Produced by Al Haines
DEEP FURROWS
Which Tells of Pioneer Trails Along Which
the Farmers of Western Canada Fought
Their Way to Great Achievements
in Co-Operation
By
HOPKINS MOORHOUSE
TORONTO AND WINNIPEG
GEORGE J. McLEOD, LIMITED
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1918
BY GEORGE J. McLEOD, LIMITED
TO THE
MEN AND WOMEN OF THE SOIL
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
Foreword
I The Man on the Qu'Appelle Trail
II A Call to Arms
III The First Shot is Fired
IV "That Man Partridge!"
V "The House With the Closed Shutters"
VI On a Card in the Window of Wilson's Old Store
VII A Fight for Life
VIII A Knock on the Door
IX The Grain Exchange Again
X Printers' Ink
XI From the Red River Valley to the Foothills
XII The Showdown
XIII The Mysterious "Mr. Observer"
XIV The Internal Elevator Campaign
XV Concerning the Terminals
XVI The Grip of the Pit
XVII New Furrows
XVIII A Final Test
XIX Meanwhile, in Saskatchewan
XX What Happened in Alberta
XXI In the Drag of the Harrows
XXII The Width of the Field
XXIII The Depth of the Furrows
XXIV And the End is Not Yet
Appendix
FOREWORD
Once in awhile, maybe, twenty-five or thirty years ago, they used to
pack you off during the holidays for a visit on Somebody's Farm. Have
you forgotten? You went with your little round head close clipped till
all the scar places showed white and you came back with a mat of
sunbleached hair, your face and hands and legs brown as a nut.
Probably you treasure recollections of those boyhood days when a raw
field turnip, peeled with a "toad-stabber," was mighty good eatin'.
You remember the cows and chickens, the horses, pigs and sheep, the old
corn-crib where generally you could scare up a chipmunk, the gnarled
old orchard--the Eastern rail-fenced farm of a hundred-acres-or-so.
You remember Wilson's Emporium at the Corners where you went for the
mail--the place where the overalled legs of the whole community drummed
idly against the cracker boxes and where dried prunes, acquired with
due caution, furnished the juvenile substitute for a chew of tobacco!
Or perhaps you did not know even this much about country life--you of
the Big Cities. To you, it may be, the Farmer has been little more
than the caricatures of the theatres. You have seen him wearing blue
jeans or a long linen duster in "The Old Homestead," wiping his eyes
with a big red bandana from his hip pocket. You have seen him dance
eccentric steps in wrinkled cowhide boots, his hands beneath flapping
coat-tails, his chewing jaws constantly moving "the little bunch of
spinach on his chin!" You have heard him fiddle away like two-sixty at
"Pop Goes the Weasel!" You have grinned while he sang through his nose
about the great big hat with the great big brim, "All Ba-ound Ra-ound
With a Woolen String!"
Yes, and you used to read about the Farmer, too--Will Carleton's farm
ballads and legends; Riley's fine verses about the frost on the pumpkin
and "Little Orphant Annie" and "Over the Hill to the Poorhouse!" And
when Cousin Letty took you to the Harvest Home Supper and Grand
Entertainment in the Town Hall you may have heard the village choir
wail: "Oh, _Shall_ We Mortgage the Farm?"
Perhaps even yet, now that you are man grown--business or professional
man of the great cities--perhaps even yet, although you long have
studied the market reports and faithfully have read the papers every
day--perhaps that first impression of what a farmer was like still
lingers in a more or less modified way. So that to you pretty much of
an "Old Hayseed" he remains. Thus, while you have been busy with other
things, the New Farmer has come striding along until he has "arrived in
our midst" and to you he is a stranger.
Remember the old shiny black mohair sofa and the wheezy, yellow-keyed
melodeon or the little roller hand-organ that used to play "Old
Hundred"? They have given place to new styles of furniture, upright
pianos and cabinet gramophones. Coffin-handles and wax flowers are not
framed in walnut and hung in the Farmer's front parlor any more; you
will find the grotesque crayon portrait superseded by photo
enlargements and the up-to-date kodak. The automobile has widened the
circle of the Farmer's neighbors and friends, while the telephone has
wiped distance from the map.
