Provisions diminishing--A buffalo hunt organized--Oxen and Red River
carts--Our "buffalo runners"--Meet with Maskepetoon--Maskepetoon
shakes hands with his son's murderer--An Indian's strange
vow--Instance of Indian
watchfulness--"Who-Talks-Past-All-Things"--Come upon the buffalo--An
exciting charge--Ki-you-ken-os races the buffalo--Peter's exciting
adventure--Buffalo dainties--Return home--War parties--Indian
curiosity--Starving Young Bull's "dedication feast"--Missionary
labors.
Dried meat and pemmican, with fowl and fish now and then, make very
good food, but when you have no vegetables or flour to give variety,
you are apt to become tired of them. Our garden on the new land had
done very well, but it was a mere bite for the many mouths it had to
fill. Our own party was large, and then every little while starving
Indians and passing travellers would call, and these must be fed.
There was no Hudson's Bay post nearer than Edmonton and no stores.
The new mission, already in its first season, had become the house of
refuge for quite a number, both red and white.
As near as I can remember, it was about the first of October that we
organized our party for the plains. To do this there was a lot of
work to be done in preparation--horses to hunt up, carts to mend, old
axles to replace with new ones, harness to fix. We had one waggon.
The rest of our vehicles were of the old Red River pattern, wood
through and through, that screamed as it rolled. Some of these
wanted new felloes, and others new spokes; another had a broken
shaft. Then when all was ready we had the river to cross, and our
only means of ferriage was a small skiff. This involved many trips,
and when all the carts and our one waggon were over, then came the
work of swimming our stock across. With the horses we had but little
difficulty, but the oxen were loath to take the water, and we had to
lead them over one by one. Then when all were across and hitched up,
we had the big hill to pull up; for while the north bank of the
Saskatchewan at this point has a naturally easy approach, the south
bank is almost perpendicular. Even to-day, notwithstanding
considerable grading, it is a bad hill, but at the time I write of we
had to double up our teams to take a light cart to the summit.
Mr. Woolsey remained in charge of the mission. Father was captain of
the hunting party, with Erasmus second in command. The rest of us
were teamsters, or guards, or privates, as the need might be. On the
second day out we met the vanguard of Maskepetoon's camp on their way
to the mission. From them we learned the glad news that we might
expect to find buffalo about the fifth day out, or possibly sooner.
Our rate of travel was governed by the oxen, but as we started very
early and travelled late, we could cover a long distance in a day.
In going out I drove the waggon and went ahead. Our "runners" ran
and fed beside us as we travelled. Father and Peter were in the
saddle, and drove up the loose stock, or were anywhere on the line of
march as need might require.
The buffalo runners need especial mention. There was Peter's horse,
a handsome little roan, full of spirit, and yet gentle and easy to
manage. Then there was old "Ki-you-ken-os," a big bay that had
evidently been stolen from the Americans to the south and had been
brought into Edmonton by a Blackfoot, after whom the horse was named.
Later on he had come into Mr. Woolsey's hands, and thus we had him
with us. He was a fine animal, but altogether too impetuous and
strong-mouthed to make a good buffalo horse. I saw him run away with
father one day, and although father was an exceptionally strong man,
he had to let him go; he could not stop him, pull as he might. Then
there was my saddle-horse, "The Scarred Thigh," as the Indians called
him, because a mad bull had torn him with his horn. A fine little
sorrel he was, and an A1 buffalo horse. These we seldom touched on
the journey, except to give them a short run by way of exercise and
to keep them in wind.
About the middle of the afternoon of the second day out, we met
Maskepetoon himself. He was delighted to again see father, and said
he would send some of his young men with us to help in the hunt, as
also to help guard our camp and party. For this purpose the old
gentleman got into my waggon and rode with me a mile or two, to where
the Indians were that he wanted to send with us. As we drove on, we
kept meeting Indians, and Maskepetoon told me who they were, and
introduced me to several. Presently I saw an old man, of singular
appearance, approaching, and I said to Maskepetoon, "Who is that?"
