In his body was the splintered ramrod.

NOTHING CHILD

A long time ago there lived in the Blackfoot camp a young man who did not like company. He preferred to be alone. He had a wife but no children, and one young brother who lived with him. This was his only close relation. This man had a tame bear, which he had caught when it was a little cub. During the day he went hunting, and set traps and snares for game, and at night, when he returned to the camp, he did not go about visiting at the other lodges, but stayed at home by himself.

One day he thought he would move away from the village and camp alone—just his own lodge. They started, the man and his wife, and the young brother and the bear. They went up towards the mountains, and camped in the timber. The man hunted and killed plenty of game, and they stayed there for a long time. While the older brother was hunting, the younger one used to stay at home, making arrows and shooting with them, and at length he became a very good shot.

After a time the younger brother had grown big, and he was a handsome boy, and the woman fell in love with him, but he took no notice of her.

One day, while the young brother was sitting in the lodge making arrows, and the woman was outside tanning a hide, she called to him and said, “Oh, brother, come out and kill this pretty bird that is here,” but the boy was busy smoothing his arrows, and paid no attention. Pretty soon she asked him again, and then a third time, and when she called him the fourth time he got up and went outside and killed the bird and gave it to her, and then went into the lodge again and kept on working at his arrows. He did not stop and talk with her. Pretty soon the boy went off into the timber to try his arrows. The bear was lying by the door of the lodge.

The woman was angry at the boy because he took no notice of her, and she made up her mind that she would be revenged on him. So while he was gone she scratched and bruised her face and tore her hair.

At night her husband came home, and when he looked at his wife he saw that her face was scratched and swollen and her hair all pulled about. He sent out his young brother to hang up the meat that he had brought in, and the boy went leaving arrows lying by the fire to dry. While he was gone the woman said to her husband, “Your brother has beaten me because I asked him to shoot a pretty bird for me.” She showed her husband the scratches and bruises she had made on herself, and said, “See how he has used me.”

When the man heard this he was angry, but he said nothing. When the boy came back from hanging up the meat, he looked for his arrows but did not see them. Then he asked, “Where have you put my arrows?” but no one answered, and at length he saw the ends of them among the ashes, for his brother had thrown them into the fire. When the boy saw that his arrows had been burned he cried, and taking his robe and his bow and what arrows he had left, he went out of the lodge. He made up his mind that he could not live here with his brother any longer, and decided to go away. The bear, which all this time had been lying by the door of the lodge, listening, was angry at the lies the woman had told, and at what her husband had done, and he got up and went out and followed the boy. They travelled for a while and then slept, and the next day went on again, going towards the mountains.

For two days they travelled, and on the third day, as they were going along, the boy saw sitting in a tree-top a bird that was white as snow, and different from any bird that he had seen before. He took an arrow from his quiver and shot the bird, and as it fell, it caught among the branches and lodged there. He threw sticks at it, but could not knock it down, so he made up his mind that he would climb the tree and get the bird and his arrow. When he had tightened his belt and was just about to climb the tree, the bear spoke to him and said: “You had better not do this. If you go up there something bad may happen. It will be better to let the things go.” But the boy was very anxious to get that bird and his arrow, and would not listen to the bear’s words, but began to climb the tree.

He reached the branch where the arrow was, but when he stretched out his hand to take it it moved up a little higher, just beyond his fingers. So he climbed higher and again reached for the arrow, and again it moved up a little higher. He kept climbing and climbing, with the arrow always moving in front of him, until at last he climbed out of sight.

For the rest of the day the bear stood at the foot of the tree, looking upward and whining and moaning for his friend, but he saw nothing of him. About sundown all the boy’s clothing came tumbling down together, but nothing was seen of the boy. The bear would not leave the tree. He waited there, hoping to see what had become of the boy, but that was the last of him. He saw him no more.

After the boy and the bear had left the camp, the older brother kept thinking of what had taken place. When they did not come back he felt lonesome and sad, and began to fear that something would happen to his young brother, and at last he made up his mind that he would start out and learn what had become of him. He left his lodge and set out in the direction the two had taken. He found their trail and followed it, and after two days came to the tree and there saw the bear, standing on his hind feet and resting his paws against the tree. The man asked the bear what had become of the boy, but the bear would not reply to him. He asked him the same question again, and a third and a fourth time, and then the bear answered and said: “All this trouble has come upon us through your fault, because you listened to the lies your woman told you. Your brother has climbed this tree and has gone out of sight, and now for three days I have stood here, waiting for him to come down. His clothing has fallen down from up above, but he does not return.” They waited by the tree longer, but the boy did not come down, and at length the man said to the bear: “My brother is gone. He will never come back. We had better go back to the camp where we can live.” The bear went back with him.

