Читать книгу Trails Through Western Woods - Helen Fitzgerald Sanders - Страница 7

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As heroic or disastrous events are celebrated in verbal chronicles it follows that the home of the Selish is storied ground. Before the pressure of civilization, encroaching in ever-narrowing circles upon the hunting-ground of the Indians, cramping and crowding them within a smaller space, driving them inch by inch to the confinement which is their death, the Selish wandered at will over a stretch of country beautiful alike in the reality of its landscape and in the richness of myth and legend which hang over every peak and transfigure every lake and stream. To know this country and the people it has sheltered through past centuries one must first glean something of that ephemeral story-charm which records in crag, in mist, in singing stream and spreading tree the dreams made almost real by the thousands of souls who have treasured them, and given them, lip to lip, from old to young, since the forests were first green upon the hills.

The land of the Selish extended eastward to that portion of the Main Range of the Rocky Mountains known to them as Sin-yal-min, or the "Mountains of the Surrounded," from the fact that once a hunting party surrounded and killed a herd of elk by a stream upon those heights; another time a war-party surrounded and slew a company of Blackfeet within the woods upon the mountain side. Though this range marked the eastern boundary of their territory, they hunted buffalo, as we have seen, still east of its mighty peaks,—a region made bloody by battles between the Selish and the Blackfeet tribes. Westward, they wandered over the fertile valley of Sin-yal-min, where they, in common with the Pend d'Oreilles, Kootanais and Nez Percés enjoyed its fruits and fields of grain. This valley is bounded to the north by the great Flathead Lake, a body of water vast in its sweep, winding through narrow channels among wooded shores ever unfolding new and unexposed vistas as one traverses it. On a calm summer day, when the sun's rays are softened by gossamer veils of haze, the water, the mountain-peaks and sky are faintly traced in shades of grey and faded rose as in mother-of-pearl. And on such days as this, at rare intervals, a strange phenomenon occurs,—the reflection of a reflection. Looking over the rail of a steamer within the semi-circular curve of the swell at its stern, one may see, first the reflection of the shore line, the mountains and trees appearing upside down, then a second shore line perfectly wrought in the mirroring waters right side up, pine-crest touching pine-crest, peak poised against peak. This lake was the Selish's conception of the greatest of waters, for their wandering never took them to the Atlantic or Pacific Seas, and in such small craft as they used to travel over the forty miles of water among serpentining shores, the distance must have seemed immense. Many islands rise from the lake, the largest of them, Wild Horse Island, is timbered and mountainous, and so big as to appear like an arm of the main land. This Wild Horse Island, where in olden days bands of wild horses were found, possesses a peculiar interest. Upon its steep cliffs are hieroglyphics traced in pigments unknown to-day, telling the forgotten story of a lost race. The same strange figures appear upon the sheer escarpments of the mainland shore. These rock-walls are moss-grown and colored by the lichen, chrome yellow, burnt orange, russet-brown and varying shades of bronze-green like Autumn leaves, and upon them broods a shadow as darkly impenetrable as the mystery which they hold. Still, it is easy to distinguish upon the heroic tablets of stone, crude figures of horses and some incomprehensible marks. These writings have been variously interpreted or guessed at. Some declare them to be ancient war signals of the Selish, others suggest that they were records of hunting parties left behind for the guidance and information of the tribe; but they, themselves, deny all knowledge of them, saying that to them as to us, the pictured rocks are a wonder and a riddle, the silent evidence of foot-falls so remote that not even an echo has come down to us through the centuries.

Such are the valley of Sin-yal-min and the Lake of the Flathead where the Selish hunted. But their real home, the seat of their fathers, was the Bitter Root Valley, where one branch of the tribe, headed by Charlot, the son of Victor, lived until the recent exodus. Therefore, the Bitter Root Valley was particularly dear to the hearts of these Indians. It was there the bond between the kindred tribes, the Nez Percés and the Selish, was broken; there the pioneer Fathers came to build the first Mission and plant the first Cross among these docile children of the wood. It was there they clung together like frightened sheep until they were driven forth to seek new homes in the Valley of the Jocko, which was to be merely a station in their enforced retreat.

