Sunset on the Rocky Mountains is a grand sight. Its loveliness once seen can never be forgotten. The lofty and varied mountains rear their majestic heads high into heavens that seem aglow with fire; clouds lined with silver and gold guard the topmost heights. The lines of light and shade deepen the glory of the sky, until the beholder stands entranced with the beauty of the scene. It was on such an evening, when the radiance of the heavens seemed more beautiful than ever, that the mourners laid their dead in her grave upon the prairie at the foot of the mountains.
They placed the coffin on a travaille and drew it to the spot Jake and Sam had chosen for the grave. Jake knelt upon the ground and offered up one of his simple, manly prayers—a prayer for strength to be given to the mourners and of trust in the Almighty. After they had covered the grave they planted a few flowers in the upturned soil, and placed a small upright board at the head of the grave, inscribing on it the name and age of the deceased.
On the Saturday morning following Jake bade his friend good-bye. He had to keep an engagement he had made to preach at Macleod, on Sunday. Jake often claimed the prairie as his church, though he sometimes called it his "range." His favorite pulpit was his horse, and he felt more at home on the back of this faithful friend than he would have done in a beautiful walnut pulpit such as the preachers have in the city churches.
A large congregation had assembled in one of the billiard halls in Macleod on that Sunday morning to hear the "Gospel cowboy" preach. The majority of the men were drawn thither by the report of the strange style of his preaching, but there were many who had been helped at various times by Jake, and their gratitude and love constrained them to meet and hear again the man who had done so much for them. They were Jake's "boys," and he felt he had a claim upon them. The singing of the congregation was hearty in spite of the fact that there were only two or three women among them; but the old-timers and the cowboys could sing, and at this meeting they sang out lustily and seemed to enjoy themselves.
A simple prayer was uttered, and then after the singing of another hymn Jake addressed his hearers. He would not call it a sermon, just a talk; yet if a sermon means talking with effect upon religious themes, Jake was an impressive preacher. He could describe in his western phraseology religious life as it ought to be on the prairie. He did not, however, always confine himself to the prairie, although he was so enamored of it, and understood it so well, that he felt more at home, and therefore talked more frequently on the subjects the cowboys could handle, and that he could spiritualize for their benefit.
Christ was his "Maister" or "Boss," and to be a sinner was to be "lost on the prairie in a blizzard." Sometimes he took a text, but he often began with a story, and as the men listened more attentively he spiritualized it and directed them through it to the Gospel of Christ. Generally he had a definite aim in addressing the cowboys. He did not preach merely to explain a text; he had always a target to hit, or, as he expressed it, "I allus try to hit the mark when I point my talk at the boys."
The men at Macleod listened attentively to Jake's discourse, seriously impressed when he closed with the following earnest words:
"Boys, it's easy work to throw a steer, but ye canna tie him down alone. Ye maun get the boys to help ye. That's what the heathen parsons—missionaries, I think, they call them—are tryin' to do. They canna throw down sin themselves, and they hae to call upon the Christians to help them. They canna all run to their call, so they jist send some dollars an' let other folks go in their place. That's the way they throw down sin in Africa and China. I never wus there, but I heard the parsons who wur there tell the stories, an' they ought to know. Wall, boys, ye know Long Sam, wha got hurt in the winter. Wall, his wife has just faded away like a snowdrift in a Chinook wind, an' there's Sam an' the wee lass left. Sam's a cripple, an' now an' again poverty comes in at the back door, an' Sam tries to throw him an' tie him, but the rascal sits down in every room in the house, an' then the poor fellow lies down exhausted, and he says, 'I'm beaten.' Wall, boys, I want ye to lend us a hand in tethering the beast, an' if ye'll throw yer lariat ye can capture the animal an' corral him, so that he'll no' do any harm. So here's my hat, lads; pass it round an' drop in yer dollars fur Sam an' his wee lass. Ye a' ken him, an' he's worth more than ye a' kin gie him. The Maister will pay ye back wi' interest when ye go to the bank on the day ye want to draw out yer savin's."
Jake's hat was passed around, and although no warning had been given, and therefore no opportunity to prepare themselves for it, still they carried about with them considerable sums of money, and when the hat was emptied on the billiard table and counted, there were over one hundred and twelve dollars.
Jake thanked the boys, offered a brief prayer, and retired to the house of a friend to spend the evening. Early next morning he was seen crossing the river, well laden with supplies, starting northward, and singing a hymn as he rode.
Upon the evening of the second day Jake reached his destination with the goods he had purchased as the result of his missionary sermon, and there was peace and plenty in Sam's home for a long time.
That was an effective sermon, for Sam was never allowed to want after that day. He was able to do a few chores, but not sufficient to make a living. Minnie became the cowboys' favorite and Jake's protégé, and she was well provided for with so many benefactors. The mavrocks were given to her whenever any were found upon the round-up, and some of the boys occasionally brought her a lamb, so that in a short time she had quite a band of cattle and a goodly-sized flock of sheep.
