CHAPTER X KOOS-HA-NAX, THE HUNTER

A few minutes after ten o’clock that night the Teton, attached to the Oriental Limited train, began its real westward journey toward the mountains. The occupants of the car were tired, but for awhile all sat on the observation platform. Then, as the suburbs of the city were passed and a cool night breeze began to be felt, there was a general movement toward retiring.

“I have a little news for you,” said Mr. Mackworth as the yawning boys arose to turn in. “Our scout, Sam Skinner, has been in Winnipeg all winter and he’ll meet us at six o’clock to-morrow evening at Moorhead, North Dakota. Then you can begin to stock up on big game stories.”

“I thought scouts were a thing of the past!” exclaimed Frank.

“So they are,” said Mr. Mackworth, “the kind that used to guard the emigrant trains and early railway surveyors. But Sam is a ‘game scout’ now. We’ll have Sam to smell out the sheep and goats.”

The next morning the travelers were in St. Paul and after a ride through Minnesota the train reached Moorhead almost on time. The stop here was only a few minutes but, although all the Teton’s passengers were out and on the lookout, Sam Skinner was nowhere in sight.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said Mr. Mackworth, as the train started again. “He’s on board. I’ll search the train.”

In ten minutes Mr. Mackworth reëntered the car, where dinner had just been announced, with the much discussed Sam close behind. The new arrival carried in one hand a rope tied fibre suit case, crushed and worn. In the other was a short rifle and a cartridge belt. His teeth were set on a short, nicked, black pipe. Frank and Phil were shocked. Aside from the rifle and belt, nothing suggested the old time hunter. And the man, although probably seventy years old, was in no sense “grizzled.” He did not even wear the greasy old sombrero with which all western veterans of fiction are crowned.

“Gentlemen, let me introduce Sam Skinner,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Sam, who in the books should have grunted or said “howdy.” Then, turning to Mr. Mackworth, Sam continued: “Colonel, you’re goin’ to find a lot of snow up there in the Elk River Valley Mountains. Did you bring your snowshoes?”

“Snow ain’t goin’ to bother us this time,” said Mr. Mackworth, significantly. “We thought we’d come early and maybe scare up a few grizzlies.”

“You’ll do that, I reckon,” exclaimed Sam, “but the best time to tackle the timber line is September. There’s a power o’ snow in the gullies just now.”

By this time Jake Green had relieved the westerner of his rifle and box, and Sam had removed his hat and pipe.

“Here’s the same old hat, Colonel, you gave me four years ago and good as new.”

He held out a limp, cloth traveling hat that had probably cost a pound in London. Mr. Mackworth apparently did not recall the incident and Sam continued: “Don’t you remember the day I lost my hat over on Avalanche Creek, near Herchmer Mountain; the day we thought we had Old Indian Chief at last?”

Mr. Mackworth’s eyes lit up.

“Sure,” he said, “and you nearly broke your neck at the same time. I wonder if the ‘Chief’ has fallen a victim to anyone yet?”

“I ain’t been in the valley for four years,” responded Sam. “But I reckon’ he ain’t and never will. I kind o’ believe he ain’t nothin’ but a ghost anyway.”

Every one had pricked up his ears. Captain Ludington especially seemed to be no less curious about Old Indian Chief than Frank and Phil.

“What’s that?” broke in Phil.

“Sam’ll tell you, sometime,” explained Mr. Mackworth, “but let’s have dinner now. It’s sort of a myth of the mountains. Every one tells it and each one a different way.”

“About goats?” persisted Phil.

“About a great Bighorn sheep,” added Mr. Mackworth.

“But where does the Indian part come in?” insisted Phil.

“Now I’m not going to try to piece together an old camp-fire tale,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth, “especially when I’m hungry. But here’s the chapter heading of it, as you might say. For twenty-five years the Indians and old-time hunters of the Selkirk Mountain and Kootenai River region have circulated a picturesque tale of a hermit Indian, a kind of a spirit savage who, with a monster Bighorn ram always at his heels, is seen now and then by some hunter but never overtaken.”

“And who escapes up almost unscalable cliffs by hanging on to the ram’s horns,” broke in Captain Ludington.

“Then you’ve read the legend,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth with awakening interest.

“I heard it a few years ago at Glacier,” explained the captain. “Young gentlemen,” he added wheeling toward Frank and Phil, “that’s the story I meant to tell you sometime—‘The Monarch of the Mountains.’ Now I give way to Mr. Skinner. Let’s hear the real story,” he suggested, looking toward the new arrival.