On their way the bear told the man how it really had been, and that it was not the boy who had hurt the woman, but that she had done it herself, and in this way had caused his brother to lose his life. Then the man was angry, and when they came near to the lodge he took an arrow from his quiver and shot his wife, and her shadow went to the sand-hills.

That night the man said to the bear, “Well, we are only two now, and for myself, I have decided to stay here and starve to death, and as for you, you had better leave me and go your way and make your living as all bears do.” So the bear went away and did not return.

One night while the man was lying asleep, he dreamed of the bear; and the bear spoke to him and said: “My brother, listen to the words that I speak to you, and do now what I tell you to. Go back to the old camp of your people, to the cliff where they drive the buffalo, the piś kun, and wait there. A camp of your people is moving towards that place. They are very poor and have but little to eat. It may be that you can help them. Be sure to do exactly as I tell you from this time on, and in the days to come you will be unhappy no longer, but will have plenty of everything and will have full life. Now I wish you to-morrow, when you awake, to eat up your lodge and everything that is in it. This seems to you like a hard thing, something that cannot be done, but, by the power that I give you, you will be able to do it.”

When the man awoke, in the morning, he thought for a long time over what the bear had said to him in his sleep, and how it had said that in the time to come he would be poor no longer, but would have full life, and how it had said that it would give him that power, and he made up his mind to do as the bear had told him. He tore down his lodge and began to eat it, and found that this was not a hard thing to do. He ate the lodge and the lining, his clothing, his wife’s things—everything that he could find in the lodge, and then took his bow and arrows and started to go to the cliff as the bear had told him to.

Now since the bear had left, the man had had no food to eat, and on his journey he found himself getting weak and growing smaller. When he reached the cliff there was no camp there, so he waited, and all the time he kept getting weaker, and smaller and smaller, until he was no bigger than a year-old child. He thought now that he would surely die, and hid himself under a bunch of rye grass.

The next day the people moved in and camped at this place. An old woman went out to get some grass for her bed, and while she was gathering it, she heard a sound as if a little child were crying. She went in the direction of the sound, and under a bunch of rye grass she found a little child. She carried him into the camp and took good care of him. When the chief of the camp heard of how she had found the child, he said to the old woman, “Take good care of that child; he was put there for some good purpose.”

As time passed the child grew fatter and stronger, and the old woman grew fond and proud of him. They called him Kiś tap i pokau (Nothing Child.)

Near this camp stood a tree, and every day an eagle came and alighted in the tree. The chief had tried many times to kill this eagle, and so had other men, but no one could kill it. When they found that no one could kill it, they wanted it all the more. The chief had two very pretty daughters, and at length he said that he would give his daughters to any one who would kill this eagle. When this was called out through the camp by the old crier, all the young men came out to try to kill the eagle, but no one could do it. At last Nothing Child said to the old woman, “Grandmother, make me some arrows so that I can kill the eagle.” The old woman laughed when he asked her this, but she was very fond of him, so she tied a string to a deer’s rib for a bow and made him some little arrows, and he set out to kill the eagle. When the young men who had been shooting at the eagle saw the child coming with the tiny bow, they laughed and made fun of him, but Nothing Child fitted a little arrow on the string of his bow, and shot and killed the eagle. Then all who were standing by were astonished, but they said, “It must have been a chance shot.” The eagle was taken to the chief’s lodge, and they told him it had been killed by the Nothing Child. So he told his daughters to go and marry the found boy.

But the young men were not satisfied with this decision. They said that it was not fair, that the boy had made a chance shot, and they asked the chief to try their skill in some other way. So the chief told the young men that they might again try their luck for the young girls, and that whoever killed a white wolf with a black tail should have his daughters. All the men went out from the camp and built their wooden traps, and Nothing Child also went out and made a wooden trap. The next morning they all went out to visit their traps, and in almost all the traps they found something—wolves, foxes, badgers, and other animals. Some of the wolves were white all over, and some were white with gray tails, but no one had a white wolf with a black tail. The Nothing Child, with his grandmother, went out from the camp to his trap in a different direction from the rest, and in their trap they found a white wolf with a black tail. They took it into camp and to the chief’s lodge, and when he saw it he said that this was the wolf he wanted.

