The Blackfeet were always very persistent and unrelenting enemies of the Crows, and some of the most bloody combats recorded in savage warfare occurred between these two tribes.
Once, while in the Crow village, a party of Blackfeet, numbering thirty or forty, came stealing through the Crow country, killing every straggler, and carrying off every horse they could lay their hands on. The Crow warriors immediately started after them and pressed them so closely that they could not escape. The Blackfeet then threw up a semicircular breastwork of logs at the foot of a precipice, and awaited the approach of their enemies. Logs and sticks were piled up four or five feet in front of them, which thoroughly protected them. The Crows might have swept over this breastwork and exterminated the Blackfeet; but though outnumbering them, they did not dream of storming the little fortification. Such a proceeding would have been altogether repugnant to the savage notion of warfare. Whooping and yelling, and jumping from side to side like devils incarnate, they poured a shower of bullets and arrows upon the logs, yet not a Blackfoot was hurt; but several of the Crows, in spite of their antics, were shot down. In that ridiculous manner the fight continued for an hour or two. Now and then a Crow warrior, in an ecstasy of valour and vainglory, would scream forth his war-song, declare himself the bravest and greatest of all Indians, grasp his hatchet, strike it wildly upon the breastwork, and then, as he retreated to his companions, fall dead, riddled with arrows; yet no combined attack was made, the Blackfeet remaining secure in their intrenchment. At last Jim Beckwourth lost patience:—
“You are all a set of fools and old women,” cried he; “come with me, if any of you are brave enough, and I'll show you how to fight.”
Beckwourth instantly threw off his trapper's suit of buckskin, stripping himself naked as were the Indians themselves. Throwing his rifle on the ground, he grasped a small hatchet, and running over the prairie to the right, hidden by a hollow from the eyes of the Blackfeet, he climbed up the rocks and reached the top of the precipice behind them. Forty or fifty young warriors followed him. By the cries and whoops that arose from below, Beckwourth knew that the Blackfeet were just beneath him; then running forward, he leaped from the rock right in the midst of the surprised savages. As he fell, he caught one of the Blackfeet by his long, loose hair, and dragging him toward him, buried his hatchet in his brain. Then grasping another by the belt at his waist, he struck him a stunning blow, and gaining his feet, shouted the Crow war-cry. He swung his hatchet so fiercely around him that the astonished Blackfeet crowded back and gave him room. He might, had he chosen, have leaped over the breastwork and escaped; but this was not necessary, for with devilish yells the remainder of the Crow warriors came dropping in quick succession over the rock, and rallied around him.
The convulsive struggle within the breastwork was frightful; for a few moments the Blackfeet fought and yelled like pent-up tigers; but the butchery was complete, and the mangled bodies lay piled together under the precipice. Not a Blackfoot made his escape.
In 1833 a band of Blackfeet, superior in numbers to the Crows, most unmercifully whipped them. On their return to their village one night in August, shortly after the fight, there was a grand display of meteoric showers, and although the Crow warriors were ready to face death in any form, the wonderful celestial display appalled them. They regarded it as the wrath of the Great Spirit showered visibly upon them. In their terrible fright, they, of course, looked to their chief for some explanation of it. But as Beckwourth himself was as much struck with the wonderful occurrence, he was equally at a loss with his untutored followers to account for the remarkable spectacle.
Evidently, he knew, he must augur some result from it, though his own dejected spirit did not prompt him to deduce a very encouraging one. He thought of all the impostures that are practised upon the credulous, and his imagination suggested some brilliant figures to his mind. He thought at first of declaring to them that the Great Spirit was pleased with the expedition, and was lighting the band on its way with spirit lamps; or that the meteors were the spirits of departed braves, coming to assist their worldly brothers in another impending fight; but he was not sanguine enough of possible results to indulge in any attractive oratory. He merely informed his warriors that he had not time to consult his medicine, but that as soon as he could he would interpret the miracle in full.
When his band of warriors arrived at the village, he found all of the people's minds still agitated with fear at the late phenomenon. Every one was talking of it with wonder and amazement, and the chief's opinion was demanded at once; they were expecting it, and wanted to know what the consequences were to be. Admonished by his recent defeat, Beckwourth now had no trouble in reading the stars. He told his warriors that they had evidently offended the Great Spirit; that it was because of his wrath they had suffered defeat in their excursion to the Blackfeet country, and returned with the loss of twenty-three warriors. He then told them that a sacrifice must be made to appease the wrath of the Great Spirit, and he recommended that a solemn council be convened and a national oblation be offered up.
Beckwourth knew that he was doing an absurd thing, but the superstition of the people demanded it, and he must cater to their desires because it was popular.
The camp where the Crows then were was a mourning-camp, in which, according to their religion, “medicine” would have no effect. The camp was, therefore, moved to another place, about ten miles distant, in order to properly offer up the sacrifice.