*****
One morning before sunrise, in the early autumn, a solitary traveller was seen riding hurriedly toward the mountains, apparently on some mission. He stopped to rest his horse and partake of some food, and then he continued his journey. As he rode he sang occasionally a few snatches of song. He was well laden, and seemed to be going a long distance. He entered one of the mountain passes, and when he had reached the top of a foot-hill from which he could command a wide view of the country below, he alighted, and took a survey of the plains. Having glanced around and feasted his soul upon the beauties of nature, he took off his hat, knelt upon the ground and prayed. What a manly countenance he wore, and how striking was the attitude of this noble man! It was Jake, the Warden of the Plains.
At a gathering of cowboys where he had preached the day before, he bade them good-bye, saying that he was going west, as many settlers were now coming to the country, and they were getting parsons to take care of them. He felt constrained to seek out the cowboys and old-timers farther west, so he had decided to leave his old mission-field.
Several of his friends protested, but Jake was firm. Lest there might be a demonstration in his favor he had left early in the morning.
The last we heard of Jake was that he was doing pioneer work among the miners in the Kootenay country, and helping many toward a nobler life and deeper devotion to the truth.
Upon the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains there are many hearts that remember with joy the quaint sermons of the cowboy preacher, and some are living better lives to-day in the shanties because they cherish the teaching of the stalwart Warden of the Plains.
ASOKOA, THE CHIEF'S DAUGHTER.
Asokoa was the beautiful daughter of a chief of one of the tribes of the Blackfoot Confederacy. She was admired not only for her personal attractions, but quite as much for her gentle disposition and winning ways.
The Fish Eater's band had gone south to hunt the buffalo, and were encamped on the bank of the muddy Missouri. These warriors were famous for their prowess, and though they were occasionally attacked by the Crow Indians, and had some of their horses stolen, they were not afraid of their enemies. They were well equipped with guns and cartridges, and felt that they could easily defeat any foe of equal numbers who molested them.
It was during this hunting expedition that in a beautifully painted buffalo-skin lodge an Indian babe was born. The women flocked to the old chief's lodge when the medicine-woman announced that it had a new occupant, but when they were told the baby was a girl they grieved. The sad conditions of their own lives made them feel keenly for the child who, if her life were spared, must bear the same burdens and endure the same weary, monotonous existence of toil and misery as they. The beauty of the babe as it grew, however, pleased them so much that they forgot the sorrow of the future in the joy of the present. She was fairer than the other babes in the camp, and this sent a thrill to the hearts of the women. They loved the maidens who were fair, or hated them when they grew jealous of their charms. The babe thrived and grew lovelier day by day, its jet-black hair and eyes enhancing the beauty and fairness of the face.
It was evening when the chief returned from his hunting expedition. The mother had prepared the choice pieces of buffalo meat for his meal, and waited anxiously for the moment when he should ask for the child; but he entered silently and without any greeting, as was the Indian custom. He was esteemed a great chief and had to maintain his dignity, therefore could not condescend to notice his wife and children even after a long absence.
Taking his accustomed seat opposite the lodge door, the food was placed before him on the ground, and, as he lay half reclining he partook of it heartily, but without betraying hunger or haste. After supper the old men of the camp dropped in one by one to learn the success of his expedition, and to talk over matters that were interesting to them all.
The little swinging hammock made of an old blanket thrown over two ropes that were fastened to the lodge poles—the ends of the blanket so placed inside that the weight of its occupant might hold it down—contained the tiny stranger.
The babe was hidden snugly within a moss-bag. This moss-bag was richly ornamented, and embroidered with beads and colored porcupine quills. It was closed at the bottom, tapering to a point, and laced up after the babe was placed in the soft moss with which it was lined. The bag fitted closely about the head and neck, leaving only the face exposed. When the mother is tired carrying her child she rests the moss-bag upright against the wall, or hangs it up from the side of the lodge with the babe in it. When she goes to visit friends at a distance she rides on horseback in the same fashion as a man, and straps the moss-bag with its occupant to the horn of the saddle or slings it over her back. When she walks the invariable custom is to carry the babe on her back, well up on the shoulders. Some of these mossbags are very handsomely ornamented, the Indian mothers being as proud of them as the fair daughters of the civilized race are of the tasteful, dainty clothing of their children.
This particular moss-bag was very often filled with dry, soft moss, that the child might be comfortable and happy in its dainty nest. On the night of the chief's return it had been more than usually well arranged and laid in the hammock.
