First of all the tribes ranked the Crows and Blackfeet and their dress was extremely picturesque. They were skilled hunters and fierce warriors. These two tribes were deadly enemies and almost continued warfare was in progress between them. Often the chiefs of different tribes were sworn enemies, and if they chanced to meet a fierce combat ensued.
Once a noted chief of the Blackfoot tribe met a famous chief of the Crows on the banks of the Missouri River. They were on opposite sides of the stream, at a point where the current was divided by a sand bar or small island. Uttering his shrill war-cry, the Blackfoot waded into the river on his horse and the Crow answered the challenge, rushing down the steep embankment into the swiftly flowing water. At almost the same instant the two horsemen emerged at the opposite ends of the small island. Here they drew up their steeds and made the sign of peace. The Blackfoot was the first to speak. “What has the Crow squaw to say?” he said. At this insult the Crow replied, singing the praises of his race and taunting the Blackfoot warrior with all the hatred typical of the Indian for his enemy.
“I am done,” he said at last. “What has the dog of the prairie to say?” Infuriated beyond control, the Crow set an arrow to his bow and sent it with deadly aim toward the naked bosom of his foe. Sudden and unlooked for as was this attack the Blackfoot’s quick eye had seen the movement. He jerked the rein of his horse and made him rear his forward legs into the air. Then leaning over the neck of his horse he returned the shot, which was a signal for a perfect rain of arrows, many of which found their mark. The quivers of both Indians were soon empty, and then began a fierce combat with the lance. The Crow quickly dismounted to avoid a thrust from the angry Blackfoot’s ready spear, and just in time it was, for with a yell of savage triumph the Blackfoot drove his lance right through the body of his enemy’s pony. Then he quickly wheeled his horse and bore down upon the unmounted Crow, who met him with a thrust that killed his horse. Down went the Blackfoot entangled in his own trappings. His predicament was desperate. He deftly took his knife between his thumb and forefinger and threw it with deadly accuracy at the advancing Crow. In a second it buried itself to the handle in his breast.
Mortally wounded, the Crow chief halted for a moment, then summoning all his strength, he drew the knife from his breast and threw it at the Blackfoot crying, “A scalp of the mighty Crows shall never dry in the wigwams of the Blackfeet.” With this parting word he threw himself into the swift moving river and was lost to view. Only the bloody water marked the place.
BUFFALO HUNTING
THE Indians of the Plains, bold and desperate horsemen, were great hunters. Their chief game was the American bison or buffalo, which roamed over the wide prairies in vast herds, seemingly placed there by the Great Spirit for the special use of the red man, who lived upon their flesh and clothed himself with their skins.
Mounted on small, fleet ponies, the Indians could readily kill them in great numbers. When pursuing the herd, the Indian used to ride close in the rear while he selected just the animal he wanted. Then driving his pony between it and the herd, he forced the buffalo off alone. In this way he avoided being crushed or trampled to death by the madly rushing beasts.
CATCHING WILD HORSES