Now all the young men in the camp were jealous of the Nothing Child, for it was certain that he would get the chief’s daughters for his wives. So they went to the chief and asked him to try his people once more, that they thought that the Nothing Child had not killed the wolf fairly. So the chief now said: “Whoever will bring me a white fox with a black-tipped tail shall have my daughters. This will be the last trial, and after this no one need complain.”

The young men set their traps all over the prairie, but Nothing Child asked his grandmother to go with him, and he went to a place far from all the others and there set his trap. The next morning the young men all went out to look at their traps. Some had foxes and some had other animals, but when Nothing Child went to his trap, he found in it a white fox with a black-tipped tail, and when it was taken to the chief’s lodge he said that this was the fox he meant, and he told his daughters to get ready and go and marry the Nothing Child. The youngest girl was willing to do what her father ordered, but the elder was not.

They put on their finest clothing and left their father’s lodge and started for Nothing Child’s home. As they walked along, the elder girl said to her sister, “I am not going to marry this child, to be laughed at by everybody.” The younger sister said, “I am going to do what my father told me to. It is better to do so. Besides that, the Nothing Child must be a very powerful person. See how many wonderful things he has done.” The elder girl said, “Well, I am not going to his lodge. I am going to marry Masto pau (Raven Arrow).” This was a young man who had the power to turn himself into a raven whenever he wished. So the elder girl went her way to Raven Arrow, but the younger kept on towards Nothing Child’s lodge.

When the girl came to the lodge and went in, the old woman told her to sit down. Nothing Child was playing at the back of the lodge. The girl said, “My father sent me to sit beside the person who killed the eagle, the white wolf with the black tail, and the white fox with the black-tipped tail.” Nothing Child said, “I am the person who did that, but I do not want any woman to sit beside me.” The girl answered: “My father sent me to sit beside you, and I shall stay here. I am not going home any more.” When the boy saw that the girl was resolved to stay, he said, “Very well, you shall be my wife.” So she stayed, and was pleasant and nice with the boy and played with him, and he liked her. She saw that he was very poor, but she seemed to take no notice of that.

At this time the camp was very short of food. The young men scouted far and near over the prairie, but could find no buffalo. It was a hard time; everybody was hungry. One day Nothing Child said to his wife: “Now you stay here for a while. I am going away for a time. I am going to try to find a band of buffalo and bring them into camp.” He made ready for his journey and started. After he had travelled a long way he came to a wet, marshy place near the mountains, where in summer many buffalo had been. Here he gathered up buffalo chips, and made great piles of them in a row, and when he had finished, he went back some way, and then came running and shouting towards the piles of chips. When he got close to them he stopped, and then went back again, and again came running and shouting upon the chips, but nothing happened. He repeated this a third and a fourth time, and the fourth time, when he got near the piles, the chips turned into buffaloes and rushed off over the prairie, and Nothing Child ran them towards the camp and drove them over the cliff into the piś kun, so that once more the camp was supplied with meat.

The next day Nothing Child told his wife to go to her father’s lodge for the day, and not to return until night. After the girl had gone he spoke to his grandmother and said: “Grandmother, you have seen what strange things I have done, and you can see that I have some power. That power which I have was given to me by a bear that has helped me, and because I have done just what he told me to I have been able to accomplish the things that you have seen me do. I do not know the secret of my power, but I know that I have it. Now, Grandmother, I want you to do something for me. I want you to take a rope and tie me by the feet to the lodge poles, so that I may hang head downward from the poles. I am little, and you can easily hold me up.” The old woman did as he had told her, and he hung there head downward. Pretty soon he opened his mouth, and a little piece of cowskin stuck out. Nothing Child took hold of this and began to pull on it, and more and more came out, and at last he had pulled out the whole of his old lodge, and then he pulled out the lining, and afterwards many of his old belongings. When he had eaten all these things they had been old, but now they were new and white, and finely ornamented. The lodge was painted, the woman’s clothing was beautifully worked with porcupine quills; there was a new full set of war clothing for himself—all very fine.

After he had done this Nothing Child asked the old woman to untie him, and when he was on his feet again it was seen that he was no longer a child, but a full-grown man, very handsome. He told the old woman to set up the new lodge, and she did so. When his wife returned she was surprised to see all the new things. They looked strange to her. Also her husband, who, when she last saw him, was a small boy and rather ugly, was now a big, fine-looking man. The girl was pleased with the change, and now they lived together for a long time very happily.

