The Ronan pioneer. [volume] (Ronan, Mont.) 1910-1970, 1916-11-10

n w llSO0, scratching tue lIOSI 1ToIH
the window and gazing discontentedly
out at the storm. eff the SNOW ever
let's up It'll be fine trackin' weather,
N chances1l be good for blacktail
over on Painted Ridge"
"Tracks'd do you a whole lot of
good, old SCOUT said Bowlegs, sit
ting up cross-legged in the bunk and
rolling cigarette. ''You couldn't
track a bed-wagon through boghole.
I amt forgot last winter, when
you'r lost on Dog creek. You
riding in circle, follerin' your own
trail, N you'd "a been there yet if
the Cross Fl boys hadn't found you.
You re tracker, I don't Think
"Speakin' of trackin'," broke in
old Dad Lane, the wolfer, reminds
me Of a cripple I knowed who goes
by the name of Reel Foot. He's one
Of natures mistakes, a born deform-
ity. 1t looks like when Old Lady
Nature built him she starts from the
top N does good work till she gets
to his legs, N then throws off the
job to somebody that's workin' for
fun.
"This cripple was before your time,
but he's we'll known on the lower
Yallerstone in the early '7O's. The
first time I ever see Reel Foot I'm
sittin' in poker game with him.
Now lookin at him across the table,
he'll average up with any man for
shape N looks, but at this time / ain It
| H. l., ..I
band down.
"For weeks I've been eatn' plenty
Of booze, N I'm at that stage where
I see things that amt there. Old
Four-ace Jack, that's handin' us the
beverage, looks like twins; my sights
doublin' up on me. The games goin
along smooth enough till reach for
pot on a pair Of aces, N Reel Fool
claims I only got one. There's quite
little argument, N while he's con-
vincin' me I spill some chips. While
I'm gropin round for 'em under the
table, run on to them hoofs, warped
N twisted, N it rattles me till l see
feet enough for four men, N there s
only two of us playin'. This ends
the game for me, so cashin' in, l tell
Four-Ace to pour my drink back in
the bottle. I'm that shaky / couldn't
empty it into a barrl with the head
out, N I DOM swaller no more booze
that trip.
"The scare wears off when 1 oct
acquainted with Reel Foot, but / new
err do look at him without wonderin
which way he's goin' to start off.
His right foot's straight ahead, ma
tural; the left, pointin' back on his
trail. It's an old sayin' a fool for
luck,' N in this case I guess it goes
with the cripples, for it's these twist
ed him legs of his N that saves his
hide hair for him once.
cit happens when he first hits the
country from Nebrasky. He's camped
on the Porcupine, N as trappin s
good N he's figurin' on stayin
awhile, he's throwed up a lean-to of
brush. He's one of these kind that
dom It get lonesome, n lows if you
don't mix with no worse company
than animals you re all right. Livin
so long with his cayuses, he savvies
'em, n they understand him. They
even seem to know what he's talkln
to 'em about.
cone mornin' Reel Foot leaves
camp to visit his traps. He's on
his pony, but about mile down
the creek, the brush bein' thick, he
quits the cayuse N goes afoot. After
visitin' his traps Reel Foot circles
round N doubles back on his old
trail couple Of hundred yards below
where the boss is tied. When he
reaches the cayuse he climbs on N
rides into camp.
CHOW, there s bunch Of Ogallaly
Sioux in this country, led by Blood
Lance. They're runnin' buffalo, N
one day they find where some white
men had made KILN N TUX nothln
but the tongues. This waste OF meat
makes their hearts bad, N it wouldn't
be healthy for no whites they run
across. Their feelin's re stirred up
this way when they strike Reel Foot's
tracks, which causes 'em to pull up
their ponies, N every Injun skins his
gun. There's snow on the ground,
so the rcadin s plain. He's wearin
moccasins, but that don't fool 'em
none; they see where he's shuk out
his pipe while he's walkin'. This
tells 'em he's a white man, cause
Injuns don't smoke while They're
travelin'. Whenever a redskin lights
his pipe, you can bet he's down on his
hunkers, talkin' comfort.
"But it amt what he is that's got
these people guessin', but which way
he's goin'. They all get down Oft
their ponies N smoke, talk N make
medicine.
my brothers, says one wise old
buck, who's been sittin' wrapped in
his blanket, sayin' nothin', 'are the
Qnallallins like the hat that thew can