The large pipe was prepared, the tobacco and kinni-kinnick brought out, and after the chief had finished his meal the pipe was filled, lighted and passed around from left to right. Each member of the company took a few strong whiffs, some of the old men swallowing the last one and expelling the smoke through their nostrils. The evening was passed in animated conversation, the chief leading and the others listening patiently, adding to the general interest by uttering a few words of approval. When the conversation ended the guests retired quietly, and the old chief, after taking a peep at the sleeping babe, turned on his side and sought repose; but as he lay on his hard couch a smile of satisfaction played on his features—the stern countenance of the warrior had relaxed under the influence of an awakened love for the little child.
The old man's heart had been steeled against sympathy and love; he had lived for so many years in the midst of war and crime, and had witnessed such acts of cruelty committed against his kindred by war parties from other tribes, or marauding bands of white men, that his heart was hardened. He seldom smiled; the joyous spirit of his youth had departed, and left him old and sad.
When quite a youth he had resolved to devote his life to the service of the gods, and for a long time he enjoyed the satisfaction of knowing he was doing right. Then came a time of famine and sickness in the tribe, during which the people died in great numbers and food was very scarce. The people prayed, but no answer came to their prayers; then they plunged into all sorts of wickedness, heedless of the evil that was sure to follow.
After he was elected a chief he had been subjected to many jealousies by those who had professed to be his dearest friends. He felt that hypocrisy was rampant and friendship hollow. The gods were angry with him, and they had leagued his friends and enemies in common warfare against him. Naturally slow of speech, he grew still more reserved and taciturn. He was, however, energetic in the discharge of the duties of his office as chief, and thus maintained his influence over the people.
The quiet smile which now lingered on his features as he retired to rest after he had looked upon the face of the child, betrayed that there were depths of affection in his nature still untouched despite the many years of pain, warfare and jealousy.
Nothing eventful occurred during the night. The morning sun rose bright and glorious; an hour later the camp was all astir, busy with the duties and occupations of the day. Amid the bustle around him the chief lay still, taking needed rest after the toil of the expedition. When he awoke late, his meal of buffalo meat and tea was set before him. After he had eaten heartily, the visitors of the night before returned to talk on matters affecting the camps and to relate the various events that had occurred during his absence.
Time wore on; day after day was passed in the same dull routine. Now and then the monotony was enlivened by the report of strange Indians being in the vicinity and by the return of the young men from hunting or horse-stealing expeditions. The babe in the old chief's lodge grew and increased in beauty every day. They named her Asokoa, and the toddling prattler answered readily when they spoke her name.
Asokoa's dress was a beautiful garment of soft antelope skin, made after the fashion of a cape reaching nearly to her feet, fringed at the edges and studded with several rows of bear's teeth and claws, so sacred in the eyes of the Indians. Her moccasins were soft and pliable, beautifully embroidered with dyed porcupine quills. A pair of heavy shells hung from her ears, around her neck a string of bear's claws, upon her wrists a number of bracelets made of rings of brass, and smaller rings of the same bright metal covered her fingers between the first and second joints. Her cheeks and the parting of her hair were painted with vermilion, and the long black tresses of the child were neatly combed and hung down her back.
Twelve years passed quickly amid the merry laughter and free out-door life and sports of the camp, and the love and peace which dwelt in the lodge of the old chief. Asokoa was still the pet of the lodge and the pride of the old man's heart, but because of her sex she occupied an inferior position and had to submit to the customs of the people.
Woman had not always been degraded, for in the early years of the history of the Indians she had held equal rights with the men, those of each sex performing their own duties and being honored by the other for the possession of sterling qualities essentially their own. But the circumstances of the Indians had changed, and with the change came a gradual revolution of the old customs.
One day there came to the lodge of Asokoa's father an old man named Running Deer, who was held in great esteem by the people as a warrior. He would sit for hours smoking and recounting his many adventures, his hairbreadth escapes from war parties of the Crows, Sioux and Gros Ventres, the numerous scalp-locks he had taken and the horses he had stolen. Although he repeated his stories frequently, the same respect was shown and the same applause accorded as had greeted the first recital.
Asokoa listened with the same attention as the others, and while she admired the old man's courage and enthusiasm, thought no more of him than any child of fourteen would of a man of sixty years of age. The chief and Running Deer had several private conversations, which invariably ended in some close bargain relative to camp affairs.
Two or three weeks passed and one day a young man rode up to the lodge door and called out the chief's name. The latter rose and went out, and after carefully examining the four young horses the young man had brought, and being quite satisfied of their soundness, he bade him drive them into his band.
The chief then returned to the lodge and the meal Asokoa had prepared for him. He was restless and evidently troubled in mind. Occasionally he would cast furtive glances about him, and seemed to be listening for the approach of someone. His wives and children noted this uneasiness, and remembered he had acted in the same manner when he had feared the approach of a large war party of Assiniboines. They feared another attack was threatened, but dare not ask any questions.
