Project Gutenberg's Jack the Young Explorer, by George Bird Grinnell This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license Title: Jack the Young Explorer A Boy's Experiances in the Unknown Northwest Author: George Bird Grinnell Release Date: April 20, 2014 [EBook #45443] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JACK THE YOUNG EXPLORER *** Produced by David Edwards, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) Every attempt has been made to replicate the original as printed. Some typographical errors have been corrected; a list follows the text. The illustrations have been moved from mid-paragraph for ease of reading. (etext transcriber's note) bookcover JACK, THE YOUNG EXPLORER By the same Author Jack the Young Cowboy Jack the Young Trapper Jack the Young Canoeman Jack the Young Explorer Jack in the Rockies Jack Among the Indians Jack the Young Ranchman Pawnee Hero Stories and Folk Tales Blackfoot Lodge Tales The Story of the Indian The Indians of To-day The Punishment of the Stingy American Duck Shooting American Game Bird Shooting Trails of the Pathfinders “THE TENT WAS SHIVERING AND SHAKING AND FROM IT EMERGED GROANS AND GROWLS.”—Page 130 JACK THE YOUNG EXPLORER A Boy’s Experiences in the Unknown Northwest BY GEORGE BIRD GRINNELL Author of “Jack in the Rockies,” “Jack the Young Ranchman,” “Jack Among the Indians,” “Pawnee Hero Stories,” “Jack the Young Trapper,” etc. colophon NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1908, by Frederick A. Stokes Company September, 1908 Eighth Printing Printed in the United States of America FOREWORD FOR untold ages the mountain goats had clambered undisturbed along the face of the steep precipices that overhang the St Mary’s River and Swift Current. Over the slide rock fallen from their cliffs the wild sheep had beaten out paths and trails zigzagging from the valley below to the heights above. On the lower wooded slopes the elk browsed in spring and fall, climbing high above the timber at the season when the flies were bad, and again when snows fell at the approach of winter, working their way down toward the lower lands and the foothills of the prairie. In the thick swamps and morasses of the river bottom the moose dwelt, sometimes clambering up toward the heights, but more often escaping the summer flies by burying their huge bodies beneath the waters of the lakes, or perhaps by wallowing in some great bog, from which they emerged covered with black mud which, drying, formed a coating that protected them. Everywhere through the valleys, on the hillsides, far up on the bald knolls, and even higher still, where the sheep and goats delighted to climb, the buffalo of the mountains—called by old mountaineers bison, to distinguish them from the yellower, sunburned animals of the plains—wandered singly or in little groups. These rough and rocky fastnesses protected them well. The Indians of the plains never tried to pass beneath these gloomy walls. Occasionally a white man or half-breed, more frequently a little band of Kootenay or Stoney Indians, true mountaineers, followed up these rivers for a short distance, hunting the game and trapping the beaver; but in those days game was so plentiful that these occasional excursions made no impression on it. The Indians had few guns and hunted noiselessly, chiefly with bows and arrows. For the most part, it was easier to kill the buffalo of the plains by the swift chase than to go into the rough mountains and hunt the game that lived higher up. It was into this region, as yet unknown to white people, that Jack and his friends now entered, in order to explore it and learn for themselves what it held. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. A Meeting of Friends 1 II. Historic Land 17 III. The Blackfoot Agency 31 IV. A Medicine Pipe Ceremony 43 V. Off for the Mountains 59 VI. A Sheep Hunt 75 VII. Old-time Hunting Ways 85 VIII. A Big Bear Hide 94 IX. A Blackfoot Legend 107 X. The Source of an Unknown River 114 XI. The Retreat 133 XII. The Ways of Beaver 150 XIII. The Forks of Swift Current 163 XIV. A Lynx Visits Camp 178 XV. Lone Wolf’s Bay Pony 196 XVI. An Ice River 214 XVII. A Fat Bighorn 229 XVIII. Among the Icefields 244 XIX. A Four-footed Hunter 257 XX. Climbing a Great Mountain 276 XXI. Trouble with Whiskey Traders 289 To-day 306 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS “The tent was shivering and shaking and from it emerged groans and growls” Frontispiece FACING PAGE “Bruce had to keep up, for if he had fallen he would have been dragged and kicked to death” 212 “Jack did not raise his sights, but following Hugh’s suggestion, fired at the animal’s neck” 230 “Hugh took hold of his wrist and wrenched the revolver away from him” 292 JACK, THE YOUNG EXPLORER CHAPTER I A MEETING OF FRIENDS AS the train drew slowly into the Helena station Jack’s eyes searched the platform, looking for Hugh, and in a moment he recognized the tall form, standing well back from the crowd and looking at the platform of each car as it passed. “Hurrah, Hugh!” called Jack, as he waved his hand frantically; but he had to jump down to the platform and elbow his way through the crowd before Hugh’s eye caught his. “Well, son,” said Hugh, as he grasped his hand in a firm clasp, “I sure am glad to see you. I only got here last night myself, but it’s been a long day waiting around here alone, and I was afraid that maybe you wouldn’t come on this train.” “Well,” replied Jack, “I’m mighty glad to get here. I was a little afraid that maybe something might have happened to keep you, and that I should have to do the waiting. It’s all right now though, and I hope we can get off to-morrow. I don’t want to stop in towns any more than you do, and I guess we shall both be glad to get into camp.” “Sure, we will,” said Hugh. “Now, what have you in the way of baggage? Of course you’ve got your bed, and I see your gun and bag in your hand. I’ve got a room at the Merchants’ Hotel, and I reckon we might as well go up there, and then after you’ve eaten we can see the sights.” “Well,” said Jack, “I’ve got a small trunk and my bed, and we can pack those up to the