After a time Raven Arrow became jealous of Nothing Child because of his power, but Nothing Child did not notice this, and, because Raven Arrow was poor, he asked him to come and live with him in his lodge. He did so, and they lived together for some time, and now the elder daughter of the chief was sorry that she had not done as her father had told her to.

One day, in the early summer, Nothing Child’s wife said to him, “Oh, how much I would like some fresh berries to eat!” He said to her: “Do you want some fresh berries? Well, now, go out and gather a lot of sarvis berry branches and bring them to me here in the lodge.” The woman did as he had told her, and brought in the bushes and threw them down on the floor of the lodge. Then Nothing Child took a tanned elk-skin and covered the bushes with it. In a short time he told his wife to take the skin off the brush, and when she did so she was astonished, for she found the twigs loaded with fine ripe berries, as though they were growing.

Now, when Raven Arrow’s wife saw this she felt that she too would like some berries, and she asked her husband if he could do this. But he said: “No. It is useless for me to try to do things that I know I cannot do. I can change myself into a raven and can do many other things, but I cannot make ripe berries grow in the spring, nor can I do many other things that Nothing Child does.”

After some time it happened that food again became scarce in the camp, and the chief sent word to his son-in-law, asking him if he could not again bring the buffalo into the camp, as he had done before. The hunters had been out and had travelled far over the prairie, but they could see nothing. Nothing Child sent word back that this was a hard thing he was asked to do; he feared he could not do it, but he would try.

He made ready for his journey and started, travelling a long way looking for the buffalo, but he found none. He then went to the marsh where he had made buffalo before, and again made many little piles of buffalo chips in rows, and again went back some distance and then came charging down on the piles running and shouting. And the fourth time he did this the piles of chips changed into real buffalo and started running. And Nothing Child ran the herd over the cliff, as he had done before, and again the camp was supplied with meat. In this herd was one white buffalo. His wife met him at the cliff, and he told her that this white buffalo was hers. That she must be careful of the skin when she had taken it off.

His wife told her husband that Raven Arrow had changed himself into a raven, and had flown away to look for buffalo, saying that if he found any he was going to drive them out of the country. This made Nothing Child angry, but he said nothing and waited. One day, as he was sitting by the fire, Raven Arrow, in the shape of a white raven, flew into the lodge and lit on the ground by him. When Nothing Child saw him he seized him and tied him by the feet to a lodge pole high up in the smoke and kept him there until he was nearly dead from the smoke. At last Nothing Child asked him if he would promise never again to drive the buffalo away from the people. Raven Arrow promised that he would never again do so, and Nothing Child untied him and let him down, when he changed into a man again. Up to that time ravens had always been white, but ever since the smoking that this raven got they have been black.

Nothing Child and his wife lived to full age and always had plenty of everything.

SHIELD QUIVER’S WIFE

There were two young men growing up in the Blackfoot camp. They were both good warriors and were making great names for themselves. One was lucky in taking horses. His name was Shield Quiver. The other was fortunate in killing enemies when he went to war. He was called Bearhead. When either of the two went to war, he always had a big party to follow him. Bearhead was jealous of Shield Quiver, because he always brought in horses.

One time the Blackfeet were camped at the Bear Paw Mountains, when Shield Quiver made up his mind that he would go off on the war-path. When he said that he was going, a large party intended to go with him.

Before he started the chief of the camp sent for him to come to his lodge, saying that he wished to speak with him. When Shield Quiver had come to the lodge the chief said: “Here, my young man, now that you are going to war, take my daughter with you, for you are the man that ought to have her. But you will have to be on your guard against Bearhead. He wants my daughter, and for a long time has been trying to get her, but I cannot let him have her. He has a bad disposition. He has had many wives, but, after living with them for a short time, he has got angry with them and killed them. I am afraid that if I give him my daughter he might kill her.”

Shield Quiver thought for a little while, and then said: “Very well; I will go to war, and I will take your daughter with me, but if I go with a woman I cannot let men go with me. I shall have to go alone.”

The chief said: “I cannot say anything about that. You will do what you think best. I cannot advise you.”

So Shield Quiver took the chief’s daughter for his wife. He said to his followers: “Now I am going to war, but you men cannot come with me. I shall be gone two moons, and then I will come back. I am going alone.”

He started with his young wife, and they went towards the Snake Country. They travelled for a good many days, until they came to a range of mountains and crossed it. Then they went on towards the head waters of a stream that they could see a long way off. When they reached this stream they found that the Snakes had been camped there, and had moved away that day. The fires were still burning in the camp.

