Browning, Metropolis of the Blackfeet Indian Reservation Is a Unique Town

(by Mrs. M. E. Plassmann)
Hysham Echo - Nov. 12, 1925 & August 23, 2013

Browning differs from other Montana towns, in being situated on an Indian reservation - that of the Blackfeet - which fact would necessarily contribute features not to be found elsewhere. Seated in the lobby of the new England Hotel, where the many windows enable the observer to watch the passing citizens, one cannot fail to be impressed by the kaleidoscopic show. Stetson heats, broad of brim and high of crown, which ware rapidly being relegated to the movies, are here much in evidence, with their usual accompaniment of bow legs, leading one to infer that if not veritable cowboys, the possessor of hat and legs, has not yet exchanged the bronco for flivver.

Another sight that would be certain to attract the notice of the visitor, is that of the fringed buckskin coats worn by some of the men. However this might affect others, it took me back to the late fall of 1863, when I saw that noted outlaw, Buck Stinson, clad in a similar garment, his long red hair falling to his shoulders, and looking the bandit he was.

Many, pretty girls go by dressed in the latest mode, but such are not uncommon in Montana, where they are so plentiful they would constitute a drug on the market, if it were possible to have too large a number of pretty girls. Perhaps the majority of those in Browning, have darker complexions than those found elsewhere, but this in no way detracts from their beauty.

Little bright-eyed Indian children pass hurriedly on their way to, or from school, their white comrades lending variety to the procession. Occasionally an Indian woman, wrapped in a gay colored blanket goes down the street, or a brave stalks by, in white man’s dress, but with long black hair braided, and tied with a ribbon like a schoolgirl’s before the fashion of bobbed hair.

Autos are constantly parked before the hotel, while others speed hither and yon over the unpaved streets. Should there be truth in the rumor that oil is likely to be found on the reservation, the Blackfeet, like their relatives in Oklahoma, may soon be riding in Cadillacs. The white men cannot push the tribe further west, and north is the Canadian boundary line.

Speculation as to the fate of the Indians should oil be found on their territory, recalls a story told me by Mrs. Irvin, of a painting by some early artist, depicting “The Last Stand of a Race,” wherein a little group of Indians, having been driven farther and farther westward, are standing on a rock at the extreme verge of the continent, with nothing but the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean beyond. Mrs Culbertson, the mother of Mrs. Irvin, is of this group. One of our leading magazines reproduced this painting some time ago. I do not know the name of the artist, but a copy of the picture, if not the original, should be in the Montana Historical Library, if for no other reason than the saving of the Stevens Expedition by Mrs. Culbertson for which account I am also indebted to Mrs. Irvin.

The Stevens party, when on its way up the river, was attacked by Sioux Arrows and shots were falling thickly, the boat being the target. The situation was becoming serious for the passengers, as the Sioux out-numbered them, and were well armed. Mrs. Culbertson, who was on board, was asked if she would help them, and at once responded to the appeal.

Stepping to the side of the boat, in itself a brave deed, she opened negotiations with the invaders by means of the sign language, first telling them that she was the wife of Major Culbertson, whom these Indians, together with others of their race, held in high esteem. She told them the boat would tie up at the shore, if its officers were assured by the Sioux they could do so unmolested. The Indians acceding to these terms of peace, a feast was given them by General Stevens. Whether this was the time when the Indians partook too freely of the white men’s food, and nearly died in consequence, I cannot say. It is enough to know that the party escaped being massacred through the intervention of Mrs. Culbertson.

Some years after this incident occurred, Mrs. Culbertson was the recipient of a large silver loving cup in appreciation of her services on the occasion mentioned. It was inscribed with the appropriate sentiment: “To the Pocahontas of the West.”

While irrelevant to the subject, but in connection with the Culbertson family, it is interesting to know that among the gifts presented to Major Culbertson, was a meerschaum pipe donated by Prince Maximillian. The bowl, about three inches in diameter at its top, rested on the silver claws of an eagle. It will be remembered that Prince Maximillian commended Major Culbertson highly in his journal of the Upper Missouri.