hotel, and then I’ll put the stuff I need in my bed and my war bag and we’ll be all ready for the stage whenever it goes.” “All right,” said Hugh, “I reckon we better take one of these hacks here, and the man can put your things on top, while we ride inside. It isn’t much of a walk up to the hotel, only about a mile, but maybe we’d better get there as quick as we can and have our dinner and attend to our business, and then we won’t have anything on our minds.” Before long they were rolling rapidly over the smooth road toward the town, which stands at some distance from the railroad. As they passed along, Jack saw, to the right, enormous piles of cobblestones extending for half a mile or more toward the town. For some time he looked at them with curiosity, and then asked Hugh what they were. “Why, don’t you know?” Hugh replied. “That’s the old placer ground that they used to work over when this camp was first settled. Last Chance Gulch they called it. That gravel and rock that you see there came out of the sluice boxes. Every little while, I’m told, a man comes down here now and works over some of that gravel, and they say that to-day there’s fair wages to be made mining right here in the town. I’ve heard that there are some Chinamen that work these gravels right along. There’s a heap of gold been taken out of that gulch, but, of course, just how much nobody knows. Every now and then, in digging the foundations of a house in town, some man will turn up a little nugget of gold, and then all the workmen quit digging and begin to pan out the foundations.” “That seems queer, Hugh, doesn’t it? I suppose the same thing happens in lots of places along the Rocky Mountains, because a great many of the big towns now stand where old mining camps used to be.” “Yes,” said Hugh, “that’s surely true. There’s lots of gold left in the sides of these hills yet, even after the miners have been over the dirt.” “What kind of a trip did you have coming up, Hugh?” asked Jack. “Did anything happen on the road?” “No,” replied Hugh; “nothing of any account. Joe drove me in to the railroad with my stuff. He had to come in for a load of groceries and a keg of nails, and I took the train west to Ogden, and that little narrow gauge road up to Garrisons, and then came east on the main line. I was kind of scared that maybe I’d get lost, making so many changes; but everybody I met was mighty pleasant spoken, and I didn’t have a mite of trouble. Of course you know what I saw on the road, for you and I went back that same way two years ago, when we came back from the coast.” By this time they were climbing the hills of the town, and a moment later the hack stopped in front of the Merchants’ Hotel. Jack got a room, in which his things were put, and the two friends went down to dinner. After this was over, it took Jack but half an hour to get from his trunk and pack in his bag the few things that he needed for his trip, and then he and Hugh sallied out and took a long walk out of town, into the high hills which overlook Helena and the great flat through which the river flows. On the way back they passed the stage office and arranged for two seats on the box of the stage that left the next morning. “It ain’t much use for you to engage these seats,” said the man in the office; “I don’t believe there’s ary person going out to-morrow morning except you two, still I’ll put your names down for the two seats on the box if you like. It can’t do no harm, anyhow. You have your stuff down here to-morrow morning any time after seven o’clock and we’ll take care of it and see that it goes on the stage.” Their long walk had given Hugh and Jack a good appetite and they heartily enjoyed their supper. After they had eaten they started out again and walked through the brilliantly lighted streets, looking in at the windows of shops and saloons, each of which seemed to be full of customers. The air was mild and balmy and the beautiful night had brought many people into the street. As they passed an open door, from which shone a bright light, Jack looked in and saw people sitting at tables playing cards, while toward the back of the room was a long narrow table surrounded by men who seemed greatly interested in what was going on. “What are they doing in there, Hugh?” said Jack. “Why, I reckon that’s a gambling house,” was the reply. “You know there’s no law against gambling in most of these Montana towns, the way I hear there is in towns back East. Everybody is free to go in and play if he wants to.” “I’ve never been in a gambling house, Hugh. Can’t we go in and look on? I’d like to see what they are doing.” “Why, yes,” said Hugh; “there’s no harm in going in and looking on. That isn’t the sort of thing that I would do for fun, but there’s no harm in it and you may see something that will teach you a good lesson. I never was much on gambling myself. I never had much money to lose, and I never wanted to win anybody else’s. It never seemed to me quite square to take money without you worked for it. I never could see the sense of betting, either; but, come on; let’s go in.” Hugh led the way into the room, and Jack followed. The people playing at the various tables and those overlooking the game paid no attention to them. All were intent on their own affairs. Hugh walked around to one end of the long table and gradually edged his way into the crowd, gently pushing men this way and that in so good-natured a fashion that no one objected to it. Jack kept close behind him, and presently, when Hugh had reached a point where he had a good view of the table, he squeezed back a little and let Jack pass in and stand in front of him. Behind the table sat a man smoking a long cigar, while in front of him was a little silver box about the size of a playing card, from which at short intervals the man drew two cards, one after another, which he placed on two little piles by the box. In the middle of the table was a long frame on which were painted representations of cards, and on these cards, in various positions, were placed circular disks, white, red, and blue. The players placed these disks on the cards, and then when two cards came