Presently the sound of horses approaching the lodge was heard, and again the chief was called upon by name. He went out, but returned immediately and told Asokoa there was a beautiful horse and saddle waiting for her at the door. It was the gift of Running Deer, and he had come to take her to his lodge, for she was now his wife and must dwell with him for the future.
Asokoa turned pale, and startled by the suddenness of the announcement, buried her face in her hands and wept. Then trembling from head to foot with grief and anger, she gathered her clothes and ornaments together and tore herself away from the home of her childhood where so many happy days had been spent. She had admired Running Deer when he visited her father's lodge, listened with interest to his adventures, but how could she love him? She was still a child, only fourteen, and she had been given in marriage without her knowledge to a man of sixty. For the consideration of four horses she had been sold into slavery, doomed to live secluded, to wait on the capricious humors of an old man, to be one of the favored in his Indian harem.
It was the custom, and so it would be useless for her to speak a word of protest. Mounting the horse she rode away quietly in the company of her husband. After a ride of about three miles they reached the camp and the lodge which was to be her home. The women came out to meet her, and a few of her friends gathered around, but in silence she unsaddled the horse, put a pair of hobbles on his fore-feet, carried the saddle into the lodge, and took the place assigned to her beside its master.
The lodge was a handsome one, capacious, and strongly built of buffalo hides. It was ornamented on the outside with pictures painted in many colors. Several scalp-locks which Running Deer had taken from the heads of the enemies he had slain in battle, hung down the side. Three other wives dwelt in the lodge, and Asokoa would be obliged to submit to the rule of the one who was the queen.
A sumptuous feast was placed before her, but she could eat little, her heart was too full. The girl felt that she had been wronged, yet that there was no way of escaping her fate; custom was too strong to be altered for her.
The previous wives of Running Deer were jealous of Asokoa and looked upon her as an intruder, but they said nothing, showing their dislike only by the sullen glances they cast at her as she flung herself down on the couch of furs, and took the place reserved for her.
For several months Asokoa's lot was not altogether an unhappy one, presenting, as it did, a pleasant contrast to the lives of many of the other women in the camp. This was chiefly due to her own liveliness of disposition, which enabled her to retain her self-respect by attending carefully to her dress and keeping herself clean and neat. The women in the camps after marriage generally become careless and untidy, and in some instances filthy: but Asokoa had too much self-esteem to so forget herself, and this pride stood her in good stead, helping her to retain her dignity as a chief's daughter and meet successfully all the cavils of the jealous ones in the camp. Quarrels were frequent among the women, but as Asokoa took no part in these family brawls, she was saved much sorrow and daily annoyances.
Running Deer was held in high respect by the young men of the tribe, many of whom paid long visits to the camp to listen to the wondrous tales he had to tell, and learn from him the ways of successful warfare. Among the visitors who always received a cordial welcome was Saotan, the gifted son of Eagle Rib, one of the most famous chiefs of the tribe.
Saotan only desired to follow in his father's footsteps, and was glad to seize every opportunity to obtain a knowledge of the military and political affairs of his people. He was amiable and unassuming, tall and dignified, and had already won the esteem of the older men. As he grew older his prospects of promotion brightened. He had kept himself free from the escapades of the younger men about him, some of whom hated him for his reticence and apparent haughtiness of manner. He paid little attention, however, to their sarcastic remarks, but followed unmoved the path he had marked out for himself. As he listened to the animated narrations of Running Deer he imbibed his spirit of enthusiasm, and felt inspired to do and dare noble things for his race.
During the long winter months, as the camp was moved from place to place, Saotan spent much of his time with the old man, and Running Deer became strongly attached to him. Asokoa was always with her husband, and his tales assumed a new interest to her in the presence of Saotan; and though she could not in words invite the young man to the lodge, she encouraged him to come by greeting him always with a pleasant smile. His visits relieved the tedium of her life and distracted her from the annoyance caused by the constant quarrelling between the other women.
The first months of her married life had passed, and Running Deer's affection for his young bride had cooled. The degradation of her life made her heart heavy, and robbed her cheek of the bloom of health. Asokoa seldom paid a visit to her father's lodge, as it was now some distance from Running Deer's camp. Indian women are not allowed to travel alone or unaccompanied by their husbands. All unconscious that she was doing more than pleasing her husband she grew to look forward to Saotan's visits with increasing interest, and as he saw his presence was welcome he came more frequently. Life seemed to recover its brightness again, the charm of youth returned, and Asokoa felt for the first time the power of love.
Saotan was soon drawn within the same influence, and the distance between his father's lodge and Running Deer's seemed short indeed. Saotan was in love, but dare not reveal it. The woods and valleys might be full of enchantment, his dreams be of happiness and joy, his waking hours full of light and life, yet they were also haunted by anxious fears for the future. He left his food untasted, ceased to visit the lodges of his young friends, and tried to restrain his steps from turning toward Running Deer's lodge, but all in vain.
