Southward, astride of the Rocky Mountains, ranged the Absarokas, the Sparrowhawks, who were known to the whites as the Crows. For a decade or so one, if not both, of the Absaroka tribes had been ruled by a mulatto adventurer Jim Beckwourth. Under his leadership the hunters were skilled in getting, the women industrious in dressing bison robes. In trade they abstained from liquor and bought guns and ammunition. They made themselves dreaded in war, stole plenty of ponies, danced for scalps beyond all numbering, and were very careful not to kill a white man. When at last Beckwourth abandoned his wives and tribe, departing for California, a rival but minor trader began to prosper among the Absaroka. He claimed to be an Absaroka, called himself the Crow, but, like Jim Beckwourth, was part negro. I think he was half negro and half Mexican. Beginning in a small way, he traded for bison robes with liquor only. As his business grew he got all the Absaroka robes, but in return the people had nothing but alcohol. So the two tribes, the richest in the west, were reduced to poverty, their pony herds became an easy prey, their warriors a mere supply of scalps for the Blackfoot raiders. The Crow brought the nation to ruin.
At this stage in the Crow's progress, the chief medicine man of the Absaroka nation came to the holy lodge and sought Rain's counsel. She advised him to get consent of his National Council, then have the Crow's wagon burned, and the man himself expelled with a price on his head lest he should venture back again. The medicine man departed, and No-man, traveling in his company, learned from him the whole advice which Rain had given in secret.
For some months No-man kept the secret, but in the ensuing winter he came into partnership with another trapper, and to him he told this story, together with many others, to illustrate the power and influence of his friends at the holy lodge.
Now does our story follow the other trapper. He was Hugh Monroe, the son of a Scots colonel and of a French-Canadian mother, born at Montreal in 1799. At the age of fourteen he joined the Blackfoot nation, and earned a title of honor—Rising Wolf.
Friends of mine who knew Rising Wolf in his age, spoke of him as not very much to look at, a little wizened old man deeply sunburned. In 1842, at the age of 43 and the height of his powers, one must think of him as the head of an Indian household, and as a leader of the glorious Blackfoot chivalry, unrivaled among horsemen, hunters, and warriors.
In August with the tribe on the march, Rising Wolf rode one day with Many Horses, Head Chief of the Blackfoot nation. To him he repeated No-man's tale concerning the downfall of the Absarokas, the Crow as organizing their destruction, their chief medicine man as pilgrim to the holy lodge and Rain's advice for the deliverance of the people. Many Horses was not pleased. The rescue of his foes the Absarokas was not his policy or that of the Blackfoot Council. Rain, a Blackfoot woman, had done a grievous injury to her tribe.
To Rising Wolf, Rain seemed of less importance, not to be taken quite so seriously. She and her husband Storm were doubtless rogues, but not likely to influence events or to become a factor in Indian politics.
"I don't know," said Many Horses. "The faith of the people makes this woman and her husband powerful. Get me proof that they are frauds, and I can put a stop to any further mischief."
"Shall I go and see for myself?" asked Rising Wolf.
"Yes. But do not let the people think that I am sending you, or have a hand in this. An embassy to the holy lodge would give it too much importance."