Following Old Trails

One summer afternoon, a good many years ago, while the Flathead reservation was yet a national reserve, I lay in the shade of the grove along the bank of the Jocko river, opposite Ravalli station, waiting for a train which was six hours late. It was an ideal Montana summer day. There were birds in the trees above me and the Jocko’s ripple made music at my feet. The drone of insects furnished the accompaniment in subdued chords, while the rustle of the leaves in the summer breeze—lazily stirring—set the tempo quite in accord with the afternoon and its mood. I had been several days upon the reservation, visiting with friends, Indian and white, and had heard some pleasant tales of the days when the reservation was primitive, when the white man was just finding the way over the wall back of the Jocko which shuts out the Mission valley from the view of the casual traveler along the overland trail. It was a day for dreams and I indulged in the contemplation of scenes based upon the stories which had been told to me. The quiet of the summer lent its magic to my day-visions and the red men who moved in my little dramas seemed real warriors and hunters. I had harked back to the days before the Black Robes came. It was as if I were a spectator at a drama designed for me alone.

Came then Duncan McDonald—came so quietly that I knew not he was there until a twig cracked beneath his moccasined foot, came as if he were a figure in the drama I had been building, came with the quiet, cordial greeting which is his wont, came unexpectedly but so naturally did he fit into my dreams that it seemed as if I had been waiting for him to appear. Duncan drew forth his tobacco pouch and sat upon his heels beside me. I filled my pipe and, as we smoked, he told me stories of the mythology of his Indian ancestors. Told me of the doings of Coyote, of Grizzly Bear, the Salmon, told me of the infinite powers which Coyote possessed and of how he employed them for the benefit of the Red Man, equipping the Indian for the struggle for existence which he must wage if he were to survive in the contest with the elements among which the Great Spirit had placed him. Coyote, in the legends of the Selish, is the counterpart of Br’er Rabbit in the negro myths, except that the cleverness of Coyote was employed to help the Red Man and to circumvent the plots of his foes. And of all the stories which I heard that afternoon, the legend of how some animals are small and others large is the one which has always seemed to me to be the most picturesque.

I wish I could give the story the graphic touch which Duncan McDonald gave it. However carefully I write, the tale must lose in dramatic effect. It was told with the orchestral accompaniment of all of Nature’s summer instruments. It was as if we two were alone in the world, save for the beasts and birds and the inanimate things about us. No other human voice disturbed the recitative Indian monotone and all the other sounds blended to add to the effect of the story of the Dragon—the Dragon which had Grizzly Bear for a dog and which was worsted by Coyote in a struggle which set free all the animals of the earth. Innumerable cigarettes were rolled and smoked by the narrator. So absorbed was I that I let my pipe go out. I lay there and listened to what was the most dramatic recital that I ever heard. And here, robbed of its dramatic associations, set down in colorless language—but the best I can do—is the story of the Dragon and how it was done to death by Coyote;

There had been a great landslide away down on the Columbia river, which had formed a great dam across the stream, a dam so high that the Salmon could no longer come up to the headwaters on his pilgrimages. The Salmon was sorry because he could not get up the stream and the people in the land of the Pend d’Oreilles—who were the cousins of the Flatheads and were of the Selish nation—were sorry because the Salmon came no more to visit them. And Coyote heard of the distress of the people and of the sorrow of the Salmon. The wisdom and the cleverness of Coyote were infinite and he came up the Columbia to remove the obstruction and to clear the stream for the Salmon’s’ pilgrimage. He found the great dam that had been thrown across the river by the landslide and he struck it a mighty blow. The dam opened and let the water through. The way was clear for the Salmon.

Up the river came Coyote to tell the people what he had done and to see if the way were clear all the distance. Up the river he came to the Pend d’Oreille river, along the lake and up to the mouth of the Jocko, which is near where the town of Dixon stands now. The stream was open all the way and the Salmon could come up the river for his visit to the people in the Pend d’Oreille country. Coyote had opened the dam and had made the way easy.

By the mouth of the Jocko—which the Indians called Wild Plum creek— the Lark had her nest, where she stood watch over the entrance to the Jocko valley. Coyote saw the Lark in her nest and he stepped carefully so as not to harm her. His two front feet he lifted over her and she was not harmed. One hind foot passed and the Lark was not disturbed, but the second hind foot stepped upon the Lark’s right leg and broke it. And the Lark cried aloud in pain and anger.

“I had a secret to tell you,” she cried angrily, “but I will not tell you now, though it would save you from death. For you have hurt me.”