Eastward and southward from the Bitter Root, the Jocko and the range of Sin-yal-min in the contested country, is a cañon called the Hell Gate, because within its narrow limits, the Blackfeet wreaked vengeance upon their less warlike foes. Flowing through the cañon is a river, In-mis-sou-let-ka, corrupted into Missoula, which bears one of the most beautiful of the Selish legends.

*****

Coyote was taking his way through a pass in the mountains during the ancient days, when there came to him, out of the closed lip of silence, the echo of a sound. He stopped to listen, in doubt if it were the singing of waters or human voices that he heard, and as he listened the echo grew into a reality and the strains of wondrous, weirdly sweet music greeted his ear. He followed the illusive melody, attracted as by magic, and at last he saw upon the flower-sown green a circle of young women, dancing around and around, hand clasped in hand, forming a chain and singing as they danced. They beckoned to Coyote and called unto him, saying:

"Thou art beautiful, O Warrior! and strong as is the sun. Come dance with us and we will sing to thee."

Coyote, like one who walks in his sleep, obeyed them and joined the enchanted circle. Then he perceived that as they danced and sang they drew him closer and closer to a great river that lashed itself into a blind, white fury of foam upon the rocks. Coyote became afraid like a woman. He noted with dread the water-weed in the maidens' hair and the evil beauty of their eyes. He strove to break away but he was powerless to resist them and he felt himself drawn nearer and nearer the roaring torrent, until at last the waters closed over him in whirlpools and he knew no more.

*****

The Fox, who was wise and crafty, passed along the shore and there he found, among the water-weeds and grasses the lifeless body of Coyote which had been cast up by the waters, even as they had engulfed him. The Fox was grieved for he loved Coyote, so he bent over the corpse and brought it back to life. Coyote opened his eyes and saw his friend, but the chill of the water was in his blood and he was numb. Then above the roar of the river, echoed the magical measure of a weird-sweet song and through a green glade came the dancers who had lured Coyote to his death. He rose at the sound of the bewitching melody and strained forward to listen.

"It was they who led me to the river," he cried.

"Aye, truly. They are the water Sirens and thou must destroy them," replied the Fox.

At those words Coyote's heart became inflamed with ire; he grew strong with purpose and crept forward, noiseless as a snake, unobserved by the water-maidens.

They were dancing like a flock of white butterflies upon a stretch of grass yellowed and seared by the heat of the sun. Swiftly and silently Coyote set fire to the grass, imprisoning them in a ring of flame. They saw the wall of fire leap up around them and their singing was changed to cries. They turned hither and thither and sought to fly to the water but the way was barred by the hot red-gold embrace of the fire.

When the flames had passed, Coyote went to the spot where the Sirens had danced, and there upon the blackened ground he found a heap of great, white shells. He took these, the remains of the water-maidens, and cast them into the river, saying as he did so:

"I call thee In-mis-sou-let-ka and thou shalt forever bear that name!"

Thus it was that the river flowing through the Hell Gate came by the title of In-mis-sou-let-ka, which men render into English by the inadequate words of "The River of Awe."

*****

Through the length and breadth of the country are story-bearing land-marks. There is a rock in the Jocko, small of size but of weight so mighty that no Indian, however strong, can move it; there is a mountain which roars and growls like an angry monster; there is a cliff where a brave of the legendary age of heroes battled hand to hand with a grizzly bear, and a thousand other spots, each hallowed by a memory. So, through peak and lowland, rivers and forests one can find the faery-spell of romance, lending the commonest stone individuality and interest. And the most prosaic pilgrim wandering along haunted streams, cooling in the shadow of storied woods and upon the shores of enchanted lakes, must feel the spell of poesy upon him; must look with altered vision upon the whispering trees, listen with quickened hearing to the articulate murmur of the rivers, knowing for a time at least, the subtle fellowship with the woodland which is in the heart of the Indian.

Such is the legended land of the Selish, a land fit for gentle, poetic folk to dwell in, a land worthy for brave and devoted men to lay down their lives to save.