“By no means,” ordered Mr. Mackworth instantly. “Not, at least, until we reach our coffee. You have before you a saddle of roast mutton that I personally selected yesterday in Chicago. It demands your exclusive attention. I got it that you may be able to distinguish between the flavor of it and the haunch of young mountain sheep that Mr. Skinner is sure to provide for us in a few days.”

Frank was already smacking his lips in anticipation of that game dinner in camp. Already he could see Jake Green at work over the camp fire basting a roast of mountain sheep. By this time all were seated, Sam Skinner included.

“Sam,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth, “as a special and honored guest this evening, let me serve you a cut of this mutton. It’s English Southdown.”

“English or French,” replied Sam slowly and hesitatingly, “it don’t make no difference. You’ll have to excuse me, Colonel. Young mountain sheep is certainly eatable after a fellow’s been livin’ on salt pork—and little of that—for two or three weeks. But, to speak right out, I ain’t much for sheep if there’s anything else on hand and I see there’s a plenty.”

“Then you don’t care for sheep roasted over a camp fire way up among the pines where you’ve chased your game all day?” suggested Lord Pelton, while all laughed.

“Sure,” was Sam’s quick response. “That’s regular and proper. But I’m speakin’ o’ times when you can have your choice. Them goat steaks and bear ribs is all O. K. when you’re in camp. But give me my choice and I’ll say they ain’t nothin’ finer nor sweeter than a big, thick, round steak fried on a cook stove with plenty o’ milk gravy to come.”

“Jake,” ordered Mr. Mackworth at once and without a trace of a smile, “fry a porterhouse steak for Mr. Skinner and smother it with gravy.”

Being a Canadian Sam had another peculiarity. He cared nothing for coffee. Therefore, with his fried steak, came a pot of black tea. Dinner under way at last the story of Old Indian Chief, or the Monarch of the Mountains, again became the center of conversation. Sam was urged to give his version of the tale and he, in turn, was as eager to hear Captain Ludington’s story. With many interruptions and cross suggestions, each man told the legend as he had heard it. The “Monarch of the Mountains,” as related by the English officer—and both stories were unquestionably different versions of the same tale—had its origin among the Kootenai Indians.

“The big Indian in the story, as it was told to me,” said Captain Ludington referring to a little notebook, “was named Koos-ha-nax. He was a Kootenai and his tribe, twenty years ago, was living in the Selkirk Mountains northwest of Kootenai Lake. Koos-ha-nax was neither chief nor medicine man but a mighty hunter in the mountains. In addition he was a thief. Being a skilful hunter his stealing was for a long time overlooked. But, at last, Koos-ha-nax’s thefts overbalancing the food he supplied, the thieving hunter was summoned to trial. Being found guilty he was condemned to die. Thereupon, he made a speech.

“It was then, and is now, a tradition of the Kootenais that the mountain sheep is the king of all animals and that the mountain goat is second in command. In the earliest days the Indians assert these animals did not confine themselves to the peaks and highest ridges of the mountains as now, but ranged the valleys and wooded foothills. Then a war broke out between the sheep and goats and, led by Husha the Black Ram and Neena the White Goat, they separated—the sheep to the north and the goats to the south.

“‘Koos-ha-nax knows this well,’ spoke the hunter. ‘And so long as Husha the Black Ram and Neena the White Goat lead the sheep and the goats, so long will the hunting grounds of the Kootenai know them not. To follow Husha the Black Ram and Neena the White Goat into the sky itself may mean death. But I, Koos-ha-nax, the mighty hunter, have talked with the sheep and the goats; Koos-ha-nax has seen Husha the Black Ram and Neena the White Goat; Koos-ha-nax has seen the great horns of Husha the Black Ram, and they are wide as the span of a man’s arms; Koos-ha-nax has seen the black horns of Neena the White Goat, and they are keen and sharp as the spear of the fisher; Koos-ha-nax asks for his life, not that he fears death, but that he may travel far to the north and to the south and bring to his people the horns of Husha the Black Ram, and of Neena the White Goat.’

