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CHAPTER IV
STARTING FOR THE PAINT ROCKS

Slowly we traveled down the trail full of rounded boulders and stone, our horses scarcely able to keep their feet, and finally we walked and led our horses until we reached a valley far below the apex of the mountain. Here a clear cold stream of water went tumbling down the valley, and here we unpacked and made our camp for the night.

While McKensey cooked supper I went after a black bear, whose tracks I had noticed on the sand at the water's edge. I took a course as near north-west as possible, and was soon among the trees and rocks which I loved so well, and which brought remembrance of other days among the mountains.

After some wandering I struck a heavy game trail, and could see deer and bear tracks not over a day old. I filled the magazine of my rifle and plunged along at a fast pace. Here and there were thick clumps of quaking asp, mountain birch, and on the creek banks were choke cherries and plum trees. Great springs of water bubbled out of the earth, and by one of these springs I found some of the Sheep Eaters' lodges. They were decayed and fallen to the earth, but the rounded stones with which they warmed the water were there, where the great medicine lodges had stood years before, and where, unmolested, they had passed happy days among the hills and valleys.

The old woman's stories of her people were being proved true, and as I passed onward mile after mile I was entranced with the richness of the land, the abundance of game that had once held sway among the hills, shown by the antlers of the elk parched white by the suns, which lay on every side and the rams' horns often seen by the stream. A few bones of the little gazelle were among the remains, and a heavy buffalo trail cut the mountains where once the buffalo passed through this land out onto the Yellowstone.

I had wandered a long way and now cut across the country to the camp through rocky canyons and dense cedar growth. I started a bear from his bed but could not find him, and then found that the bear had started a large band of black-tail deer, which ran about a half a mile and then walked leisurely along, cropping the bunch grass here and there. About a mile from camp I jumped a bunch of fourteen of all kinds, and when they broke cover out of a plum thicket I shot a two-year-old spike buck, cut off his hams and carried him to camp, where I found the boys waiting for some venison.

Our camp fire already lit up the valley, and the clear running stream glistened as it passed over the granite and quartz of the Porcupine Basin. Great shadows were thrown among the trees like the ghosts and goblins on the ride of Tam O'Shanter, who reveled among the witches and warlocks. But we were hungry and happy and turned our attention to the broiling venison and brewing coffee.

After supper we began a study of the mountains and the probable cause of gold being distributed all along the streams in such small quantities. Some said it was deposited by a great glacier from the north, or some volcanic action on or near the natural park, but no theory seemed wholly satisfactory.

When the sun illumined a thousand peaks the next morning, after a delightful rest, we rode away from this Holy Grail of the Sheep Eaters, and it was not hard to imagine the character of the little men who lived among these hills and valleys.

When we reached the top of the divide we took a south-eastern course for the famous Paint Rock country, near Shell Creek and its tributaries. Our route lay through the sage brush of the Bad Lands, and some of the party were very anxious to stop at a mountain stream and catch some trout. There were some old sluice-boxes and deserted cabins, which were very interesting to the average sightseer.

But we pulled on for the Paint Rock, and after ten hours hard ride we arrived on this sacred and historic ground. We picketed our tired horses, piled our packs under a cottonwood tree, and were soon trying to unravel the mysteries of an extinct race. Strange to say no horses were visible on the great calendar of rocks, but men, women, children, and hieroglyphics were crowded on all available places that one could get to register some fact or fancy of this tribe.

CHAPTER V
A TALK WITH LITTLE BEAR

The term Paint Rocks will convey various meanings to the average reader. A description seems in order to make more plain what these rocks are like.

Just imagine a stream of clear, pure water running through a canyon, small and narrow, with a smooth-surfaced rock face, cut by the water when the earth and stone were young and tender, on which one could write as on a black-board in a school room. Here the Sheep Eaters came to record their history. Here father and son came to write the traditions of their tribe; and here came that old squaw, whose name in her own tribe, as translated by the Crow chief, Pretty Eagle, was, "Under-The-Ground." Emblems, original with their tribe, were cut with the obsidian arrowhead in irregular semicircles. The outlines of men and women were about three feet in height. In some places the storms, the wind and the water, had erased parts of the engraving. In other places hunters had built their smoking camp-fires against the face of the rock and blurred the markings, or had wantonly fired bullets into the faces and destroyed the work of the Indians.

As I was getting my camera arranged to get a picture of one group, an old Indian came riding up the creek on a pinto pony. Soon came dogs, and squaws dragging their tepee poles, and without so much as a "How," they began tearing off their packs and setting up their lodges. The packs consisted of old kettles, stale meat, old elk skins made into robes, parflesakes filled to the brim with pemmican, made of elk fat, choke cherries, and jerked elk half dried and half horsehair. Several young puppies, too young to walk, were tied with soft thongs just under the fore legs of the ponies.

Within half an hour the whole Little Basin was filled with the smell of spoiled meat and musty old blankets, spread in the sun to dry, and the whole camp looked like the dump ground of a small town.

