The Snakes evidently were in battle array. They were fully armed, with bows and lances and guns; many were almost wholly naked, save for the great war bonnets which floated their red, yellow and white feathers far behind the racing horses. In a solid, yelling mass they came on, while in the village women and children scuttled into the brush. Suddenly, ere a shot had been fired, the foremost of the Snakes raised his hand; his warriors slackened, and he rode forward, to where the white men were formed for peace or war.
The Snake chief explained that his people had seen the flag, and that as their enemies the Sioux and the Blackfeet were accustomed to bear a flag of some kind they had supposed that this was an attack. He was glad that no shots had been fired, for the Snakes never had spilled the blood of a white man.
This explanation was satisfactory, and escorted by a dense throng of the Indians the Frémont and Carson men rode on to the Snake village.
The chief pointed out a spot, by the village, where the company should camp; and then in a loud voice announced to the Indians that the white chief wished to buy horses. Many speedily were driven up by their owners, and for beads and tobacco and knives and red and blue cloth eight were taken over.
The kettles were on the lodge fires, as always is the case in an Indian camp. The atmosphere was filled with a peculiar odor. Ike and William New and the other Carson trappers, and some of the Frémont men also, sniffed as if pleased; and Oliver sniffed, but pretended not to be curious. This odor was like to decayed apples—and evidently so thought Mr. Preuss the bristly-headed, red-faced German, as he bustled about.
“What is that? Rotted apples!” he exclaimed, wrinkling his nose disgustedly. “Where do you suppose these Snakes got apples. I declare!”
“That smell?” responded Ike. “That’s kooyah. That’s the finest grub out: kooyah root. Hyar—try some.”
A squaw was bringing, evidently as a gift, a steaming platter of yellowish substance that might have been mashed sweet-potatoes; she presented it to Ike with a smile. Mr. Preuss took some upon the point of his hunting-knife. He gingerly tasted it.
“Ugh!” he spat. “Tastes worse than it smells. What do you call it, you say?”
“Kooyah root. But what’s the matter with yuh—wasting good food like that. I tell ’ee, it air prime fodder; it air prime, baked or b’iled, an’ with that in yore meat-bag you can travel fur.”