“This offer of the great hunter,” went on Captain Ludington, “was gladly accepted on the theory that in the death of Husha and Neena, the sheep and the goats might be reconciled and subsequently return to the valleys—the more convenient hunting grounds of the Indians. There seems to be some basis for this part of the legend,” explained Captain Ludington, “for I am told that the Indians are, even to-day, notoriously bad hunters of these animals and seldom pursue them further than their ponies can ascend the mountains. Having been granted his life on these terms, Koos-ha-nax, armed with his bow and arrows, disappeared and never returned. Wandering Indians brought tales at times of seeing the mighty hunter in the far north; others caught sight of him in the south. When the ice cracked on the glaciers it was Koos-ha-nax in pursuit of Husha; when the snow avalanches fell in the south it was Koos-ha-nax chasing Neena. Children are taught to-day that a loose boulder bounding down the mountain side is hurled by Koos-ha-nax, the hunter. And, whenever a herd of sheep or goats is sighted in full flight, close behind follows the ghostly form of the ceaseless hunter.

“Since every legend has its variation,” continued Captain Ludington, “so has that of Koos-ha-nax. Advanced thinkers among the Kootenais will tell you that Koos-ha-nax never tried to find and kill Husha and Neena. By these wiseacres Koos-ha-nax is credited with the power of understanding and talking to the sheep and goats. They will tell you that the great hunter left his people with no other intent than to live with the sheep and goats. Some have had distant glimpses of the exiled Indian lying with his animal friends on rocky heights, or rushing up almost inaccessible slopes assisted by old Husha or Neena—as the narrator lives in the north or south. But others say Koos-ha-nax will again return and, when he does, that the hunting grounds will again be thick with the now rapidly disappearing mountain sheep and goats. In any event,” laughed Captain Ludington, “they tell me that if you are hunting with Kootenai guides you will always be short of the big prize, unless you can capture old Husha the Black Ram, or Neena the White Goat.”

It was now old Sam Skinner’s turn, but the old man hesitated.

“I never heard no such tale as that,” he said at last being plentifully urged to give his version. “All I ever heard was some Sioux Indians chinnin’, but it wasn’t about no Koos-what-do-you-call-him. And I never heard ’em have no names like what you said for the rams and goats. But they was an Old Indian Chief that they used to talk about that had some trouble and was kicked out o’ the tribe, and they make out as how he took to the mountains and lived like a hermit. And they do say he got on such good terms with the mountain animals that the sheep and goats all followed him and that that’s why there ain’t no more sheep down there in the buttes o’ Montana. But the stories are sort o’ like in one way. Whenever a Sioux gets sight o’ a Bighorn ram with shiny black horns they say it’s Old Indian Chief, and I reckon they is some o’ them Indians yet livin’ who think Old Indian Chief that was kicked out o’ the tribe is a livin’ up in the Columbia Rockies.”

“Hold on there, Sam,” laughed Mr. Mackworth. “Didn’t you tell me, when we were chasin’ sheep and a loose rock would come tumbling down the mountain side: ‘look out—Old Indian Chief may be up there protecting his friends!’”

“Well,” acknowledged Sam somewhat abashed, “the Indians are always talkin’ that way. But that’s what they call all the big rams and goats, too. If that Kootenai Kooshaynix and the Sioux is the same, I reckon he’s froze stiff long ago and it’s his ghost that’s a heavin’ rocks and glacier ice and startin’ avalanches—”

“But,” interrupted Frank, all aglow with interest and excitement, “do you really believe there was such an Indian, really and truly? It’s like Mowgli in the Jungle tales!”

“Of course not,” replied Mr. Mackworth. “The tale means only this: Sheep and goats were once plentiful in all these mountains. They began to disappear. The Indians must have an explanation for everything. They imagined a cause and made it human—a man led them away. That’s all.”

“I’m sorry,” said Phil. “I mean I’m sorry there is no Husha the Black Earn, or Neena the White Goat. I’m sure we could find one or the other. And I always like things with a story to them.”

“Well,” laughed Lord Pelton, who was no less interested than all the others, “why not follow the practice of the Indians—if you like a story, believe it?”

“I’m goin’ to,” exclaimed Frank. “I’m goin’ to believe it and I’m goin’ to believe Koos-ha-nax is up there in the mountains, somewhere—a man of real flesh and blood.”

“And we’ll find him!” added Phil, “the man king of the Bighorns.”

“I’d rather find old Husha,” put in Captain Ludington, smiling. “We could take his horns home and I don’t know what we could do with a decrepit old Indian. However,” he added, “in the language of Italy, ‘si non e vero e bene travata.’”

“What’s that mean?” asked the boys together.

“If it isn’t true it ought to be,” explained the Englishman.