But he, when he saw who it was, did not reply, but turned the other
way, which I thought strange. The old man came up to my side of the
waggon, and said: "I am glad to see you, young white man." So we
shook hands; and he made as if he would shake hands with the man
beside me, for I knew he did not recognize Maskepetoon, not expecting
to see him in my waggon, and going this way. The chief still kept
his face turned away. I saw, however, that after shaking my hand,
the old man would also shake hands with my companion, so I nudged
Maskepetoon and said, "This man wants to shake hands with you." Then
the chief, as if jerking himself from under a weight or strain,
turned and gave his hand to the old fellow, who, on recognizing him
grasped his hand and uttered the Indian form of thanksgiving, doing
this in solemn earnest.
It was some time before Maskepetoon spoke to me again: "John, that
man killed my son, and I have often longed to kill him; but because I
have wanted to embrace the Christian religion, I have with great
effort kept from avenging my son's murder. I have never spoken to
him or shaken hands with him until now. Meeting your father and
sitting beside you has softened my heart, and now I have given him my
hand. It was a hard thing to do, but it is done, and he need fear no
longer so far as I am concerned."
Later on, I found out that the man we saw and Maskepetoon's son had
gone across the mountains to trade horses from the Kootenays, and on
the return trip the old man had killed his companion, and given out
that he had been attacked by other Indians; but afterwards it was
found out that he had done the foul deed himself. No wonder my
friend felt strongly. Any man would in such a case. Rundle and
Woolsey and Steinhauer had not preached in vain, when such evidence
of the lodgment of the Gospel seed was so distinctly apparent.
Presently we came to the Indians Maskepetoon was in search of. He
sent four with us--his son Joseph, his nephew Jack, a Blood man, and
a Swamptree--fine fellows every one of them. Joseph was big, solid
and staid--a man you could depend on. Jack was small, quick and
wild--fond of war and given to excess. It was a long time before he
gave up horse-stealing and polygamy. The Blood and the Swamptree
were both typical wood and plain Indians, pagans still, but
instinctively kind and well disposed. I had met all four several
times during the previous year. They all had great respect for
father, and would with alacrity seek to anticipate his wish while
with us. The Blood man was under vows to his "familiar spirit," or
"the one he dreams of," and one of the injunctions laid upon him was
to give a whoop every little while, a very peculiar semi-peace,
semi-war whoop. He said to me, in confidence, "John, you do not mind
me, but I dare not make my whoop before your father. That is why I
go away from camp now and then. I must whoop; it would choke me,
kill me, if I did not." I told him to "whoop it up." I saw no harm
in it, and the poor fellow was comforted.
As a sample of the trained watchfulness of the men, I must relate an
incident that occurred on our journey. The Swamptree was riding in
the waggon with father and myself. On the fourth day out we were
passing through bluffs of timber, thickly dotting the prairie, when
suddenly I saw the Swamptree string his bow and throw an arrow into
position in a flash. So quickly did he do this that I was startled,
and exclaimed, "What do you see back there?" The answer, "Men!" came
in a quiet tone, almost a whisper. "Where?" I asked. "At that point
of bushes is one," said he. Looking to where he indicated I caught
the glint of an eye, and telling father, our guns were soon brought
to bear on the crouching Indian, who, seeing he was discovered, rose,
with his hand up. Our friend recognized him as a Cree, and behind
him stood a noted character who went by the name of
"Who-Talks-Past-All-Things." He had French blood, was a Roman
Catholic, and spent most of his time around the Roman Catholic
missions. He sometimes imagined himself to be the Pope, and very
often officiated among the Indians as priest. He had come out this
time with a team and waggon from the Roman Catholic mission at Big
Lake for a load of fresh meat, and was now returning. He and his
companion were camped for dinner on the other side of the bluff of
timber. They had heard us coming, and were bound to make sure who we
were before showing themselves.
They told us of buffalo, and we went on gladly; but as we were now
outside of the Wood Cree camps we kept a sharp lookout for enemies,
and a constant guard at night. The next day--the fifth out from the
mission--we sighted buffalo, in "bunches" or bands, about noon. We
had been seeing a few all morning, mostly bulls, but we were after
cow meat, and about noon saw several bunches not far from us. The
country was of a very rolling nature, and about half and half prairie
and brush. Jack and Joseph and Peter and I saddled and made ready to
run. Peter took Ki-you-ken-os and putting a big curb-bit in his
mouth, I heard him say to the horse, "I will be bound to hold you
with this." The rest of our party stayed with the carts.
