We followed an old game trail across an upland meadow, through a carpet of heath and heather with delicate pink flowers. On the rocks were colored lichens; dainty wind-flowers bloomed in every sheltered nook. In crevices of cliffs were maidenhair ferns, and in moist meadows the fragrant alpine lady fern.
Little Creek was a tireless climber and as sure-footed as a mountain goat. We crossed snowdrifts, ledges, broken rock and treacherous shale, climbing along frowning red precipices where I dared not look down, but kept my eyes on the sky and rock wall. Finally, we gained the summit and stood at the edge of a cliff, where the mountain fell abruptly a thousand feet. Far below in the valley lay our miniature camp, with its white lodges on the lake-shore. Everywhere were snow-clad peaks and glistening glaciers, rock-strewn ridges and gorges with rushing streams, forest slopes and valley lakes of emerald and blue. Far off the green ocean of the prairie stretched into the eastern horizon and hundreds of miles beyond.
About us was a wilderness of solitude and silence, not a sound of bird or beast, only the rushing of the summit wind. Dark blue was the sky; the air pine-scented, clear and luminous, uplifting the soul and attuning it to the majesty of our surroundings.
Pointing to a mountain that overlooked the plains, Little Creek said: “That is the place where Swift Eagle died.”
“How did he come to die there?” I asked.
“He was wounded in a fight with the Flathead Indians,” replied Little Creek. “He was the leader of a band of warriors. Early one summer they crossed the mountains after horses. They came to a Flathead camp in a park, which was [[163]]surrounded by forest. That night, when they were ready to make off with the horses of the Flatheads, Swift Eagle came upon an Indian of the Nez Percé tribe, who was after the same horses. He was a famous chief named Crazy-Cut-Top-Knot, but Swift Eagle did not know this.
“The Nez Percé saw the Blackfoot chief and rushed at him with his war club. They fought hand-to-hand. Swift Eagle struck the stranger with his knife. But before he died, the Nez Percé swung his terrible war club and hit Swift Eagle.
“It was night, and the Blackfoot warriors found their chief lying beside the body of the Nez Percé. They recognized the war club. It was made from the huge antler of a bull elk and was different from all others. They knew it belonged to the famous chief, Crazy-Cut-Top-Knot.
“Then they made a litter of poles and carried Swift Eagle across the mountains. After they had passed the summit, he opened his eyes. His warriors told him he would soon be home. But he said:
“ ‘My children, it is useless to carry me farther. Before I started on this trip I had a strong dream that I would never come back alive.’