Coyote had not meant to hurt the Lark and was sorry. He had, however, power which was almost infinite and he stroked the broken limb. Lo, as he rubbed it, the Lark’s leg was made well and strong again and she sang with happiness.

“Now I will tell you the secret,” said the Lark. And she told Coyote of a terrible Dragon, whose jaws were the bluffs between Dixon and Ravalli, whose belly was the Jocko valley and whose tail was the canyon which is called the Coriacan defile and which reaches to De Smet, just west of Missoula.

This Dragon was powerful and he swallowed all who came that way. That he might not fall a victim to the Dragon’s power, the Lark told Coyote the secret and told him how to guard himself against the strength of the monster.

The Dragon had the Grizzly Bear for a dog and nothing had escaped his might which had passed that way. There was one way by which Coyote might proceed and yet escape the dragon. “Listen,” said the Lark, “and do as I tell you.”

Even now there can be seen, growing along the Jocko, a tall weed which has a tough and stringy bark. From this weed the Indians used to make ropes which were strong like the hempen ropes of today. There are now old Indian women who know how to fashion strong ropes from this weed. And the Lark told Coyote to make ropes of this weed and, as he traveled up the valley, to fasten them about his body, attaching the other ends to stumps and rocks and trees so that he could not be pulled from them.

And Coyote did as the Lark told him. Five ropes he made. As he moved up the Jocko he fastened them to the trees and the stumps and the rocks by the trail, fastening two before he loosened the others and moving slowly and with great caution all the way. Thus he advanced until he came to the bluffs which are two miles west of Ravalli.

As Coyote came to these bluffs, he felt a terrible wind. It was not so strong at first, but it became stronger with each gust and finally it was so fierce that it took Coyote off his feet and held him in the air. But his ropes which the Lark had told him to make held fast and Coyote was not dragged loose from his fastenings.

Again the wind blew and again the ropes held. A third time the wind swept Coyote from his feet and held him suspended in the air. But the third time the ropes held and Coyote was not blown away. He was sore with the strain and the ropes had cut him, but he was safe.

For the wind was caused by the breath of the Dragon as he sucked into his great jaws the air of the valley, breathing with such force that he drew in all that was before him. And in this way he had made captives of all the living things which came his way. But the ropes had saved Coyote and the Dragon was afraid for the first time. Here was a creature which he could not take. And he shut his jaws tight together lest Coyote should get inside. For he was fearful of this new creature which resisted his might.

Then Coyote slapped the jaws of the Dragon, slapped them hard till the sound of the blows echoed through the forest and through the valley. But the Dragon held his mouth shut until a blow struck him on the nose and made him sneeze. As the Dragon sneezed, Coyote leaped between his jaws and was upon the inside. And the Dragon was angry that he had had his jaws slapped and he closed his mouth upon Coyote, even though he was fearful that harm might come to him from this strange creature which had leaped in of his own desire.

When Coyote found himself in the Dragon’s belly, which was the valley of the Jocko, he looked around to see what was there. He saw many creatures—the Deer, the Elk, the Moose and the Buffalo were there and the Trout and the Fly and the Gnat—all these and many others had been sucked in by the terrible breath of the Dragon and were prisoners in his belly. The Horse was there and the Louse and the Ant and all living things and they were all of the same size; the Ant was as large as the Deer and the Fly was great like the Moose. For that was the way they had been created and of that fashion were they when the Dragon captured them.

And Coyote noticed as he walked about, that the animals who were near the throat of the Dragon were all strong and active. Those which were farther down in the body of the beast were slow and stupid, while those which were near the tail were dead or were near to death.

When he had seen these things, Coyote went back to the animals which were yet strong and told them the things which he had seen. And he told them that they must kill the Dragon or they would all be dead, even as those which were crowded near the tail. And they asked Coyote how it could be done, for they were hopeless.

Coyote said that they must find the heart of the Dragon and must stab it as that was the only way they could kill him. And he set out to find the Dragon’s heart.

Out in the Jocko valley, east of Arlee and between Arlee and the agency, there is a little butte, low and round. This was the heart of the Dragon and this Coyote found after he had searched. And he told the other animals what he had found. He bade them all give him their knives that he might cut down the heart of the Dragon. And he warned them that when they saw the heart fall they must rush for an opening. It must be everyone for himself and it must be done quickly for the collapse of the great body of the Dragon would kill all who were caught within.

They gave their knives to Coyote and he attacked the heart of the Dragon. He stabbed it and slashed it until he saw it begin to yield to his attack. He shouted a warning for all to be ready for the rush, each one for himself. Then he stabbed it once more and the heart began to fall down. You can look at the butte in Jocko valley now and see how it flattened, for it was one time a rightly shaped heart.