out of the box, sometimes the dealer took over to his side of the table the chips that were on a particular card, or else put on that card as many more chips as were already on it. Then the player usually removed these chips and put some or all of them on another card. Most of the people about the table appeared to be acquainted with each other, and those who spoke to the dealer seemed to know him, calling him by his first name. For some minutes Jack watched the game intently and began to have a glimmering idea of how it was played. Once or twice he whispered a question to Hugh, but Hugh shook his head for silence, and one or two of the people near by looked frowningly at the speaker. “Evidently,” Jack thought, “this is not a place for conversation.” As they stood there, the crowd in the room increased; more and more people gathered around the faro table; the smoke in the air grew thicker, and there was the sound of more or less hum and bustle. Presently Jack felt a hand on his shoulder, and looking back at Hugh saw him move his head toward the door, and the two pushed their way through the crowd and out again into the street. “Might as well get away from there,” said Hugh; “they are playing pretty heavy. Two or three men came in that were full of liquor, and it looks to me as if there might be trouble in there to-night. There’s no special reason why we should be there if there’s going to be any shooting.” “No,” said Jack, “I should say not. It’s about the last place in which I’d want to be shot, a gambling house.” “Yes,” said Hugh, “you’re dead right about that. I don’t know as I’d mind about being killed if I had to be killed, but I’d like to have it done in the right sort of a place.” “Is there much of that thing going on in town, Hugh?” asked Jack. “Right smart,” said Hugh. “I reckon from what I saw last night and from what I hear that there must be twenty-five or thirty places like that, and maybe a good many more that are not as decent as that one.” “Well,” said Jack, “do men lose much money there?” “I reckon they do,” answered Hugh. “A whole lot more than they can afford, even if the game is straight. There’s quite a percentage in favor of the dealer and a good many of the games are not straight.” “How do you mean, Hugh?” said Jack. “Do the gamblers cheat?” “Yes,” said Hugh, “I reckon they do. Some of those fellows are awful slick at dealing and shuffling. They can shuffle the cards just about the way they want them, so that they know just what card is coming out next, and if they see the bets are going against them they can slip two cards out of the box instead of one and make themselves win instead of lose.” “But,” said Jack, “I should think they would get caught at it.” “No,” said Hugh, “scarcely ever; and if a man does see anything crooked, it’s only his word against the dealer’s, and the dealer is apt to have two or three friends around the table who will talk for him. If the worst comes to worst, why, of course, the dealer has got to draw quick, and usually he is a man who can do that.” “Do you mean shoot, Hugh?” said Jack. “Well, yes,” said Hugh; “sometimes it comes to that, though generally the dealer can bluff it out, especially if he’s got two or three men to wrangle and shout for him.” “Well,” said Jack, “that seems pretty rough.” “It is rough,” said Hugh; “but that’s the way it is in a good many of these towns.” Soon after seven o’clock next morning Jack and Hugh were at the stage office with their beds, their bags, and their rifles. For a time they sat on their rolls of bedding talking, but at length a man came out from a stable near by and spoke to Hugh, and the beds were carried into the stable and lashed on to the rack behind the stage and the bags thrown into the boot under the driver’s seat. A little later the four horses were brought out and hitched to the vehicle, and presently the driver, carrying his long whip, came from the office. The stage was led out into the street before the stable, the driver mounted, and Jack and Hugh followed him, all three sitting on the front seat. Then a clerk came from the office and spoke to the driver, telling him that there were no other passengers that morning, and with a parting nod the team started off and trotted swiftly out of town. “Hugh,” said Jack, “is this the sort of stage that they use everywhere in the mountains?” “No,” replied Hugh, “I reckon not. This is the old-fashioned stage, such as they used to drive in crossing the plains away back before the railroad was built, but stage-driving is pretty near over now and the old stages are laid on the shelf. Usually for these short little mountain trips most any kind of a jerky or even a lumber wagon is used. This stage here is one of the real old kind.” It was a high, large vehicle hung on C springs, with abundant room inside and two or three seats without. Back of the seats the roof of the coach was strengthened with slats of wood running lengthwise, and all about this roof was a high iron railing, so that a good lot of baggage might be piled there and lashed firmly to the top. “I have seen coaches like this more than once,” said Jack. “Up in Massachusetts, where my grandfather lives, they have just such a coach as this to send around the village to gather passengers for the train in the morning, and it takes away the passengers that come by the train and leaves them at their homes. Once, too, when I went to the Catskill Mountains, they had a stage like this to take us from the landing at the river up to the hotel, a long drive.” “Well,” said Hugh, “these coaches are easy to ride in, but by the time a man’s been on the stage about twenty-four hours he is generally in the frame of mind where he is willing to fight with his best friend. You see, the trouble is, he can’t get any sleep, and without sleep a man’s temper shortens up pretty fast.” “Well,” said Jack, “we have got to go more than twenty-four hours without sleep, haven’t we? We travel right along, don’t we?” he asked, turning to the driver, who nodded in reply and added that it would take in the neighborhood of twenty-four hours to get to Benton. “Of course,” he remarked, “we