Important business affecting the tribe called her husband to attend frequent gatherings of the chiefs in council, and Asokoa was left at the lodge. The horses had to be looked after in his absence, and he entrusted the duty to Saotan. Thus Asokoa and Saotan met more frequently; from looks to words the transition was slight, and the story of their love was told. Cruel custom forbade their making any confession to the old man or seeking freedom from polygamous relationship, and they trembled for the result of the discovery of their passion.
A more than usually long and important meeting of the council, at which a discussion on the question of war with the Gros Ventres had been prolonged to a late hour, had detained Running Deer so late that he accepted an invitation to remain the night at a friend's lodge. Early the next morning he returned to his home rejoicing in the consciousness of power. His voice had been heard and his arguments had prevailed at the council, winning him a signal victory over the chiefs who had opposed him.
As he entered the lodge an expression of evil satisfaction beamed from the faces of his older wives. At first he took no notice, then suddenly his heart was filled with foreboding. He looked and saw that the place usually occupied by Asokoa was vacant. Inquiring the reason of her absence, he learned that on the previous evening she had gone to visit a woman in one of the adjoining lodges and had not returned.
Running Deer turned and went out, quiet, dignified and sullen, determined to punish the delinquent for her unfaithfulness. Mounting his horse, which stood where he had left it a few moments before, he rode swiftly to the coulee where his band of horses were feeding, and found his wife's among them. Asokoa must be ill or something serious must have befallen her; her horse was still among the band, and she could not have left the camps. He went hurriedly from lodge to lodge making anxious inquiries, but could find no tidings of his missing wife. Then widening his circle of search, he went from camp to camp, yet found no trace of her until he reached the lodges of Eagle Rib. Two horses had been taken from the chief's band, and Saotan had not been seen since the previous day. Burning with indignation, his former love changed to bitter hatred, and vowing vengeance on the young man who had supplanted him in the affections of Asokoa, he strode to the chief and demanded his daughter, but Eagle Rib could give him no information of the whereabouts of the fugitive couple.
Several months had passed, and Running Deer's anger had cooled. He had given up all search for the lost ones; he hated the names they bore, and would not permit them to be mentioned in his presence. He had apparently forgotten them when a messenger arrived to announce their discovery among the Piegan tribe, one of the same confederacy as the Bloods and Blackfeet.
Weary of exile and anxious to dwell once more among their own people in their old home, Saotan and Asokoa had returned, preferring to risk the punishment which might be inflicted for their wrong-doing. They sought refuge in the lodge of Eagle Rib, where they hoped to be protected by the influence of the chief. But law and custom is stronger than the individual, and the demands of justice are more powerful among the savage tribes than in any other organization or race of men. The chief might retard the operations of the Indian laws, but he could not overcome them.
Night had fallen upon the camp and the dwellers in the lodges were retired to rest, when three men entered and seized Asokoa. A band of men waited on horseback outside. These were the Black Soldiers, the policemen of the camp, enrolled to maintain order and execute justice. They had entered the camp so quietly that no one had heard their approach.
Asokoa uttered no complaint or cry as they dragged her out, although in times of pain or trouble the Indian women are generally loud in their lamentations. Deceived by her quiet acquiescence, the men mounted her on one of the horses and allowed her to ride behind them on the way to the place of judgment. The night was dark, and as they passed a clump of bushes Asokoa slid off the horse, and, crouching down in the shadows till her guards were at some distance, fled back again to her father-in-law's lodge. The Black Soldiers rode on, unsuspecting any misfortune, and had almost reached their destination before they discovered that the Indian beauty had eluded them. They returned at once to recapture her, but as they once more entered the lodge and demanded her of the chief, she stooped down and made her escape by crawling under the leather flap of the lodge, which Eagle Rib had taken the precaution to leave unfastened. Then she sped away in the darkness until she was joined by Saotan, who mounted her on his horse, and together they crossed the river, and by hard riding reached the shelter of the home of a white friend before the early dawn broke.
Negotiations were entered into between Eagle Rib and Running Deer for an amicable settlement of the matter. The angry husband had felt so embittered against the woman who had never loved him that he had himself sharpened the knife, determined to inflict the usual punishment for unfaithfulness, that of cutting off the nose. Many instances of such mutilation are in existence in the Indian camps.
The two old men talked the matter over fully, and at last a settlement was agreed upon. Running Deer accepted five horses and a gun as compensation, and Saotan and Asokoa were free to return once more and live in peace among their own people. The days which followed the return of the lovers were very happy ones. Love dwelt in the lodge that was made beautiful by Asokoa; she lived for Saotan and adorned his home with every ornament and device that love could suggest. On his part, Saotan loved her so supremely that he never brought another woman to his lodge to share his love or supplant her in his loving attentions.
