Blackfeet Tales of Glacier National Park

by James Willard Schultz

August 12.

Last night we all gathered in Stabs-by-Mistake’s lodge, and, while the pipe was filled and refilled, and passed from hand to hand on many rounds, we had more tales, strange and weird, of the people of the ancient days. One that our host told especially interested me, and here it is, literally translated for your perusal. It was the story, he said, of

“ONE HORN, SHAMER OF CROWS

“It was in the long ago time, when all three of our tribes, the Blackfeet proper, the Bloods, and we, the Pikun′i, whom the whites mistakenly call Blackfeet, were still living in the North country. The camp of the Pikun′i was on Big River, close up to the foot of the mountains. One of the great chiefs of the tribe was One Horn. Very brave he was, and very rich, for his band of horses numbered more than a hundred head. He had two wives, sisters, but no children. Many orphans called him father, for he had poor old couples care for them, and kept them all well supplied with meat and with skins for clothing. He was a peculiar man, was One Horn. He seldom visited in other lodges, and was a man of few words; it was always difficult to get him to tell of his brave deeds.

“One summer night One Horn had an uneasy dream about his horses, and with the first faint light of coming day arose, washed and dressed himself, and took up his weapons and went out to see if his herd was anywhere in sight. He climbed to a little rise on the edge of the plain, saw them quietly feeding at a distance, and then saw something else: two men asleep in a coulée close under the little rise. They were, he thought, young men of the camp, watchers of the horse herds, and he concluded to surprise them and scold them for sleeping when they should be watching the plains for the approach of enemies. More from habit than anything else, he drew his bow, fitted a war arrow to it, and then, creeping close to the sleeping ones, shouted: ‘Awake! You lazy ones, awake!’

“To his great surprise they were two enemies, who sprang up at the sound of his voice, and he shot one of them in the breast, and he fell, and as the other turned and ran, he fired an arrow at him and struck him in the back, but he kept on running, the arrow dangling and swaying from his back, and he soon disappeared in the thick brush bordering the river. One Horn went back to camp and sent the warriors out to look for the wounded man, but they never found him.

“Although a very brave warrior, One Horn’s voice was always for peace. He thought much about the wars of tribe against tribe and the great loss of lives they caused, and wished that he could put an end to it all. He counted up the different tribes with whom his people were at war—the Sioux, the Assiniboines, Cheyennes, Pawnees, Snakes, Bannocks, Pend d’Oreilles, Flatheads, Nez Percés, Kootenai, and Crows. And the worst of them all were the Crows. He determined to go to the Crows and try to make peace between them and his people.

“Another thought came to him: It was best to say nothing to his people about his plan, for many would make serious objection to it. If he succeeded, they should know all about it upon his return. If he failed, he would never tell them where he had been. So, one evening, he gave his women orders what to do, and kept his horses close in around his lodge. Late that night, when all the camp was asleep, down came the lodge, the pack and travois horses were quietly loaded, and he and his women headed southward, he driving his big herd in the lead. The next morning the people found that they had a mystery that they could not solve: One Horn was gone with all his belongings, gone without telling them one word of his intentions! Why had he left them so secretly, and whither had he gone? They never ceased talking about it and wishing that he would return; they felt safe when he was at their backs.

“Traveling south day after day along the foot of the mountains, One Horn and his women at last struck the River-of-Many-Chiefs-Gathering, and, following it up, came in sight of the big prairies at the foot of the lower one of these Inside Lakes. It was then dusk, but not so dark but what they could see that there was a big camp of people at the edge of the timber bordering the lake shore. Said One Horn, ‘They must be the ones I seek, the Mountain Crows. As soon as they sleep, we will go on and put up our lodge near theirs.’

“Early the next morning an old man stepped out from his lodge, and saw a strange lodge standing by itself just outside the circle of the big camp. He looked at it a long time, and the growing light at last enabled him to see that there were two huge bears painted on its new white leather skin. He turned and hurried to the lodge of the head chief of the camp, aroused him, and cried: ‘Here is a mystery; something to be looked into: just outside the circle of our camp a strange lodge is standing. It belongs not to us Mountain Crows, nor to our brothers, the River Crows. I know that, for it has painted upon it two big bears, and neither of our tribes has that medicine.’