As they heard the warning cry of Coyote, all the animals rushed to get out. Those who ran toward the mouth, the eyes and the ears of the Dragon found easy exit and were not crowded, for the Dragon opened his mouth in his agony when he felt his heart cut. And these animals got out without being crowded and are yet large, for they were not pressed. These are the Buffalo, the Moose and the Elk and their kind. The smaller animals, the Deer and the Beaver and the Goat, were crowded some and were squeezed and they are not as large as the Buffalo and the Moose and the Elk. But they escaped and were not pressed out of their original shape.

But the animals which ran toward the tail of the Dragon, which was the Coriacan defile, these were in great numbers and they were squeezed mightily. This is why the fish are small and why the Fly and the Gnat and the Wood Tick are tiny. They are those which were crowded most in the rush to escape.

All of the animals escaped alive and in safety, though some of them were crowded so that they became small. The Ant was the last one out. He did not get clear out before the body of the Dragon collapsed, so great was the crowding. The Ant was half-way out when the big body of the Dragon fell in. The Ant was caught in the middle of his body by the collapse and that is why he has such a small waist.

But the Dragon was slain and all the creatures save those that had died were released again upon the earth. Coyote had saved them, through the warning of the Lark. And when the Lark saw them all coming back she was glad, for she loved Coyote; though he had broken her leg, yet he had made it well and strong again. And she sang the song of rejoicing which is the song which we hear her sing even now as the sun rises.

Two miles west of Ravalli there are high bluffs on each side of the Jocko as it flows toward the Pend d’Oreille, where the Lark had her nest. As he finished the story of the Dragon, Duncan McDonald paused to roll another cigarette. When he had it lighted, he blew a great cloud of smoke into the air and then looked down toward these bluffs.

“On the north side of the river there,” he said, as he pointed to the height, “in the slide rock you can see the form of a man with a dog beside him. The head of the man is downward, the arms and legs are extended. This form has been on the rocks there, the Indians say, ever since Coyote killed the Dragon. It has been there ever since I was first told this story, 50 years ago. It was shadowy, but yet clearly traceable then, just as it is now. Since I have been here, it has not changed. And on the cliff on the other side of the river, which we cannot see from here, there is the same figure in the rock which lies there. It is the monument of the Dragon and his dog.”

Lazily the breeze ruffled the leaves above our heads; the subdued ripple of the Jocko made soft music at our feet. The birds sang their summer afternoon song, a crooning lullaby it seemed; the drone of the insects had not ceased. A trout leaped from the stream after a fly that had ventured too close to the riffles. There was a splash as it struck the water again. And Duncan McDonald looked up.

“All these living things,” said he, “would not be here if Coyote had not saved them from the Dragon. He was a great friend for the Indian. He did many things for the Red Man. He taught him all he knew about woodcraft and he provided him with the string for his bow that he might shoot strongly; he gave him the flint for his arrow points that his shots might kill. He stocked the streams with fish and he saved the animals of the forest that the Indian might have the game to hunt.

“The Indian has many stories of Coyote and everywhere in the Selish country there are traces of what he did. The old Indians used to tell these stories about the campfires; some of them could tell them like actors. The stories were handed down from generation to generation and there are many points of resemblance between these tales and the mythology of the old Greeks. The Indians, too, have some legends which are similar to the stories in the Bible.

“It is strange where some of them had their origin. The Indians think that theirs are the original tales and that the others were brorrowed from them. I cannot tell where they came from. But they are tribal history and in old days they were carefully taught to the younger boys that they might not be lost. But lately this has not been done and in another generation there will not be many of them left. The young Indians do not know them now. It is too bad they cannot be preserved.”

Down the valley, where Coyote met the Lark and received the warning which made it possible for him to redeem the beautiful valley of the Jocko from the horrible Dragon, the Northern Pacific’s eastbound express whistled for Dixon station. The echoes of the shriek of the locomotive rang back and forth between the walls which had thrown back the death cry of the Dragon, ages ago, as the living animals sprang forth from their living tomb. My train was coming and soon I would be speeding along through the valley which had been the scene of the death struggle. It was a rude awakening. My happy afternoon was ended. Duncan McDonald rose from his heels, upon which he had been sitting through the long session. We shook hands. “Some day,” he said, “I must tell you other stories of Coyote.” How well he kept that promise, perhaps another of the Old Trail stories will one day tell. Coyote deserves to be preserved in black and white now that the Indian no longer passes down the tales to his son.