Chapter 22

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.