We charged at the buffalo as they were running down the slope of a
hill towards an opening between two dense thickets of timber. The
last I saw of Peter was when two bands of buffalo were meeting in
their mad rush for this opening, and old Ki-you-ken-os seemed
determined to take the gap before them. Peter had his gun stuck in
his belt, had hold of the double reins from the big curb-bit with
both hands, and was pulling with all his might, mouth wide open, and
eyes bulging out; but the old horse did not seem to heed either Peter
or his bit--he was running the buffalo a race for yonder gap. Peter
and his horse were on the centre line of three converging forces: two
bands of buffalo, perhaps two hundred in each, and Peter and his wild
horse. I fully expected to see some buffalo killed by the collision,
which was inevitable. I was terribly anxious for Peter. In a few
moments the two herds came against each other. A moment later the
horse and his rider were in the centre of the confused mass, and then
all I could see was buffalo stampeding, and old Ki-you-ken-os leaping
over and running amongst the wild herd, which was now tightly jamming
its way through the narrow prairie lane. Then dust and distance hid
the scene from me.
This was my second run after buffalo. My first shot was a miss, and
loading again I fired, only to miss again. I blamed badger-holes and
brush and dust, but lack of experience was what did it. I had killed
in my first race, but did not in my second. My horse was good, my
gun, though single shot, was sure. It was my fault, and I felt it
keenly. Peter also did not kill in that race--indeed, he was
thankful, as was I, that he was not killed; but Joseph and Jack made
up for it, and we were busy all the rest of the evening butchering
and hauling in to where we camped for the night.
We were now in the short day and long night season, which in these
northern latitudes is especially marked. Moreover the nights were
cold, and we must have a big camp-fire. So we got well down between
the bluffs, in order that the glare of our fire would be hidden as
much as possible, and arranged our carts around the camp so that
these would act as a kind of barricade in case of attack. Tying our
oxen up to ruminate on the grass they had eaten this day, and fall
back on the fat they had made during the summer, we tethered our
horses close, and alternating on guard over them, the balance busied
themselves around the camp, putting away the meat and cooking supper.
This latter process took hours to get through with, for everybody had
his choice bit to roast. The cook for the evening would have a whole
side of ribs swinging before the fire, and when these were cooked the
ribs were parted along the whole length, and each man took one. When
he had picked it clean he either turned his attention to his own
independent roast, or took another rib. One had brought the head in,
though generally when you took the tongue out you left the head for
the wolves. Another had two or three fathoms of entrails, which he
cleaned with fire, and then roasted, and cutting them up in lengths,
passed these around to his friends. Another had a large piece of the
stomach or tripe, which he also cleaned with fire, and relished as a
favorite morsel. Still another was cracking marrow bones, and eating
the marrow. Thus supper was prolonged far beyond the usual time.
When those whose turn it was to sleep felt it was bed-time, we would
sing a hymn, and father lead in prayer, then the bed-making began.
With old hands this commenced by piling saddles and camp equipment,
or logs of wood, behind the head and on each side of where you were
going to sleep, for experience had taught these wary fellows that
many a bullet and arrow had been stopped, or made to glance off, by
such simple precautions. Fresh guards set, the rest lay down with
clothes and moccasins on, so as to be ready to jump at any time,
having carefully looked to arms before doing so.
The next day we finished loading up and started homewards, but had
not gone far when one of the oxen, with his heavily loaded cart, ran
foul of our waggon and broke one of its axles. Fortunately there
were some birch trees about a couple of miles from us, and father and
one of the Indians rode over, and brought two sticks capable of being
made into axles. An accident of this kind under ordinary
circumstances would be a small thing, but with our lack of tools it
meant something to fit a waggon axle. However, Peter and father
fixed it up, and on we went, travelling early and late, which, by the
way, is no light work, but sometimes exceedingly hard on flesh and
blood. To start out from your camp-fire long before daylight on a
cold, frosty morning, and perhaps have to break the new-made ice on
some creek by jumping into it yourself in order to lead your carts
safely across, and then to go on wet as well as cold--I say again,
that this was felt to be very hard work by some of our party.