In the modern farm kitchen hot and cold water gushes from bright nickel
taps into a clean white enamel sink, thanks to the pneumatic water
supply system. The house and other farm buildings are lighted by
electricity and perhaps the little farm power plant manages to operate
some machinery--to drive the washing machine, the cream separator, the
churn and the fodder-cutter or tanning-mill. There is also a little
blacksmith shop and a carpenter shop where repairs can be attended to
without delay. True, all these desirable conveniences may not be
possessed generally as yet; but the Farmer has seen them working on the
model farmstead exhibited by the Government at the Big Fair or in the
Farm Mechanics car of the Better Farming Special Trains that have
toured the country, and he dreams about them.
More scientific methods of agriculture have been adopted. The Farmer
has learned what may be accomplished by crop rotations and new methods
of cultivation. He has learned to analyze the soil and grow upon his
land those crops for which it is best suited. If he keeps a dairy herd
he tests each cow and knows exactly how her yield is progressing so
that it is impossible for her to "beat her board bill." No longer is
it even considered good form to chop the head off the old rooster; the
Farmer sticks him scientifically, painlessly, instantaneously dressing
him for market in the manner that commands the highest price. So with
the butter, the eggs and all the rest of the farm products.
Do you wonder that the great evolution of farming methods should lead
to advanced thought upon the issues of the day? In the living room the
Family Bible remains in its old place of honor, perhaps with the
crocheted mat still doing duty; but it is not now almost the only book
in the house. There is likely to be a sectional bookcase, filled with
solid volumes on all manner of practical and economic subjects--these
as well as the best literature, the latest magazines and two or three
current newspapers.
Yes, a whole flock of tin roosters have rusted away on top of the barn
since the Farmer first began to consider himself the Rag Doll of
Commerce and to seek adjustments. It is the privilege of rag dolls to
survive a lot of abuse; long after wax has melted and sawdust run the
faithful things are still on hand. And along about crop time the
Farmer finds himself attracting a little attention.
That is because this business of backbone farming is the backbone of
Business In General. As long as money is circulating freely Business
In General, being merely an exchange in values, wears a clean shirt and
the latest cravat. But let some foreign substance clog the trade
channels and at once everything tightens up and squeezes everybody.
Day by day the great mass of the toilers in the cities go to work
without attempting to understand the fluctuations of supply and demand.
They are but cogs on the rim, dependent for their little revolutions
upon the power which drives the machinery. That power being Money
Value, any wastage must be replaced by the creation of new wealth. So
men turn to the soil for salvation--to the greatest manufacturing
concern in the world, Nature Unlimited. This is the plant of which the
Farmer is General Manager.
On state occasions, therefore, it has been the custom in the past to
call him "the backbone of his country"--its "bone and sinew." Without
him, as it were, the Commercial Fabric could not sit up in its High
Chair and eat its bread and milk. Such fine speeches have been
applauded loudly in the cities, too frequently without due
thought--without it occurring to anyone, apparently, that perhaps the
Farmer might prefer to be looked upon rather as an ordinary
hard-working human being, entitled as such to "a square deal."
But all these years times have been changing. Gradually Agriculture
has been assuming its proper place in the scheme of things. It is
recognized now that successful farming is a business--a profession, if
you like--requiring lifelong study, foresight, common sense, close
application; that it carries with it all the satisfaction of honest
work well done, all the dignity of practical learning, all the comforts
of modern invention, all the wider benefits of clean living and right
thinking in God's sunny places.
And with his increasing self-respect the New Farmer is learning to
command his rights, not merely to ask and accept what crumbs may fall.
He is learning that these are the days of Organization, of Co-Operation
among units for the benefit of the Whole; that by pooling his resources
he is able to reach the Common Objective with the least waste of effort.
He has become a power in the land.
These pages record a story of the Western Canadian farmer's upward
struggle with market conditions--a story of the organized Grain
Growers. No attempt is made to set forth the full details of the whole
Farmer's Movement in Western Canada in all its ramifications; for the
space limits of a single volume do not permit a task so ambitious.
The writer has endeavored merely to gather an authentic record of the
earlier activities of the Grain Growers' Associations in the three
Prairie Provinces--why and how they came to be organized, with what the
farmers had to contend and something of their remarkable achievements
in co-operative marketing during the past decade. It is a tale of
strife, limned by high lights and some shadows. It is a record worthy
of preservation and one which otherwise would pass in some of its
details with the fading memories of the pathfinders.
