The Crow country—A Crow paradise Habits of the Crows—Anecdotes of Rose, the renegade white man—His fights with the Blackfeet—His elevation—His death—Arapooish, the Crow chief—His eagle Adventure of Robert Campbell—Honor among Crows
BEFORE WE ACCOMPANY Captain Bonneville into the Crow country, we will
impart a few facts about this wild region, and the wild people who
inhabit it. We are not aware of the precise boundaries, if there are
any, of the country claimed by the Crows; it appears to extend from
the Black Hills to the Rocky Mountains, including a part of their lofty
ranges, and embracing many of the plains and valleys watered by the Wind
River, the Yellowstone, the Powder River, the Little Missouri, and the
Nebraska. The country varies in soil and climate; there are vast plains
of sand and clay, studded with large red sand-hills; other parts are
mountainous and picturesque; it possesses warm springs, and coal mines,
and abounds with game.
But let us give the account of the country as rendered by Arapooish, a
Crow chief, to Mr. Robert Campbell, of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company.
"The Crow country," said he, "is a good country. The Great Spirit has
put it exactly in the right place; while you-are in it you fare well;
whenever you go out of it, whichever way you travel, you fare worse.
"If you go to the south, you have to wander over great barren plains;
the water is warm and bad, and you meet the fever and ague.
"To the north it is cold; the winters are long and bitter, with no
grass; you cannot keep horses there, but must travel with dogs. What is
a country without horses?
"On the Columbia they are poor and dirty, paddle about in canoes, and
eat fish. Their teeth are worn out; they are always taking fish-bones
out of their mouths. Fish is poor food.
"To the east, they dwell in villages; they live well; but they drink the
muddy water of the Missouri—that is bad. A Crow's dog would not drink
such water.
"About the forks of the Missouri is a fine country; good water; good
grass; plenty of buffalo. In summer, it is almost as good as the Crow
country; but in winter it is cold; the grass is gone; and there is no
salt weed for the horses.
"The Crow country is exactly in the right place. It has snowy mountains
and sunny plains; all kinds of climates and good things for every
season. When the summer heats scorch the prairies, you can draw up under
the mountains, where the air is sweet and cool, the grass fresh, and the
bright streams come tumbling out of the snow-banks. There you can
hunt the elk, the deer, and the antelope, when their skins are fit for
dressing; there you will find plenty of white bears and mountain sheep.
"In the autumn, when your horses are fat and strong from the mountain
pastures, you can go down into the plains and hunt the buffalo, or trap
beaver on the streams. And when winter comes on, you can take shelter in
the woody bottoms along the rivers; there you will find buffalo meat for
yourselves, and cotton-wood bark for your horses: or you may winter in
the Wind River valley, where there is salt weed in abundance.
"The Crow country is exactly in the right place. Everything good is to
be found there. There is no country like the Crow country."
Such is the eulogium on his country by Arapooish.
We have had repeated occasions to speak of the restless and predatory
habits of the Crows. They can muster fifteen hundred fighting men, but
their incessant wars with the Blackfeet, and their vagabond, predatory
habits, are gradually wearing them out.
In a recent work, we related the circumstance of a white man named Rose,
an outlaw, and a designing vagabond, who acted as guide and interpreter
to Mr. Hunt and his party, on their journey across the mountains to
Astoria, who came near betraying them into the hands of the Crows, and
who remained among the tribe, marrying one of their women, and adopting
their congenial habits. A few anecdotes of the subsequent fortunes of
that renegade may not be uninteresting, especially as they are connected
with the fortunes of the tribe.
Rose was powerful in frame and fearless in spirit; and soon by his
daring deeds took his rank among the first braves of the tribe. He
aspired to command, and knew it was only to be attained by desperate
exploits. He distinguished himself in repeated actions with Blackfeet.
On one occasion, a band of those savages had fortified themselves within
a breastwork, and could not be harmed. Rose proposed to storm the work.
"Who will take the lead?" was the demand. "I!" cried he; and putting
himself at their head, rushed forward. The first Blackfoot that opposed
him he shot down with his rifle, and, snatching up the war-club of his
victim, killed four others within the fort. The victory was complete,
and Rose returned to the Crow village covered with glory, and bearing
five Blackfoot scalps, to be erected as a trophy before his lodge. From
this time, he was known among the Crows by the name of Che-ku-kaats,
or "the man who killed five." He became chief of the village, or rather
band, and for a time was the popular idol. His popularity soon awakened
envy among the native braves; he was a stranger, an intruder, a white
man. A party seceded from his command. Feuds and civil wars succeeded
that lasted for two or three years, until Rose, having contrived to set
his adopted brethren by the ears, left them, and went down the Missouri
in 1823. Here he fell in with one of the earliest trapping expeditions
sent by General Ashley across the mountains. It was conducted by
Smith, Fitzpatrick, and Sublette. Rose enlisted with them as guide
and interpreter. When he got them among the Crows, he was exceedingly
generous with their goods; making presents to the braves of his adopted
tribe, as became a high-minded chief.
This, doubtless, helped to revive his popularity. In that expedition,
Smith and Fitzpatrick were robbed of their horses in Green River valley;
the place where the robbery took place still bears the name of Horse
Creek. We are not informed whether the horses were stolen through the
instigation and management of Rose; it is not improbable, for such was
the perfidy he had intended to practice on a former occasion toward Mr.
Hunt and his party.