could go faster if there was any reason for it. We change teams about every fifteen miles, but there is no reason why we should hurry the horses. It doesn’t make any difference to you, I reckon, whether yet get in at four o’clock in the morning or six, does it?” “Not a bit,” said Jack. “I like this riding on a stage, but I don’t know just how long I’ll continue to like it.” They had now turned from the flat prairie, over which the smooth road ran straight, and were entering a wide valley of the mountains, which gradually closed in on them until there seemed hardly room for more than the river that flowed through it and the road. “That’s Wolf Creek,” said the driver, motioning toward the stream with his whip. “And this here canyon that we are going through is called Prickly Pear Canyon.” On either side of the stream the hills rose sharply, sometimes in steep grassy slopes, shaggy with clumps of small pines and spruces, at others, in a sheer rocky precipice, or yet again in steep slopes covered with small shrubbery through which great knobs of rock showed here and there. “Any game on these hills?” asked Hugh of the driver. “Plenty of deer,” was the reply, “and some elk; lots of bear, too. Not many people travel over these hills, except prospectors, and they don’t do any hunting to amount to anything.” As he finished speaking, Jack, who had been scanning the hillside ahead of the team, suddenly grasped Hugh’s arm and said, “There’s a deer now, Hugh.” “Sure enough,” said Hugh, and all hands looking, a black-tail was seen feeding alone on the hillside, not eating the grass, but walking from one clump of weeds or brush to another and biting a mouthful of food from each. As they drew nearer, the animal heard the trotting of the horses or the rattle of the coach and stood for a few moments looking innocently at the team as it approached. The deer was a young buck, his horns, of course, in the velvet, for it was but the last of June. He studied the team with his huge ears turned forward to catch the sound which it made, and every now and then lifted his head higher, and seemed to feel the air with his nose. At last, when the coach was fairly close to him, the driver said, “Do either of you want to take a shot at him?” “Not I,” said Hugh. “Nor I,” said Jack. “Well,” said the driver, “I’m glad you don’t, for it would take us some time to butcher him, and I don’t like to loaf much just after starting out. The end of the day is the better time to drive slowly.” Presently the buck seemed to have satisfied himself that there was possible danger in this great object approaching him, and turning, he bounded lightly along the hillside, gradually working up until at last he passed out of sight. “Wasn’t it fine, Hugh,” said Jack, “to see him use his nose. That is what a deer depends on, isn’t it? He doesn’t trust his eyes very much, nor his ears, but his nose never lies to him.” “Well,” replied Hugh, “that’s so. And it isn’t so only about deer, but about all sorts of game animals. I’ve had deer walk right straight up to me. So long as I kept still they didn’t pay any attention to me, and likely thought I was a stump or a rock, but just as soon as they passed along near enough to catch the wind of me they never stopped to look or listen, but got up and dusted the best they knew how; and yet you can come on a bunch of deer and they’ll hear you and jump to their feet and look at you, and maybe you can fire three or four shots at them and kill two or three before they’ll run away.” “Yes,” said the driver, “that’s sure enough true; but you mustn’t say that it’s only deer or game that acts that way. Take a dog now——” “Yes,” said Hugh, “that’s right enough, too.” “Why,” said the driver, “I have seen dogs—owned ’em, too—that didn’t seem to get any satisfaction at all out of their eyes; they couldn’t trust them. I have seen the time when I’d be walking along with my dog, and maybe I’d get a little ahead or a little behind him and I’d stop to talk with three or four fellows, and the dog would start to look for me; and even if he saw me right plain, he wouldn’t be sure it was me until he had come up behind me and stuck the end of his nose against my leg so that he could smell me. I remember once standing with three or four men in front of the Bella saloon in Benton when my dog did a trick like that. One of the men I was talking to didn’t like dogs; in fact, he was awful scared of them. The dog came up to us and smelt of each man, and when he shoved his nose hard against the leg of the man who was afraid of dogs, the man felt the dog’s nose and looked down and saw the dog, and he thought he’d been bit. He jumped about four feet into the air and reached for his gun to try to kill the dog that had bit him, but the others of us got hold of him and held him until we’d explained matters. “Curious how scared some people are over a little thing, and yet maybe all the time they’ve got good sand and wouldn’t run away in the worst kind of a scrap.” “Yes,” said Hugh, “that’s one of the queer things about human nature; you never can tell what it is that is going to scare a man. I’ve seen men that would run a mile to get away from some little bug like a spider or a hornet, and yet I know those men weren’t cowards, because I’ve seen them in tight places and they were always willing to take as many risks as anybody. Why, once I even saw a man that was afraid of a mouse.” “No?” exclaimed the stage driver. “Fact,” said Hugh. “He was afraid of a mouse, and when one ran over his face, just after he had gone to bed, he got up and sat by the fire all night for fear it would do it again.” “Why, Hugh,” said Jack, “don’t you remember that the great Napoleon was afraid of a cat. It would make him sick if there was one in the room, even though he didn’t see it and didn’t know that it was there. And Napoleon was one of the greatest soldiers that ever lived, and, I suppose, a brave man.” “Yes,” said Hugh, “I reckon he was.” “I have known lots of people,” Jack went on, “who were afraid of snakes. It didn’t make any difference whether they were venomous snakes or not. Just as long as they were snakes, they scared these