A dark-eyed babe came to gladden their hearts, a beautiful boy who Asokoa said should grow up and be like his father. They rejoiced together in the possession of this treasure, and when a few months later the destroying angel came and snatched their darling from their arms they mourned together over their darkened home.
Saotan and Asokoa had dwelt in perfect happiness for three years when a war expedition was organized to go southward and retaliate upon their enemies for the depredations the tribe had suffered at their hands. Two of these young men had been killed, and the desire was to kill their enemies, that the young men's spirits might rest in the happy spirit land.
The war party had chosen Saotan as their leader, and he was obliged to bid Asokoa a reluctant farewell. The affectionate wife gazed long and sadly after his retreating form as he rode away over the plains. They were not going to wage open warfare, but secretly to return with scalps as compensation for the loss of some of their own young men, and Asokoa's heart was heavy with foreboding of evil.
At the expiration of two weeks the Indians in the camps looked for the return of Saotan and his party. Four weeks had gone and there were no tidings. Two young men were sent out to trace them and learn the cause of delay. Meanwhile the sole topic of conversation in the lodges was the long absence of Saotan. Various rumors were circulated, but the truth concerning their fate could not be learned. Small parties of Piegans, Blackfeet and Sarcees called at the camps, but none brought any tidings of the missing men.
After many days of anxious waiting, the search party returned. Long before they reached the camp the people descried them on the distant hills, riding slowly, and their horses appearing to be tired out. The people ran to meet them, the women anxious to hear what news they brought. They listened for the songs of exultation, but alas! heard only that wail of sorrow which strikes terror to the Indian woman's heart.
The chiefs gathered in one of the lodges to listen to the story of the young men. They had ridden five nights on their journey, searching carefully for any trace of Saotan and his men. Not an Indian was to be seen anywhere; the country appeared to be deserted, and they thought it would be wise to return. A short consultation was held, and as they walked their horses slowly they came to the bank of a small stream where they noticed a branch was broken from a tree overhanging the water. Searching more closely, they found marks of horses' feet, and following the tracks, they came upon a spot where it was evident a battle had been fought, for near at hand lay the skeletons of Saotan and his men. The Indians who had slain them had taken their scalp-locks, their arms and ornaments, and the buzzard, coyote and wolf had stripped the bones; but there were enough fragments of clothing scattered about to enable the young men to recognize that the remains were those of Saotan and the party who had gone out so full of hope and confidence so short a time before.
As the young men related their sorrowful tale, the chiefs' countenances betokened the direst anger, and while they muttered and plotted revenge, the women slipped away to carry the story of widowhood, pain and degradation to Asokoa. Overwhelmed with grief for her loss, the poor woman thought only that Saotan could never return to her again, and did not realize that the medicine-women were already on their way to perform the ceremonies of mourning for the dead.
These women laid their hands upon her, and in a few moments the long black hair that had been her glory fell in masses to the ground. Her neatly embroidered garments were then removed and the oldest and most worn substituted; then, laying the bereaved woman's hand on a block of wood, one of the medicine-women took a knife, and using a deer's-horn scraper as a hammer, severed one of the fingers at the first joint. Her legs were next denuded of the handsome leggings, and the flesh gashed with a knife from the knees to the feet. The blood clotted as it trickled down and was allowed to remain.
Asokoa submitted willingly to all these inflictions of pain and mutilation; it was the custom, and she felt that she was only doing as she should to prove the reality of her grief for the loss of her husband by enduring it all without a murmur. A few of the old women sat with her in the lodge as companions in her grief; then as the sun sank in the western sky, Asokoa wandered out over the prairie, weeping bitterly and uttering the wailing cry of bereavement, "Saotan, come back to me! Saotan, come back to me!" But no voice replied, as the wailing cadences floated on the evening air.
When the darkness fell, the mourner returned, the people evading contact with her as she passed by the lodges. An hour or two of sleeplessness spent in the lodge and the early dawn found her repeating the same sad wail for the dead. The people mourned with her, but said little; young and old hung their heads as she passed them. Some of the women shed tears of sympathy and the men spoke often of the death of Saotan the brave, and murmured vengeance on the enemy who had slain him.
The days of Asokoa's mourning were long, and at first there seemed nothing left for her but death; but time, that healer of many wounds, was here in the Indian camp as elsewhere. Asokoa was too handsome and young, of too good birth and pleasant a disposition, to remain long without a suitor. Sekimi, a dignified warrior, took her to his lodge to be his wife, and for a long time was contented and happy with her alone. He could not have had a better wife. Asokoa was devoted to her home, and kept the lodge well and comfortable for husband.
