1<br >THE MONTANA LANDSCAPE is always startling when one<br >comes there straight from the East. It was early<br >morning when I stepped off the train at the little<br >brown-stained depot into an immense space of frosted<br > yellow grass and blue sky. I had scarcely lifted my bag<br >， before the train was on its way， the locomotive swirling<br > steam and sulfurous smoke and cinders in its wake. The<br >!depot was deserted， but old Dane had sent explicit<br >~irections， and as soon as I found my bearings I started<br > up the dirt road that led to his cabin， a mile and a half<br > away.<br > As I walked， I wondered if I had not been rather<br > foolish in traveling such a distance to ask an aged<br > Indian a few questions about his legendary grandmoth-<br > er. I had known her name， Mary Kingsley， or Creek<br > Mary， or simply Amayi， since the days of my Georgia<br > youth. Later at the university I had tried to write a<br > paper about her， but the records were scanty. She was a<br > full-blood Muskogee， or Creek Indian， daughter of<br > Machichi， a famous chief who had，been killed in a<br > skirmish with colonists. After Machichi s death， Mary s<br > people at Bluff Village regarded her as their leader， the<br > Beloved Woman.<br > By all accounts she was a great beauty who had<br > charmed all the male colonists of Georgia， from<br > General Oglethorpe down to trader John Kingsley，<br > whom she married. Proud and hot tempered， she had<br > 3<br ><br >
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