After this lengthy digression I would state that the town of Browning, although located on a plain, and distant from the mountains, commands a magnificent view of the Rockies at the entrance to Glacier National Park. Being on a plain, there is abundant opportunity for the town to expand in every direction, and that is just what it is doing. The number of its inhabitants is given in estimates ranging from a thousand to twelve hundred, determined altogether by whether the estimator is of an optimistic temperament, or the reverse.

The town has three churches, Methodist, Presbyterian, and Catholic; two hotels; a bank; five general merchandise stores; two meat markets; three cafes; two garages; a confectioners; a bakery; harness shop, and two drug stores. Amusement is supplied by a moving picture house. There is a Woman’s club of fifty-five members, and the professions are well represented. Its educational advantages are far in advance of most towns of double Browning’s size.

This brief summary will give a little idea of what the town is like, but it should be added, that either the climate or the environment preserves its inhabitants to a ripe old age. I met one woman, a former neighbor of mine in Fort Benton, who is eighty-eight years old. To see her one would not think her over sixty. She owns a home in Browning, and is herself the housekeeper. Her son alone lives with her. Old residents of Fort Benton will remember Mrs. Hunsberger. She still preserves in tact both sight and hearing, and when I met her, was walking along the muddy street with no other aid than a cane.

My visit to Browning having been undertaken to renew acquaintances, and incidentally secure historical data. I was directed for the latter to Mr. McKnight.

A couple of young women offered to conduct me to him, and I set out, pencil and notebook in hand that I might lose nothing of the coming meeting. Taking our way along the streets and through back yards, we shortly came to the little house where dwells this ninety-year-old pioneer.

On being introduced to him, I stated my errand was to learn what he could remember of early days in Montana, and he seemed perfectly willing to be interviewed. His hearing was somewhat impaired, as was my own, but with his daughter-in-law acting as interpreter, we managed fairly well. He said that when he tried to tell people of those old times, he became confused; but if by himself, the memory of his early experiences was perfectly clear.

“All the old timers new Abe McKnight,” he began. “I was born in Missouri in 1836, so I am not quite ninety, you see. Along about 1857 I took a notion to go to California, and went there as everybody else did then, across the plains. Well, I staid there for four or five years, and then I pulled stakes for Idaho. Went to Boise.”
“Plummer was in the neighborhood of Boise about that time; did you know him?” I interpolated.

“I can’t say exactly that I knew him, but I often saw him and some of those other fellows he had with him.” Mr. McKnight replied. “when the news of the rich gold strike at Alder Gulch reached Boise, I started for Montana - that was in 1864 - and I never stopped until I got to Virginia City. I saw Slade hung. He was a pretty nice fellow when he wasn’t drunk. Lots of folks hated to see him hung.”
“I know,” said I, “Nat Stein, in Corinne told me the same thing. Thought Slade was a ‘perfect gentleman.’”
“I went with a freight outfit from Virginia City to Fort Benton in 1865,” continued the old man. “I went there for supplies.”

“Have any trouble with the Indians?”

“No, but a fellow named George Horn did. He was getting out cord-wood and was shot by them while he was sitting by his camp fire. Once, on one of my trips, I was caught in a hard snow storm, and was without food for forty-eight hours. It came on dreadful cold, and we wasn’t prepared for it.”

“Didn’t you freeze?”

“Oh no. Y’see the snow kept us warm. The storm didn’t hurt us any and we wasn’t none the worse for going without grub.”

Seeing that Mr. McKnight had talked enough for one day, I thanked him for what he had told me, and concluded the interview. He said later that after I left, he thought of many more things he could have told me, and may perhaps do so in the future.

Montana has been his home since 1864. He married an Indian woman, and has both children and grandchildren to do him honor, and be a comfort to him in his old age. Print this post