bolical. Somebody has stirred up the- devil with the Blackfeet."
When Jason Lee was on his journey back to the States, the first steamboat on Missouri waters ran up from St. Louis to purchase furs. Somewhere, in the present Montana, an Indian stole a blanket that had belonged to a man who died of smallpox. The Blackfeet died like flies. Beyond the Missouri the smallpox flew, far up among the Sarcies and Assiniboins, on, up through Alaska to the borders of the Arctic. For years the bones of the Blackfeet lay unburied on the Yellowstone, and to this day decaying lodges of skeletons are found along the Yukon.
"And now, Tom, what is the latest trick of Jemmy Jock? "asked Dr. McLoughlin, who always delighted in his stepson's tales.
"'T was on the Yellowstone," said Tom. "One night I gave strict orders to the Canadians on watch to keep a good lookout. They did so, rifle in hand. Jemmy Jock, dressed as a Canadian, entered the camp unobserved, walked up to the watchman, and said in French, * I have received orders that the horses shall be turned out to graze.' Supposing the order was from me, he let the horses out. In no time we heard the whoop of the Blackfeet as they mounted our stock and rode away."
It used to be a favorite escapade for Jemmy Jock to steal into a hostile camp, and over the very shoulders of the foe to watch the game of chance. Quietly he walked among them, taking what he wanted, and cutting the hopples of their horses. A gift of wampum dropped, a cap with his feather, and a distant whoop, alone revealed that Jemmy Jock and his Blackfeet had paid them an evening visit. Sometimes in lonely mountain trails the trappers found letters set up on sticks by