people.” “That’s so,” said Hugh. “I’ve known one man that was afraid of snakes, and, what’s more, he could tell if there was one around, whether he saw it or not. He said he smelled them. That seems queer, too.” “It does for a fact,” remarked the driver. Before they had passed through the Prickly Pear Canyon they reached the stage station where the horses were to be changed. There all hands got down and walked about a little to stretch their legs; but in a very few minutes four fresh horses had been harnessed and they recommenced their journey. “Do you ever have trouble with road agents on this line?” Hugh asked of the driver. “No,” said he, “we’ve never been stopped but once. The fact is, we scarcely ever carry anything that makes it worth while for anyone to stop the stage. Early this spring, though, my partner was held up just as he was coming over the Bird Tail Divide. There had been some talk of sending out some dust from Benton by the stage, but it was given up and the gold went out another way. Of course none of us knew that it was going, but the news must have got out somehow, for that night, just as the stage reached the top of the Bird Tail Divide and the two leaders had got up onto the level, two men stepped out in the moonlight and told Buck—that’s my partner—to stop. He started to lay the whip on his horses, but they were all walking, and the men brought down their guns and called to him again that if he started they’d kill the leaders. So he pulled up and asked the men what they wanted, and they said they wanted the treasure chest and told him to throw it down. He said there wasn’t any treasure chest, and if they didn’t believe him they could come and search the coach. With that a third man that Buck hadn’t seen before popped up from the side of the road and climbed up and looked through the boot and searched Buck, and then went through the whole stage. They were a pretty mad lot when they let Buck go on.” “Was it ever known who they were?” “No,” said the driver. “I always had an idea that Buck knew who the little fellow was that searched the stage, but as they didn’t get anything and didn’t bother Buck any, I reckon he didn’t want to say much about it.” All through the day they trotted briskly forward changing horses at regular intervals, so that the teams were always fresh and progress rapid. They had dinner and supper at the stage stations which they passed, and about ten o’clock at night reached Fort Shaw. By this time both Hugh and Jack were tired and sleepy, but the driver seemed as fresh as ever. While the horses were being changed, Hugh sat down on the front steps of the building and smoked his pipe, and Jack, trying to get the sleep out of his eyes, walked up and down on the boardwalk. As he was doing this he was joined by a little Irishman, who conversed pleasantly. “Are you working now?” said the little man, as he puffed at his short pipe. “No,” said Jack, “not now. I’m just going up to Benton.” “Do yez want work?” asked the stranger. “I need a couple more hands on me ranch down below here and I’d like to hire yez. Thirty dollars and board is what I pay; good wages for the time and for the country.” “Well,” said Jack, “I’d like the work and I’d like the money, but I’m just traveling through the country and I’ve got to meet a man in Benton, and couldn’t stop now to take even a good job.” “Well,” said the man, “I’m sorry. If ever yez come through Shaw again, maybe ye’d be needin’ work, and ye’d better come to my place and see if I can’t give yez a job. Maloney is me name, on Sun River, five miles below the post.” Jack was quite tickled at this offer, and when they started again, told Hugh about it. “Yes,” said Hugh, “you are getting to be a man now, and ought to be able to do a man’s work, and I reckon you are.” All through the night the stage rattled and swung over the prairie, and soon after the sun rose the next morning trotted swiftly across Benton bottom and drew up at the end of its journey. CHAPTER II HISTORIC LAND “THERE are some friends of ours,” said Hugh, as the stage approached the hotel, and he raised his hand and made the Indian sign to attract attention. “Yes,” said Jack, “I see them. There is Baptiste and there’s Joe, too. It’s splendid to see them both again.” Jack signaled earnestly and made the sign for shaking hands, to which his two friends responded. As the stage drew up, Hugh said, “Now, son, you get down into the boot and haul out our bags and throw them to me,” and when Hugh had reached the ground Jack passed him the bags and then sprang down himself. There were hearty handshakes and many questions between the four delighted friends, and presently Baptiste said, “Casse-tête, let us go now to my cabane, and there we will eat and smoke. I have many things to ask you.” “All right,” said Hugh. “Just wait a minute till I see about our beds.” In the meantime Jack and Joe had engaged in a sort of war dance, followed by a wrestling match, to express their joy at meeting again, and then Jack thought of the beds on the coach and ran and unstrapped the leather apron which covered the baggage rack, and the two boys, loosening the lashings, threw the beds on the ground by the hotel door. “Hello,” said Hugh, “those boys have got our beds off now. We can go on. Just set those beds inside the office, and tell the clerk we’ll stop for them with the wagon when we start. Then come on to Bat’s cabin.” Before long Hugh and Jack were seated in the cabin, while Baptiste and Joe were busily engaged in the work of preparing breakfast. Soon all were seated at the table. The fare was simple, but heartily enjoyed, for all had healthy appetites and contented minds. “How are you getting on, Bat?” said Hugh. “How do you live? Just about as you did a couple of years ago?” “Yes,” said Baptiste; “I live well; I always have lived well since you and these boys came in from the north and made me that fine present of the gold that you think I lost many years ago. Every month the bank pays me my money, and then besides I work a little for the company at the furs, so they pay me something, and I have some money that I can spend. I have bought me