Word: blackfeet
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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Over the last four years, Reporter readers have learned to expect such gamy fare from the paper's correspondent in Heart Butte, a tiny Indian community (pop. 250) hunkered in the hills of Montana's vast Blackfeet Reservation. The Heart Butte correspondent, 65-year-old Weasel Necklace, never lets them down. Writing under his other name, John Tatsey, he produces a column so lively, if ungrammatical, that it is widely reprinted. Sample Tatseyisms...
Flying into Claremore from Washington to address the business-suited Blackfeet, Apache, Sioux, Mohawk, Chinook, Zuñi, Cheyenne, Chocktaw, Kickapoo and others was Commissioner Glenn Emmons himself, onetime New Mexico banker and a longtime neighbor and friend of the Navajo. Listing such Indian advances of the recent past as better health care and improved educational facilities, Emmons declared his own "confidence in the native capacities of Indian people-in their ability to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps if they are only given a decent opportunity." But, predictably, Emmons' words of encouragement fell on ruffled feathers...
RENT-FREE LAND for industry is being offered by Montana's Blackfoot Indians on 1,697-sq.-mi. reservation near railroad, highways with ample electric power. Tribe wants to create employment source for 4,200 Blackfeet, now hard-pressed to make a living on their ancestral grounds...
...soared to $41 million and is still climbing fast. Oklahoma's Osage tribe alone took in some $11 million last year, split it into $7,000 packets for the holders of "head rights," i.e., ownership shares of reservation land. Other tribes, such as Montana's Crow and Blackfeet, Colorado's Utes and Utah's Uintah-Ourays, turn all funds over to tribal councils for community projects. Last year Colorado's Southern Ute tribe signed a contract with Blue Cross and Blue Shield for group medical insurance, while New Mexico's Jicarilla Apaches have been...
...when Hero David meets a squaw whose bare bosom makes him think of a pair of "sun-darkened thimbleberries," the two passions of his career are united; he is a goner. To reassure critics of integration, Author Fisher takes pains to show that Squaw Sunday, princess of the Blackfeet, is really white. Covered as she is with bear grease and vermillion, she smells pretty bad. But to a man who can survive temperature cold enough to split a tree and "mosquitoes as big as owls," this is by no means a deterrent...