When Shield Quiver found that the Snakes had only just moved from there, he said to his wife: “Here, let us get back in the brush. These people are not far from here. They may see us. We must hide ourselves.” They went back into the brush and hid.

While they were waiting in the brush a dark cloud came up in the west, and it looked as if they were going to have a storm. Shield Quiver said to his wife: “While we have to wait, I will fix up a little shelter of brush here, so that we may keep dry; but to-night we will go to the camp and take horses.”

“Very well,” said his wife, “while you are fixing the place, I will go around the point and into the old camp and will see if I can find anything there that has been left behind.” For often something may be forgotten and left in the camp.

That day the Snakes had left this camp, and had moved over to another creek. The head chief of the Snakes had but one son, a fine-looking young man—the handsomest in all the Snake camp. That morning, before they moved, he had painted himself and had dressed himself finely, and after he had finished he handed his mother his sack of paints to pack. While his mother was packing, she put down the paints in a little patch of brush, near the lodge, and then went away and forgot them.

When the young man came into camp that evening he said to his mother, “Mother, where are my paints?” Then his mother remembered that she had left them in the camp they had just come from. She said, “Oh, my son, I forgot the sack, and left it in a little patch of brush just back of where the lodge stood.” The young man caught up a horse and went back to get it that same evening.

When he rode into the old camp, and came to where the lodge had been, he saw there on her knees a woman with an elk robe over her head, and in her hands his paints, which she was looking at. When he rode up to her, and when she looked up at him, he saw that she was very pretty, and he liked her as soon as he looked at her; and she, when she saw him, so handsome and finely dressed and painted, liked him.

He made signs to her, saying, “Who are you, and what tribe do you belong to?” She signed back to him that she was a Blackfoot. Then she asked him, “Who and what are you?” He answered, “A Snake.” He asked her by signs, “Where is the party that you are with?” She said, “There are only two of us.” He said, “Come, get on my horse behind me here, and let us go to my camp.” She answered: “No, there are some things that I have here that I want to get. Then I will go with you.” Then she thought a little and said: “The only other person here is my husband. Why do you not kill him? I will help you.” The Snake said: “It is good. I will do it.” The girl said to him: “I will go to him, and do you creep through the brush, and as soon as I see you I will throw my robe around him and hold him, and you can kill him with your lance.”

She went back to the camping-place, and when she got there her husband was stooping down hobbling the horses. The Snake was right behind her, creeping through the brush. She walked up to her husband and threw herself down over him, and kissed him while he was hobbling the horses. He looked up at her and laughed. He thought she was only playing with him. In a minute he heard the footsteps of some one coming, running, and he said, “Look out! here comes somebody,” and he tried to throw her off, but he could not. He raised himself up while she clung to him, and the Snake made a pass at him with the lance, but he was afraid of killing the woman, and he missed the man, and Shield Quiver caught hold of the lance. He kept calling to his wife: “Let go of me. This man is trying to kill me. He will kill us both. Let us try to save ourselves.”

Shield Quiver and the Snake wrestled and tugged backward and forward to see who should get the lance. They were both strong men, and at length the shaft broke, and Shield Quiver held the piece on which was the head. Then he jumped back and shook off his wife, and rushed at the Snake and thrust the lance into his breast, and so killed him with his own lance.

Then he turned to his wife and said: “Now, woman, I have killed this man that you have tried to help, and I would like to have you tell me what is the reason that you acted as you did, and tried to help him to kill me.”

Then the woman explained her reasons, and said: “When I left you I went into the camp and found this sack of paint, and while I was looking at it he came up and asked me to go to his camp with him, and I liked him, and thought that I would go with him. So we laid a plan to kill you before we went to camp.”

Shield Quiver said to her: “Now, woman, listen. Bearhead wanted you. He has had a good many women, and he has killed all that he had. Through pity I took you. I never expected to take a wife. I will not do anything to you for what you have done to me, but will take good care of you and will give you back to your father.”

He scalped the Snake and took everything that he had. The woman was crying hard. He asked her what she was crying about, and she answered: “I am crying for my lover, who is dead.” He said: “Saddle up your horse. We will go home.”

They started, and after many days’ travel reached the Blackfoot camp. It was in the night. The next morning Shield Quiver said to his wife: “Put on your best clothing. I told you I was going to give you back to your father, and I am going to take you there this morning. So get ready to go.”