two horses, and sometimes I go off on a hunt; sometimes I trap a little. It is not much, but it is pleasant; it brings back to my mind the old days. Also, my mind is better than it was. I do not forget things as I used to. It was a good thing for me when you three men came in from the north and found me here, and you would not have found me except for the charger that Jack picked up on the prairie.” “Doesn’t it seem wonderful that the finding of that little piece of metal should have changed a man’s life as yours has been changed, Baptiste?” said Jack. “Yes,” said Hugh; “we, none of us, can ever tell what influence the smallest thing we do will have on other people. Now, Joe,” he went on, “have you got a team here, and are you ready to take us out to the camp, as Mr. Sturgis wrote you?” “Yes,” said Joe, “the team’s here and the wagon, and I reckon we can make the agency in three or four days and we can start just whenever you are ready. I’ve got a mess outfit and some coffee and sugar and bacon and flour, and if you need anything more we can get it here. I’m ready to start as soon as you are.” “Well,” said Hugh, “the sooner we get off the better, I expect. What do you say, son?” “Why,” replied Jack, “you can’t start too soon for me. I’m anxious to get to the camp, and then into the mountains. I always feel as if I didn’t have much time out here anyhow, and I want to make the most of what I have.” “Well, then,” said Hugh, as they pushed back their chairs from the table, “let’s sit down and smoke a pipe and talk for a little while, and then you and Jack can go and get the team, and Bat and I will sit here and chew the rag about old times until you come for us. Get the beds and the bags when you come by the hotel, and then we can pull right out. I reckon Joe has grub enough and we won’t have to buy anything here without it is a piece of fresh meat. We might get beef enough for two or three meals, but the weather is kind o’ hot now, and likely there’ll be a chance to get meat at some of the ranches we pass if we need it.” For a time Hugh and Baptiste sat together talking about the old trapping days, bringing up one after another the names of men whom they had known, and relating incidents of hunting, trapping, buffalo chasing, and Indian fighting. Jack thought it was good to listen to, but at length Hugh turned to the boys and said, “Well, go on now and get your wagon and we’ll pull out. It’s a long ways from here to the agency, and every hour we lose on this end we’ve got to make up on the other.” The boys started off for the team, leaving the old men to sit in the sun and talk about the past. A little later the wagon drew up to the door, and Hugh, after glancing through its contents and tightening one of the ropes that lashed on the load, said, “Well, we may as well be going. Good-by, Bat; we’re likely to get back here about two months hence, and we’ll meet then. I reckon up in the camp we’ll see all the Monroes and old man Choquette, but those are all the old-timers we’re likely to meet. So long,” and he climbed into the wagon. “Good-by, Baptiste,” said Jack, as he shook hands, and Joe, reaching down from the driver’s seat, pressed the old man’s hand without a word. “Good-by, my friends, good-by,” said Baptiste. “It has been good to see you. Always your coming brings joy to my heart. I shall look for you to come again.” Joe gathered up the reins, spoke to the horses, and in a moment they were rattling along the street headed for the road leading up the Teton River. It was a beautiful day. The air was cool and pleasant, yet the sun shone warm. The prairie and the distant hills were still green, and beautiful flowers dotted the plain. From the top of almost every sage brush came the sweet, mellow whistle of the meadow lark. In the air all about birds were rising from the ground, singing as though their throats would burst, and then after reaching a certain height, slowly floating down again on outspread wings, the song ending just as they reached the ground. After they had gone a short distance away from the town the country seemed as lonely as the wildest prairie. Far off, here and there, grazed a few cattle or horses. Ahead of them the white, level road wound about among the bushes of the sage. To Jack it was all very delightful. The change from the crowded city was absolute, and as he looked about him and enjoyed his surroundings his heart seemed to swell within his breast, and he felt as though he could hardly speak. Presently Joe said to Hugh, “Have you plenty of room, White Bull? I got this extra wide seat before I started because I thought we’d all want to sit on one seat, but I don’t know whether it gives you room enough.” “Oh, yes,” said Hugh, “there’s lots of room for all of us.” “Yes,” said Jack, “we could pretty nearly put another man here.” “Now, Joe,” said Hugh a little later, “I want to ask you something about the people. I heard that two years ago, and maybe last year also, they starved, and that many of them died. I heard, too, that even up here the buffalo have all gone.” “Yes,” said Joe, “that is true. Two years ago and also last year the people starved, but it was two years ago that the most of them died, that is, one winter back from this winter that has just passed. Old Four Bears kept a kind of count on a stick, cutting a notch for every person that died, and they say that nearly six hundred of the people starved to death. There was no food. The buffalo had not been seen for two winters. The people had hunted and sometimes killed an elk or a deer or a few antelope, but at last these had all been killed, and there was left nothing but rabbits and such birds as we could shoot or snare. It was a hard time; everybody was hungry. Everybody got poor. Even people that had once been heavy and had much fat on their bodies grew lean and thin. When you looked at the old people, the women and the children, you could see their bones sticking out against the skin. The little children and the old people were the ones that died. The men and the women were very hungry and got weak, but they did not die. White Calf, who is now the chief, asked the agent