Some months had passed when she noticed that Sekimi seemed to lose interest in his home, to be dull and restless. Asokoa did not despair, but sang her sweetest songs, cooked the daintiest morsels, prepared the choicest meals, and endeavored by every means within her reach to wean him from his melancholy and make him happy. Some burden rested heavily on his heart and blinded him to all the winning ways of his faithful and beautiful wife.
Sekimi rose early on one bright summer day, and after taking his morning meal hastily went out. He turned his steps to where his band of horses were feeding, and selecting three of the best, rode away. Asokoa had a quiet day, no visitor coming to the lodge. When evening closed in she heard the sound of horsemen riding toward the camp, and as they drew near she heard the notes of a low, sweet song and readily distinguished her husband's voice among the others. Sekimi was returning happy; the burden laid upon his spirits was removed, and Asokoa, fully content, hastened to prepare some special dainty for his evening meal and be ready to welcome him.
In a short time the horses stopped at the lodge door, and the tones of a woman chatting gaily made Asokoa's heart beat with apprehension. Sekimi entered, and speaking haughtily, bade Asokoa set food before them. Greater sorrow had never fallen upon Asokoa. Her love and pride were hurt by the knowledge that she had been superseded by another; love drew tears to her eyes, but pride forbade them to fall.
The days which followed the arrival of the new wife were a dull round of drudgery and sorrow, but Asokoa went about her work in silence. She was left much alone, and in time grew accustomed to her sad lot. Always patient, she bore her trials with even greater patience and submission than ever, but the handsome Indian woman was not so erect as formerly and the glow of health had long fled from her cheeks. The old women watched her sadly and tried to cheer her; the children clung to her, and leaning against her knees as she sat beside the river, listened to the tales she loved to tell them. As health failed, when too weak to leave the lodge she would lie still for hours, suffering but never complaining.
The long July and August days passed, and the cool air of autumn brought some relief to the dying woman. The medicine-men beat their drums and sang their songs for her with great energy, but Asokoa begged them to cease; she wished only for quiet and peace.
The leaves were falling from the trees on the distant bluffs when the end came. The old chief, the father who had looked with such love and pride on the face of his child as it hung in the hammock, sat sorrowful at the door of the lodge waiting for the approach of the death-angel. As the sun sank behind the distant mountains, Asokoa raised her hand, and pointing to some object which seemed to hold the fixed gaze of her eyes, her lips moved. As if gathering her remaining strength for a last effort, she cried, "Saotan!" and with the name of her best-loved on her lips Asokoa's released spirit took its flight.
THE SKY PILOT.
Broadcloth and pemmican seldom met together in the far West during the old buffalo days. Occasionally, though, a "sky pilot" dressed in prairie garb found his way to the trading posts or the mining camps of the old-timers, where he was hospitably entertained and sometimes handsomely remunerated. There were few attractions for men of culture and refinement in such a life; only that to be found in a free and easy life on the western plains, strengthened by the desire to do good and the assurance of success which always accompanies every earnest toiler who obeys the behests of his Master.
Parson Morris was a Methodist preacher of the old school, with few tastes, yet withal a man of culture and sterling worth. He had not only seen the inside of a college, but he was a good classical scholar. Few could handle the Greek Testament better than he, or were better versed in the standards of Methodist theology. When a lad he had found peace at the ancient "penitent bench," and the first prayer that fell from his lips was the simple but very expressive sentence, "Lord, make me a missionary!" This missionary zeal had been fed by reading the life of John Hunt of Fiji and current missionary literature.
During his college course the keen eye of one of the church leaders recognized the fitness of the young man for the mission field, and a messenger was sent to request his consent to go into the work of bringing the heathen to Christ. His heart had been set upon going to Japan, but the voice of destiny sent him to the western plains of Canada, where under the shadow of the majestic mountains he unfurled the banner of the Prince of Peace.
Parson Morris must, like all wise men, take a partner with him to his western home, one with whom to share his toil and his joy; for, although there were many who sought to deter him from engaging in such a fruitless task as striving to lead Indians or frontiersmen to the feet of Christ, he anticipated success, and his heart was therefore full of joy. It would have been needless for him to have gone forth upon his mission if he had not been buoyant in spirit and deeply impressed with the great work he had undertaken.
The friends of the young missionary and his wife felt their departure keenly, and some kind-hearted souls deeply sympathized with them, and spoke to them as if they had been banished by some edict of the Almighty to dwell in lone banishment in some desert wilderness. The young parson received a handsome gift from his ministerial friends, and Nancy, the parson's bride, was made the recipient of several valuable presents from her college friends.
While attending the session of Conference the Rev. John Boswell offered his congratulations to the missionary, adding: "It does seem a pity that a man possessed of such good talents as you should become a missionary to the Indians. You would do well on the best fields of the East."
The simple answer was, "I feel that I ought to go!"
