His apparent business was somewhat prosaic. Musquash, the Blackfeet,
in place of remaining quietly on his reserve, had in a state of
inebriation reverted to the primitive customs of his race, and taking
the trail, not only annexed some of his white neighbors' ponies and
badly frightened their wives, but drove off a steer with which he
feasted his people. The owner following came upon the hide, and
Musquash, seeing it was too late to remove the brand from it, expressed
his contrition, and pleaded in extenuation that he was rather worthy of
sympathy than blame, because he would never have laid hands on what was
not his had not a white man sold him deleterious liquor. As no white
man is allowed to supply an Indian with alcohol in any form, the
wardens of the prairie took a somewhat similar view of the case, and
Stimson was, from motives which he did not mention, especially anxious
to get his grip upon the other offender.
The night when they rode out was very dark, and they spent half of it
beneath a birch bluff, seeing nothing whatever, and only hearing a
coyote howl. It almost appeared there was something wrong with the
information supplied them respecting the probable running of another
load of prohibited whisky, and towards morning Stimson rode up to the
young commissioned officer.
"The man who brought us word has either played their usual trick and
sent us here while his friends take the other trail, or somebody saw us
ride out and went south to tell the boys," he said.
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