The last anecdote we have of Rose is from an Indian trader. When General
Atkinson made his military expedition up the Missouri, in 1825, to
protect the fur trade, he held a conference with the Crow nation,
at which Rose figured as Indian dignitary and Crow interpreter. The
military were stationed at some little distance from the scene of the
"big talk"; while the general and the chiefs were smoking pipes and
making speeches, the officers, supposing all was friendly, left the
troops, and drew near the scene of ceremonial. Some of the more knowing
Crows, perceiving this, stole quietly to the camp, and, unobserved,
contrived to stop the touch-holes of the field-pieces with dirt. Shortly
after, a misunderstanding occurred in the conference: some of the
Indians, knowing the cannon to be useless, became insolent. A tumult
arose. In the confusion, Colonel O'Fallan snapped a pistol in the face
of a brave, and knocked him down with the butt end. The Crows were all
in a fury. A chance-medley fight was on the point of taking place, when
Rose, his natural sympathies as a white man suddenly recurring, broke
the stock of his fusee over the head of a Crow warrior, and laid so
vigorously about him with the barrel, that he soon put the whole throng
to flight. Luckily, as no lives had been lost, this sturdy rib roasting
calmed the fury of the Crows, and the tumult ended without serious
consequences.
What was the ultimate fate of this vagabond hero is not distinctly
known. Some report him to have fallen a victim to disease, brought on by
his licentious life; others assert that he was murdered in a feud
among the Crows. After all, his residence among these savages, and
the influence he acquired over them, had, for a time, some beneficial
effects. He is said, not merely to have rendered them more formidable
to the Blackfeet, but to have opened their eyes to the policy of
cultivating the friendship of the white men.
After Rose's death, his policy continued to be cultivated, with
indifferent success, by Arapooish, the chief already mentioned, who
had been his great friend, and whose character he had contributed
to develope. This sagacious chief endeavored, on every occasion, to
restrain the predatory propensities of his tribe when directed against
the white men. "If we keep friends with them," said he, "we have nothing
to fear from the Blackfeet, and can rule the mountains." Arapooish
pretended to be a great "medicine man", a character among the Indians
which is a compound of priest, doctor, prophet, and conjurer. He carried
about with him a tame eagle, as his "medicine" or familiar. With the
white men, he acknowledged that this was all charlatanism, but said it
was necessary, to give him weight and influence among his people.
Mr. Robert Campbell, from whom we have most of these facts, in the
course of one of his trapping expeditions, was quartered in the
village of Arapooish, and a guest in the lodge of the chieftain. He had
collected a large quantity of furs, and, fearful of being plundered,
deposited but a part in the lodge of the chief; the rest he buried in a
cache. One night, Arapooish came into the lodge with a cloudy brow, and
seated himself for a time without saying a word. At length, turning to
Campbell, "You have more furs with you," said he, "than you have brought
into my lodge?"
"I have," replied Campbell.
"Where are they?"
Campbell knew the uselessness of any prevarication with an Indian; and
the importance of complete frankness. He described the exact place where
he had concealed his peltries.
"'Tis well," replied Arapooish; "you speak straight. It is just as you
say. But your cache has been robbed. Go and see how many skins have been
taken from it."
Campbell examined the cache, and estimated his loss to be about one
hundred and fifty beaver skins.
Arapooish now summoned a meeting of the village. He bitterly reproached
his people for robbing a stranger who had confided to their honor; and
commanded that whoever had taken the skins, should bring them back:
declaring that, as Campbell was his guest and inmate of his lodge, he
would not eat nor drink until every skin was restored to him.
The meeting broke up, and every one dispersed. Arapooish now charged
Campbell to give neither reward nor thanks to any one who should bring
in the beaver skins, but to keep count as they were delivered.
In a little while, the skins began to make their appearance, a few at
a time; they were laid down in the lodge, and those who brought them
departed without saying a word. The day passed away. Arapooish sat
in one corner of his lodge, wrapped up in his robe, scarcely moving a
muscle of his countenance. When night arrived, he demanded if all
the skins had been brought in. Above a hundred had been given up, and
Campbell expressed himself contented. Not so the Crow chieftain. He
fasted all that night, nor tasted a drop of water. In the morning, some
more skins were brought in, and continued to come, one and two at a
time, throughout the day, until but a few were wanting to make the
number complete. Campbell was now anxious to put an end to this fasting
of the old chief, and again declared that he was perfectly satisfied.
Arapooish demanded what number of skins were yet wanting. On being told,
he whispered to some of his people, who disappeared. After a time the
number were brought in, though it was evident they were not any of the
skins that had been stolen, but others gleaned in the village.
"Is all right now?" demanded Arapooish.
"All is right," replied Campbell.
"Good! Now bring me meat and drink!"
When they were alone together, Arapooish had a conversation with his
guest.
"When you come another time among the Crows," said he, "don't hide your
goods: trust to them and they will not wrong you. Put your goods in the
lodge of a chief, and they are sacred; hide them in a cache, and any one
who finds will steal them. My people have now given up your goods for
my sake; but there are some foolish young men in the village, who may
be disposed to be troublesome. Don't linger, therefore, but pack your
horses and be off."
Campbell took his advice, and made his way safely out of the Crow
country. He has ever since maintained that the Crows are not so black
as they are painted. "Trust to their honor," says he, "and you are safe:
trust to their honesty, and they will steal the hair off your head."
Having given these few preliminary particulars, we will resume the
course of our narrative.
