Measurement of time--Start for Smoking Lake--Ka-Kake--Wonderful
hunting feat--Lose horse--Tough meat.
Nights and days, and months and seasons, I found, were the
measurements of time out here. Minutes and hours would come by and
by with railroads and telegraphs. If you questioned anyone about
time or distance, the answer would be, "In so many nights, or days,
or moons." The Indian had no year; with him it was summer and winter.
We left White-fish Lake Friday evening, having with us for the first
few miles "Ka-Kake," or "the Hawk," and some of his people, who were
returning to Saddle Lake. "Ka-Kake" was far more than an ordinary
personality. His very appearance denoted this. The elasticity of
his step, the flash of his eye, the ring of his voice--you had to
notice him. To me he was a new type. He filled my ideal as a hunter
and warrior.
From Peter I learned that he was brave and kind, and full of
resource, tact, strategy and pluck; these were the striking traits of
this man, by whose side I loved to ride, and later on, in whose
skin-lodge I delighted to camp.
He had figured in many battles, and been the chief actor in many
hunting fields. He had surpassed other famous buffalo hunters,
inasmuch as he had ridden one buffalo to kill another.
To do this, it is related that he and others were chasing buffalo on
foot, and coming to an ice-covered lake, the surface of which was in
spots like glass, some of the buffalo fell, and Ka-Kake, with the
impetus of his run, went sliding on to one of them, and catching hold
of the long, shaggy hair of its shoulders, seated himself astride of
its back. Then the buffalo made an extra effort and got to its feet
and dashed after the herd, and Ka-Kake kept his seat. In vain the
animal, after reaching the ground, bucked and jumped and rushed
about. Ka-Kake was there to stay--for a while, at any rate. Then
the buffalo settled down to run and soon overtook the herd, which
spurted on afresh, because of this strange-looking thing on the back
of one of themselves. Now, thought Ka-Kake, is my chance. So he
pulled his bow from his back, and springing it and taking an arrow
from his quiver, he picked his animal, and sent the arrow up to the
feather in its side, which soon brought his victim to a stop. Then
he took his knife and drove it down into his wild steed, just behind
his seat, and feeling that the buffalo was going to fall, he jumped
off to one side, and thus had accomplished something unique in the
hunting-field.
Around at the end of the lake our roads diverged, or rather, our
courses did, for we found very little road through the dense woods,
as we bore away north and west for Smoking Lake, where we expected to
find Rev. Mr. Woolsey. Pathless forests, and bridgeless streams, and
bottomless muskegs were some of the features of the scene we now
entered. Our progress was slow, and instead of reaching Mr.
Woolsey's Saturday night, or early Sunday morning, we lost one of our
horses by the way, and did not reach Smoking Lake until Monday
afternoon. By this time our provisions were about finished, and had
not Mr. Woolsey killed an ox the day we arrived, we, and others also,
would have gone supperless to bed that night. As it was, we had the
privilege of chewing at some of the toughest beef I ever tackled--and
my experience along that line has been a very wide one.