for a time kept at about their speed, and finally began to lose distance. Still we kept on, for we could all see the coveted prize, the albino, running at the head of the herd. I felt sure that none of us were able overtake it, but because the others did, I kept my horse going, too, shamefully quirting him when he was doing his very best.
It is a trite but true saying that "it is the unexpected that always happens." Out from a coulee right in front of the flying herd dashed a lone horseman, right in among them, scattering the animals in all directions. In much less time than it takes to tell it, he rode up right beside the albino, we could see him lean over and sink arrow after arrow into its ribs, and presently it stopped, wobbled, and fell over on its side. When we rode up to the place the hunter was standing over it, hands raised, fervently praying, promising the Sun the robe and the tongue of the animal. It was a three-year-old cow, yellowish-white in colour, but with normal coloured eyes. I had believed that the eyes of all albinos were of pinkish hue. The successful hunter was a Piegan, Medicine Weasel by name. He was so excited, he trembled so, that he could not use his knife, and some of our party took off the hide for him, and cut out the tongue, he standing over them all the time and begging them to be careful, to make no gashes, for they were doing the work for the Sun. None of the meat was taken. It was considered a sacrilege to eat it; the tongue was to be dried and given to the Sun with the robe. While the animal was being skinned, the party we had seen chasing the herd came up; they were Black-feet of the north, and did not seem to be very well pleased that the Piegans had captured the prize; they soon rode away to their camp, and we went to ours, accompanied by Medicine Weasel, who had left his camp to the eastward in the morning to hunt up some stray horses, and had wound up the day in a most unexpected manner. So ended that particular hunt.
Before the buffalo finally disappeared I saw one more —not a pure albino. In fact, Berry and I purchased the tanned robe, which, for want of a better term, we named the "spotted robe." Singularly enough, this animal was killed in 1881, when the last of the great herds were in the country lying between the Yellow stone and Missouri rivers, and where in two more years they were practically exterminated. This animal was also a cow, a large five-year-old. The hair on its head, belly, legs, and tail was snow white, and there was a white spot on each flank about eight inches in diameter. When the hide was taken off, by ripping it in the usual manner, there was an eight or ten-inch border all around it of pure white, contrasting vividly with the beautiful, glossy, dark brown of the body of the robe. The animal was killed by a young North Blackfoot between Big Crooked Creek and Flat Willow Creek, both emptying into the lower Musselshell. We had at the time a large post on the Missouri, a couple of hundred miles below Fort Benton, and a branch post over on Flat Willow. Berry was on his way to visit the latter place when he came upon a party of Black-feet just as they had concluded a run, and saw the spotted animal before it was skinned. He went no farther that day, but accompanied the young hunter to his father's lodge where the old man made him welcome. If there was ever a man on earth who could coax an Indian to do whatever he wished that man was Berry. He pleaded hard for that hide all the afternoon and far into the night. It was against all precedent and tradition to barter such a skin, belonging as it did to the Sun. It would be a sacrilege to sell it. The young hunter got out of the deal by giving it to his father, and, finally, as the old man knocked the ashes out of the last pipe before retiring, he sighed, and said wearily to Berry: "Well, my son, you shall have your way; my wife will tan the robe, and some day I will give it to you."
It was a beautifully tanned robe, and on the clean, white leather side the old man painted the record of his life; the enemies he had killed, the horses he had taken, the combats he had waged against the grizzly tribe, and the animals and stars of his medicine. There were other traders in the same bottom with us on the Missouri. One day, with his ancient wife, the old man rode in and duly exhibited to them all the wonderful robe, and, of course, they all wanted it. "I am not ready to sell it," the crafty old man said to each one. "After a while—well, we'll see; we'll see."
Then the traders vied with each other in being good to the old man. During the balance of the winter they kept him supplied with all the whisky, and tobacco, and tea, and sugar and various other things that he could use. Two or three times a week he and the old wife would come down to our place loaded with bottles of whisky and sit before the fireplace in our living room and get comfortably full. I loved to watch and listen to them, they were so happy, so loving, so given to recalling the pleasant days of their youth and vigour. And so it went on for several months, and finally one spring day, when by chance our rivals happened to be lounging in our trade room, the old couple sauntered in and tossed the robe over the counter, the old man saying to Berry: "There it is, my son. I fulfill my promise. But put it away clear out of sight, lest I be tempted to take it back."
Maybe we didn't enjoy the chagrin of our rivals! Each one of them had been so sure that he was going to get the odd robe. But then they were "pilgrims"; they didn't "savvy" the Indians. We got our 4,000 robes that winter, more than all the rest of them together. We finally sold the robe. The fame of it spread up and down the river, and finally a Montreal, Canada, gentleman, making a tour of the country, heard of it; and when the steamboat he was on stopped at our place he came in and bought it before we knew where we were at. We did not wish to sell it, and named a price that we deemed prohibitive. To our amazement he laid down two large bills, threw the robe over his shoulder, and hurried back to the boat. Berry and I looked at each other and said things.
Chapter VIII.
A Winter on the Marias
There was a little town in northern Montana, where upon certain days things would run along as smoothly and monotonously as in a village of this effete East. But at certain other times you would enter the place to find everyone on a high old tear. It seemed to be epidemic; if one man started to get gloriously full everyone promptly joined in—doctor, lawyer, merchant, cattleman, sheepman and all. Well do I remember the last affair of that kind I witnessed there. By about 2 P. M. they got to the champagne stage— 'twas really sparkling cider or something of that kind— five dollars a bottle, and about fifty men were going from saloon to store and from store to hotel treating in turn— sixty dollars a round. I mention this as a prelude to what I have to say about drinking among the Indians in the old days. They were no worse than the whites in that way, and with them it seemed to be also epidemic.
Quietly and orderly a camp would be for days and days, and then suddenly all the men would start in on a drinking bout. Really, I believe that the Indians at such times, free as they were from any restraint, to whom law was an unknown term, were better behaved than would be a like number of our working-men in the same condition. True, they frequently quarrelled with each other when in liquor, and a quarrel was something to be settled only by blood. But let a thousand white men get drunk together, would there not ensue some fearful scenes? One reads of the ferocity of Indians when drinking, but my own experience was that on the whole they were exceedingly good-natured and jovial at such times, and often infinitely amusing. One night that winter on the Marias I was wending my way home ward from a visit at Sorrel Horse's place, when a man and woman came out of the trade room and staggered along the trail toward me. I slipped behind a cotton-wood tree. The man was very unsteady on his feet and the woman, trying to help him along, at the same time was giving him a thorough scolding. I heard her say: "___ , and you didn't look out for me a bit; there you were in that crowd, just drinking with one and then another, and never looking to see how I was get ting along. You don't protect me at all; you don't care for me, or you would not have let me stay in there to be insulted."
The man stopped short and, swaying this way and that, gave a roar like a wounded grizzly: "Don't care for you; don't protect you; let you get insulted," he spluttered and foamed. "Who insulted you? Who? I say. Let me at him! Let me at him! I'll fix him with this."
Right there by the trail was lying a large, green, cottonwood log which would have weighed at least a ton. He bent over
