When we left the village, the war-dance was in progress in one part, and in another persons who had lost relations were mutilating themselves, cutting off their fingers or puncturing their legs and heads with the point of a knife, making the blood flow freely, and, as they did this, wailing and mourning the loss of friends and relatives in the fight. Jack, whose horses were good to lead, had saddled his mule. When we started on the back track, we kept east of our old trail. We apprehended little danger of meeting Sioux, Cheyennes, or Arapahoes, and we did not at all regard the other Blackfeet war parties.
We made a bee-line for the mouth of the Musselshell River, and got there at 9 A. M. next day, for Jack knew every foot of the country. No Indian signs were visible. We collected some dry poles, bound them together with willow twigs, put all our property on the raft, tied riatas to the end of it, and, mounting, drove the stock across the river, keeping hold of the ends of the ropes. The horses were good swimmers, and we soon had the raft across. After the horses had been rubbed down, saddled, and packed, we mounted and were off. Not many minutes were occupied in accomplishing the crossing. We had no time to waste, for the Indians might be upon us at any moment.
We now made a bee-line for the Little Rocky Mountains, and when we came to a creek called Poshett,[9] which rises on the south side of the Rockies, we began to see carcasses of the buffalo in different places. The meat had been taken off, and a careful inspection showed that the buffalo had not been slain more than five or six days. As we followed up the creek there were more signs that a run had recently been made.
[9] Fourchette Creek, southeast of Little Rocky Mountains.
We had travelled fast that day, and when we reached a cluster of box-elder trees, with good grass, we determined to remain there that night, unless some hostiles should come and veto our intention. Before unpacking we looked over the surrounding country for signs of village smoke, and, discovering nothing, we cooked, feasted, and kept our live-stock on the best of grass, all the while keeping a good lookout.
We had breakfast before daylight next morning, packed up, and were off. Following up the creek, we struck a lodge-pole trail going east, between the two Little Rockies. After it had passed the buttes, the trail bore to the left, going north, and now we saw fresh pony-tracks, a sure sign that the village was not far off. Before us lay a plateau, and beyond that was Beaver Creek, where we found the Gros Ventres village. We had been discovered before we got near it, being met outside the village by Famasi, the head chief, an old acquaintance, who escorted us to his lodge.