The old chief turned the entire care of the horses, dogs, provisions and camp over to the squaws, and while they were busy, he came slowly toward the camera, watching every move I made in trying to get a picture of the Paint Rocks. He was about five feet tall, heavy set and rather dark. His good, round head well set on fine shoulders, was covered with long, heavy hair, carefully braided in small braids, which hung below his waist. At intervals these braids were cemented with some wax and painted red and green, which gave them the appearance of being bound with straps. The sternness of his large mouth, square chin, and heavy jaw was relieved by the large, brown eyes. Three scars on his face told of a battle fought many years ago, as also did the knife scar on his breast and the old gun-shot wound. On his wrist were brass wristlets, and three missing finger joints told of mournings for his dead. A medicine bag and a half dozen elk teeth swung at his throat; these and beaded moccasins and leggings showed him to be a chief. An Indian he was all through.

As I turned to look at him he straightened himself to his full height, and I had taken him in from head to heel when he put his right arm out in front of him closed his hand, and gave it three rapid motions up and down, which, in sign talk, is "How do you do." Quick as a flash I straightened my arm out, laying my thumb across my little finger, made a half curve, out from the body inward, then an angling sweep down, which means "Good." A twinkle came in his eye, and he answered by giving me the same sign.

I knew him, but twenty years had passed over his head since I last saw him, and it was twenty-eight years since he and Sitting Bull fought a duel with knives, on the Big Horn.

I gave him a challenge and called him a Sioux, which is done by straightening the fingers of the right hand, laying the thumb close into the palm, making a rounded curve outward, then a quick sweep across the throat. He found and gave me the answer "No." Then he came very close to me, and when he saw the powder in my face, he gave a grunt of satisfaction.

I took off my glove and held out my hand. He grasped it quickly and said in the Crow language, "Long time ago," then paused – "long – time – ago, many moons, you heap good to me and my braves."

"How many moons?" I asked.

He stopped and his mind was busy running over the many years, many camp-fires, the wrongs he had sustained from the British Government which compelled them to leave their homes and come to the United States. With a sigh he held up one hand, and with the other hand pulled down three fingers, saying, "Ten, ten, ten."

I gave him the sign of correct, then his face brightened, and as the boys gathered around us, he said, "Do you know who it is?"

"Yes," I replied, "I know you, you are Little Bear, the chief of the Cree Nation." He held up his hands and began making rapid signs. "It was you," he said, "who were our friend when our braves were arrested for killing buffalo on Razor Creek."

"Yes," I replied.

"We never forget our friends," said he. He then gave me a beautiful peace pipe. The stem was two feet long, with animals engraved on it; and the bowl was made from Minnesota pipe-stone rock, inlaid with silver.

Our camp fire was going, and we all sat around it and smoked the pipe of peace, which is done as follows: The pipe is filled with the bark of a red willow, and when lighted is handed to the highest or head chief. He takes one or two long whiffs; then, as he raises his head and blows the smoke in clouds toward the heavens and the Great Spirit, he passes the pipe to his guest on the right. This is continued until the pipe is empty, and all is done with the greatest reverence toward the Great Spirit.

After the peace smoke, Little Bear, with his squaw and his son, took dinner with us. We had fresh venison, potatoes, onions, hot pancakes and maple syrup, canned pineapple and coffee. Little Bear ate a hearty dinner and said it was good, and to meet friends made him very happy.

After the meal I took some pictures of the rocks, and Little Bear asked me what I wanted them for. I told him those marks were a history of an ancient tribe of people.

"Yes," he said, "many, many, moons. Our tribe knew nothing of them. Long, maybe so, heap years, much old squaw live with Mountain Crows. Crows call her 'Under-The-Ground.' She tell much of little folks way up mountain. Much eat Big Horn sheep. Much pray sun and heap Great Spirit. Old squaw say, little squaw much good face, all time good, bucks no fight, yes."

I told him I had been upon the Medicine and Bald mountains and had seen their shrine wheel, and where they had lived in the Big Horn mountains. I told him I had also been far up Clark's Fork, where their sheep pens were, "Yes," I said, "they are all gone. Great chief, Pretty Eagle, and I were old friends, and he told me all about the little Indians, their bows and arrows, and many things the old squaw had told him about their lives on the mountains; but Sheep Eaters, all gone now."

"Ugh," he replied, "by and by, maybe so, Crees all gone, Crows all. Heap bad for Injins."

I told him it would be a long time before that happened, and that some day perhaps the Government would let the Crees come and live with the Crows, on the beautiful Little Horn.

"Yes," he said, "that would be very nice. If the Great Father at Washington would only say the word, we would come and work very hard. We do not like our reservation in the north-west. It is too cold and the land is poor and the Red Coats are not good to Injins."

When our visit was over and the Indians were preparing to move, I turned the camera on the camp. A squaw who was watching me, gave a grunt, turned her back, and ran; and the others, alarmed scattered like dry leaves before a wind. They did not return until I had taken the camera down and put it away. Little Bear explained that they were afraid, because they thought the camera a bad spirit.