Two days before starting upon the missionary journey an interesting though scarcely encouraging missive was received offering good-will, and containing a newspaper clipping detailing the hanging of a Cree Indian for the inhuman act of murdering, cooking and eating his own family!
Some of these kind friends who sent this letter were numbered amongst the most generous contributors to the missionary cause, and prayed most earnestly for its success.
The solemn moment of parting came, and many tears were shed, many words of regret spoken. The parson felt depressed when thus surrounded by so many gloomy countenances, but he naturally turned aside in search of one or two kindred spirits, and as he stood upon the railroad station platform there came a vision before his eyes, one which filled them with tears. It was that of the heathen waiting in thousands with outstretched arms calling for help, while not a soul appeared to hear the cry which ascended to heaven and arrested the angels in their mission of mercy and love. The great responsibility of helping men toward a nobler life rested heavily upon the heart of Parson Morris, and as he talked to his friends, hearing and answering their questions, his heart was far away on those distant plains.
Their journey lay through the pleasant farms and shady woodlands in northern Ontario, then up the lakes of the north, across stormy Lake Superior, over the prairies of Minnesota and Dakota, until the Missouri was reached, when a halt was made to await the steamer. One week was spent in the city of Bismarck, at that time a small village characterized by all the roughness of western civilization.
There were large ox-trains composed of three and four heavily laden wagons, drawn by eighteen or twenty head of oxen, on their way to the Black Hills, the land of mineral wealth and lawlessness.
On Sunday the cowboys ran their horses wildly up and down the principal streets, firing their revolvers into the air. A theatre was in full progress, and all the stores were doing a thriving business.
Parson Morris and his friends held a service in a public hall, and while the heads of the worshippers were bowed in devotion their souls were called to earth again by the sudden entrance of a man who shouted, "Is this a fire meeting?"
Perceiving his mistake he retreated.
Up the muddy Missouri the pilgrims continued their journey, past the extensive Cactus plains, winding in and out of the sand-bars and snags which filled the river, crawling slowly through the rapids, passing vast herds of buffalo and bands of Indians, until after ten days' sailing in the famous river steamer, the Key West, they landed at Benton, the head of navigation. Dirt, drink and depravity were the chief features of the village in the buffalo days. Money was abundant, and so were gamblers. The main street was lined with taverns and gambling-hells, and every morning the street was almost paved with playing cards. Here were men of quality and culture mingling with the scum of society around the tables. Brawls were common occurrences, and not infrequently were attended with the death of one or more of the participants.
At Benton an outfit was purchased, and Parson Morris with his wife Nancy embarked in a "prairie schooner" for their home across the plains. Bidding farewell to the last evidences of civilization, they began their march. Alkali lands were abundant and water was scarce; indeed, water fit to drink was seldom found, and frequently the travellers had to seek a stagnant pool, containing not more than a pailful of slimy liquid. By filtering it through a handkerchief the water was strained and freed from most of its obnoxious ingredients. At times a tiny rain pool served to yield a small supply of water. Strong coffee was made with it in order to destroy the discoloration of the water and its nauseous properties. Mosquitoes and swollen rivers served not too pleasantly to relieve the monotony of the trip. There was excitement, too, as for instance when the wagon-box was lashed with a hide and made to serve as a boat, the occupants trembling for their safety as the rudely made craft was borne wildly down the turbulent stream.
Arrived at their destination a very primitive log structure was sufficient to afford the parson and Nancy a place of rest and shelter from the inquisitiveness of the too neighborly Indians. It was a rude building, but there was joy in it arising from the consciousness of duty done for God and man.
The field of operation, embracing an extent of territory larger than the whole of England, was extensive enough to engage all the young man's powers.
The suit of broadcloth was discarded for one of buckskin, long top boots and a sombrero (a hat with a brim of very wide dimensions). Nancy was compelled sometimes to remain at home while her husband visited the lone and distant settlements. These visits often involved an absence of some weeks from his home, and brought trying times for Nancy; many an anxious hour was passed as she lay at night thinking of the parson asleep upon the prairie at a long distance from any habitation and having no companion save his faithful horse, while the savage dogs howled around her home and the Indians sang and shouted at their heathen feasts. When Parson Morris started out on a journey, his thoughtful wife made extra hard buns, put some tea in one small sack, a supply of sugar in another, a little butter in a can, the whole neatly arranged so that it could be equally divided and fastened on the back of the saddle.
A small axe and an old kettle, a few books, a picket-pin and a rope completed the outfit. Dressed in his buckskin suit, the parson gave Nancy a kiss, breathed a prayer for their mutual protection, sprang into the saddle, dashed through the river and sped across the prairie at a rapid pace, for he must travel forty miles before night overtakes him. Half of his day's journey completed, he unsaddled his faithful animal, picketed her in a good spot where there was some choice buffalo grass, built a fire of such material as he could gather, and then hastily cooked his meal.