Nevertheless, doing it, and keeping at it, we were back at the
Saskatchewan on the thirteenth day from the start. Then we had to
unload and take everything over in a small skiff, reload again and
haul up to our staging, which at this season was a better place to
keep the meat than in a store-house.
A great change had come over the place since we left. Hundreds of
lodges now dotted the valley, and Mr. Woolsey and Maskepetoon had
been very busy keeping the camp in order. A great many Plain Crees
were here mixed up with our quieter Wood Crees, and war parties were
coming and going all the time. Mother and my sisters, though among
Indians for many years--in fact, the girls had spent all their lives
among them--had never seen anything like this before. Men and women
would crowd around the little temporary mission house, and in full
savage costume, and with faces painted in divers colors, peer into
the windows, and darken the door, and look with the greatest
curiosity on the white woman and her children.
Paganism was rife. Conjuring and gambling were going on night and
day. Dance feasts, and dog feasts, and wolf feasts, and new lodge
dedication feasts were everyday occurrences. I was invited to join
in one of the latter, by a Plain Cree, a warrior and a polygamist,
and a dandy of the first circle, who had taken a fancy for me. His
name was peculiar, and he, being a sleek and fine-looking fellow,
most certainly belied it. "The Starving Young Bull" was the
gentleman who honored me with an invitation to be present at the
dedication feast of his new lodge, now about finished; and these new
lodges were gorgeous things in their way. The twenty or more buffalo
skins had been dressed soft and white as possible and then cut into
shape by some pattern carried in the brain of one of the older women;
then at a bee of women, where also a feast was provided, the skins
were sewn together with the sinews of the buffalo, and when the new
tent, tasseled with the tail of the same animal, was fully set, then
the artist friends, or the proprietor himself, went to work to paint
upon its outside walls the achievements of the warrior and
hunter--scenes of plunder, blood, etc., military prowess, medicinal
lore--so that in approaching a tent you could read the degree and
dignity of the man you were about to visit.
I accepted Mr. Starving Young Bull's kind invitation, and was on hand
at the time he had indicated. "Just as the day is departing," was
the hour he fixed. There may have been forty or more guests. We sat
in a ring around the tent. Each man had before him his own dish,
which he had brought with him, and when these had been heaped up with
buffalo dainties and dried berries, four old conjurers, who sat at
the head of the tent, each dressed in accord with the instructions of
the "spirit of his dream," now began the dedication service. First
the oldest conjurer took the big medicine pipe, with the long stem.
This had been previously filled, and as he solemnly held it in both
hands, another with his knife placed a live coal on the contents of
the pipe. This done, the old man pulled at it until it was fairly
alight, and then held the stem heavenwards, at the same time
muttering what to us were unintelligible sounds. Next he pointed the
stem to the earth, then slowly moved it around with the sun, and
taking another whiff or two, passed it to his fellow-conjurers, who
each in turn took long pulls at the big pipe. After this the four
took their sacred rattles and began to sing and incant, keeping time
with the rattles. Then they all began to speak in an unknown
language, or as it is literally translated, "using a different
language." When through with this, the old man in the language of
the people (which I could understand) offered up a prayer--or rather
expressed a wish--
"that this tent might be blessed; that its occupants might be
prospered; that the owner, in his going out and coming in, whether
for hunting or war, might be successful; that the kettles of the
women of this tent might always boil with plenty; that the pipe of
the owner might always be full;"
all of which was responded to by the guests. Then we devoted
ourselves to the feast, eating much or little as we chose, and taking
home with us what we did not eat.
In the midst of all these old institutions and rites, which these
people had been bred in for centuries, our missionaries were hard at
work, sowing the seeds of a brighter and better faith. Meetings and
councils followed each other in quick succession, and early and late
father and Mr. Woolsey were busy preaching the Gospel of Christianity
and civilization to these men to whom they had been sent. In all
this they were nobly backed by Maskepetoon, and such men as Stephen,
and his son Joseph, Thomas Woolsey--a fine fellow, to whom Mr.
Woolsey had given his name--and others who had already experienced
the religion of the Lord Jesus, and were going on to know more of it.