to give us what food there was in the storehouse and let us have one good meal and then die, but the agent would not do it. He told us to go out and kill food for ourselves. You know Father Prando?” Hugh nodded. “Well, he had seen for a long time what was coming and he had written to people back East, asking that food might be sent out to us, and telling them that unless it was sent we should all starve to death. Besides that, he wrote to the commanding officer at Fort Shaw, and during the winter an officer was sent up to the agency to see how the people were getting on. This officer came and went around through the camp, and asked the people to tell him the truth. He didn’t have to ask many questions; he had eyes and could see for himself. They tell me that in some of the lodges that officer sat and cried; that the tears ran down his face as they do down the face of a woman whose child has just died. “After a while he went away, and we heard nothing more, but presently the news came that wagons loaded with food were coming from Fort Shaw, and then a little while after that came a government inspector who asked many questions and removed the agent and stopped here. This inspector was a good man, I think. He kept sending messages to Fort Shaw and trying to hurry the food along, and they say that he sent telegrams to Washington. Anyhow, about the end of the winter wagons began to come loaded with flour and bacon, and this was given out to the people, and then the suffering stopped, and the people stopped dying. After a little while, too, we got a new agent, a good man, who seems to be trying to help the people. He taught them how to plow the ground and to put seed into it. Maybe that is good. The seed grew, but it did not get ripe. We had plenty of oat straw, but no oats; but ever since the food began to come a year ago last winter we have been doing better.” “Well, well, that’s a hard story,” said Hugh. “How did it come that there was not food enough in the warehouses to help the people along?” “I heard two of the white men that have married into the tribe talking,” said Joe, “and they said that the agent had been writing to Washington that the Indians were doing well and were growing crops and becoming civilized. They said that he wrote those things so that the people at Washington would think that he was a great man and was helping the Indians along. Of course the people never grew any crops; they didn’t know how. They lived well enough as long as there were buffalo, but when the buffalo went away, then the people had nothing to depend on.” “You say nearly six hundred died?” asked Hugh. “That is what they told me,” replied Joe. “Good Lord,” said Hugh, “that was about one-fourth of the people. I don’t suppose there was more than twenty-five hundred or three thousand Piegans at best.” “I don’t know,” said Joe, “how many there were, but I know that many died. You can see their bodies in all the trees along the creeks.” “But, Hugh,” said Jack, “how is it possible that such a thing should occur? Why didn’t the people back East know about this suffering and send food out to relieve it?” “Well, son,” said Hugh, “you know it’s an awful long way from here back East, and then it’s hard always to get at the truth about any of these stories. An Indian reservation is a great place for getting up kicks and complaints, and I suppose that maybe those people in Washington are so used to hearing complaints that they don’t pay much attention to them.” “But just think,” said Jack, “of six hundred people being starved to death. It’s almost impossible to believe it.” “I reckon,” said Hugh, “that we’ll find a good many of our old friends dead when we get to the camp.” “Yes,” said Joe, “a good many.” All day long the horses trotted briskly up the level road along the Teton River. The sun was hot, but a cool breeze blew down from the mountains to the west and the whole country was fresh, green, and charming. About three o’clock they camped on the river at the edge of a grove of cottonwood trees, and unhitching the horses, Joe and Jack picketed them on the fresh green grass. Hugh, meanwhile, had brought some wood and built the campfire, and before long supper was ready. As they sat about after eating, Hugh smoking his pipe, the boys lounging in the warm sunshine, and all watching the sun as it sank toward the west, and the shadows of the cottonwoods grow longer minute by minute, Hugh said to Jack, “We were talking this morning, son, about the hard times the Piegans have had this winter, and that brought to my mind another hard time that they had a good many years ago.” “What was that, Hugh?” said Jack, sitting up to listen, while Joe, who had been lying on his back with his eyes shut, rolled over so that he faced the old man. “Did you ever hear of the Baker massacre?” asked Hugh. “No,” said Jack, “I never did.” “I did,” said Joe. “My father was killed that time. I don’t remember anything about it. I was too little. Only I remember my mother, how she cried.” “Yes,” said Hugh, “lots of people cried that time.” “Tell us about it,” said Jack. “Well,” said Hugh, “it’s quite a long story and it made quite a fuss in its time, not so much among the white folks out here as among the Indians and, as I’ve heard, among white people back East. It certainly was a bad killing. You read in the books about the way Indians massacre white women and children when they’re on the warpath, but I reckon Indians never did anything worse than this killing at the Baker massacre. The way the white men killed and cut up the Cheyenne and Arapahoe women and children at Sand Creek down in Colorado, and the way they killed women and children up here on the Marias, no Indians could ever beat.” Hugh paused, and looked around for a twig with which to push down the fire in his pipe. “I’ve heard about the Sand Creek massacre, Hugh,” said Jack, “though I never heard the whole story. Some day I’m going to get you to tell me that; but what was the Baker massacre?” “Well,” said Hugh, “along in ’66-’67, and from that time up to 1870, this country up here in Montana was run over by a whole lot of different Indian tribes. Of course it was Piegan country, and with the Piegans were the Blackfeet and Bloods, and a part of the time the Gros Ventres of the prairie. They were all on good terms with each other after the Gros Ventres made peace with the Piegans along about 1868. Besides these, there were the Crows, who were hostile to the Blackfeet, and every now and then the Kootenays would come over the mountains and have a scrap, and the Crees would come down from the north and steal Piegan horses, and Assinaboines and other Sioux would come up from the east and they’d tackle the Blackfeet. Pretty nearly any of these Indians, if they saw a chance to run off some stock or to kill a lone white man would do it, but the Piegans, being close at home and always within reach, got the credit of most of the deviltry that was done. As a matter of fact, I reckon it was the Sioux and Assinaboines that did most of it. Anyhow, the trappers and traders and freighters in the country, and there were quite a number of them, got to thinking that the Piegans made all the trouble. I reckon that the Bloods from the north, and sometimes a band of Blackfeet coming down to visit the Piegans, did considerable horse stealing, and maybe they killed a few white men. “Along about that time, too, Malcolm Clark took it into his head to pound up a young Piegan and gave him a terrible beating, and this young Piegan, who was a brother of Clark’s wife, went off and got a party of his friends and went back and killed Clark. Meantime all the Piegans were camping in their country as usual and were passing back and forth, going into Benton and not looking for any trouble at all; but some of the toughs in Benton, whose names I won’t mention, because you may meet some of them, took an old Piegan, a beaver trapper and a good old man, and killed him and threw him into the river; and another man took out a young boy, considerably younger than you are, and just shot him down in the street. A lot of false reports were sent back East about what the Indians had been doing, and the result was that Colonel Baker was ordered to march against a certain village of Indians who were camping up here on the Marias, north of where we are now and about forty miles from Benton. The troops were guided by two men who are now living on the Piegan reservation, each of them married to an Indian woman. The orders given to Colonel Baker were to strike Mountain Chief’s band of Piegans, because from some information they had it was supposed that these people had been plundering and perhaps killing white people. As a matter of fact, the village found by the troops was that of Red Horn and Bear Chief. The camp consisted of less than forty lodges, and probably had in it a little more than two hundred people. The troops got up close to the village in the gray of the morning, without being seen, and their orders were to shoot to kill when they fired. There were but few people stirring when the first volley was fired. They were all killed, and then the people began to stream out of the lodges. At once they saw that they were being attacked by troops, and thought that it was a mistake. Bear Chief, unarmed, rushed toward the soldiers holding up a paper given him by some white man, but before he got to the soldiers he fell, with half a dozen bullets through him. The women and children were killed just as the men were, and of all the village only about forty-five got away, and some of these were off hunting and were not there when the attack was made. There were a hundred and seventy-six Indians killed, thirty-seven of them men, ninety women, and about fifty children. “There was no pretense of a defense by the Indians. They didn’t fight at all. They were just shot down until the troops got tired of shooting. The Indians have told me that most of the thirty-seven men that were killed were old men and young boys. As if to make it a little rougher on the Indians, there was smallpox in the camp at the time. “You’ll see old Almost-a-Dog up at the agency, and if you shake hands with him you’ll notice that his hand is crooked. He got that wound at the Baker massacre.” “Why, Hugh, that’s one of the most terrible things I ever heard of,” said Jack. “A hundred and seventy-six killed, and out of that a hundred and forty women and little children!” “Yes,” said Hugh, “it always seemed to me pretty bad. Of course, when men go to war or try to steal horses or do anything of that kind they take all the chances that there are. It’s all right to kill them if you can, but how anybody that’s got any sense can shoot down women and children the way that man Baker did gets away with me. “Well,” he went on, “after a while the news of this massacre drifted East, and I heard that the newspapers took it up and told the truth about it, and I reckon the army officers most concerned in it got called a good many names. I’ve heard that Colonel Baker lost his chance of ever getting very high up in the army on account of this fight, and yet he only did just what he was ordered to do.” “That certainly was terribly cruel,” said Jack, “and I don’t see how it could be excused.” “Joe,” said Hugh, turning to the Indian, who had said nothing, but still lay on the grass with his head resting on his hand, “were you in that camp, or were you somewhere else?” “No,” said Joe, “I was not in that camp. My mother was and a little sister and my father, but I was at Three Sun’s Village, stopping with my aunt. I must have been about three or four years old at that time.” “Of the people left alive out of that village,” Hugh went on, “there were nearly forty who were women and little bits of children. They were turned loose on the prairie—some of them being sick with the smallpox, you will remember—on the twenty-third of January. Anybody who knows what winter weather is up here in Montana can tell what that means. It’s a wonder that any of them lived to get to a camp where they were looked after.” Hugh’s story had taken some time in the telling, and by the time he had finished it was quite dark. Jack and Joe got up and went out to where the horses were and changed them to fresh grass, and on their way back bro...