If from these pages the reader is able to glean something of interest,
something to broaden--be it ever so slightly--his understanding of the
Western Canadian farmers' past viewpoint and present outlook, the
undertaking will have found its justification and the long journeys and
many interviews their reward.
For, under the alchemy of the Great War, many things are changing and
in the wonderful days of reconstruction that lie ahead the Farmer is
destined to play an upstanding part in the new greatness of our
country. Because of this it behooves the humblest citizen of us to
seek better understanding, to meet half way the hand of fellowship
which he extends for a new conception of national life.
The writer is grateful to those farmers, grain men, government
officials and others who have assisted him so kindly in gathering and
verifying his material. Indebtedness is acknowledged also to sundry
Dominion Government records, to the researches of Herbert N. Casson and
to the press and various Provincial Departments of Agriculture for the
use of their files.
H.M.
WINNIPEG, March 1st, 1918.
DEEP FURROWS
CHAPTER I
THE MAN ON THE QU'APPELLE TRAIL
Among the lonely lakes I go no more,
For she who made their beauty is not there;
The paleface rears his tepee on the shore
And says the vale is fairest of the fair.
Full many years have vanished since, but still
The voyageurs beside the camp-fire tell
How, when the moon-rise tips the distant hill,
They hear strange voices through the silence swell.
--_E. Pauline Johnson._
_The Legend of Qu'Appelle._
To the rimming skyline, and beyond, the wheatlands of Assiniboia[1]
spread endlessly in the sunshine. It was early October in the year
1901--one of those clear bright days which contribute enchantment to
that season of spun gold when harvest bounties are garnered on the
Canadian prairies. Everywhere was the gleam of new yellow stubble. In
serried ranks the wheat stocks stretched, dwindling to mere specks,
merging as they lost identity in distance. Here and there stripes of
plowed land elongated, the rich black freshly turned earth in sharp
contrast to the prevailing gold, while in a tremendous deep blue arch
overhead an unclouded sky swept to cup the circumference of vision.
Many miles away, yet amazingly distinct in the rarefied air, the smoke
of threshers hung in funnelled smudges above the horizon--like the
black smoke of steamers, hull down, at sea.
On this particular autumn afternoon a certain black dot might have been
observed, so lost in the immensity of landscape that it appeared to be
stationary. It was well out upon the trail that wound northward from
Indian Head into the country of the Fishing Lakes--the trail that
forked also eastward to dip through the valley of the Qu'Appelle at
Blackwood before striking north and east across the Kenlis plain
towards the Pheasant Hills. In reality the well kept team which drew
the big grain wagon was swinging steadily ahead at a smart pace; for
their load of supplies, the heaviest item of which was a new plow, was
comparatively light, they were homeward bound and the going in the
earlier stages of the long journey was smooth.
The driver sat hunched in his seat, reins sagging. He was a man of
powerful physique, his skin deep coppered by long exposure to prairie
winds and sun. In repose the face that was shadowed by the wide felt
hat would have appeared somewhat deceptive in its placidity owing to
the fact that the strong jaw and firm mouth were partly hidden by a
heavy moustache and a thick, black beard, trimmed short.
Just now it was evident that the big farmer's mood was far from
pleasant. Forearm on knee, he had surrendered completely to his
thoughts. His fists clenched spasmodically and there was an angry
glint in his eyes. Occasionally he shook his head as if the matter in
mind were almost too hopeless for consideration. A sudden surge of
resentment made him lash his booted leg with the ends of the lines.
"Confound them!" he muttered aloud.
He had just delivered his first load of the season's new wheat. Three
nights before, by lantern light, he had backed his horses to the wagon
and hauled it twenty-five miles to the railway at Indian Head. His
stay there had not been conducive to peace of mind.
To reach the rails with a heavy load in favorable weather was simple
enough; it merely required time. But many such trips would be
necessary before his crop was marketed. Some of the farmers from
beyond the Qu'Appelle would be hauling all winter; it was in winter
that the haul was long and cruel. Starting at one, two or three
o'clock in the morning, it would be impossible to forecast the weather
with any degree of accuracy, so that often they would be overtaken by
blizzards. At such times the lack of stopping-places and shelter in
the sparsely settled reaches of the trail encompassed the journey with
risks every whit as real as pioneer perils of marauding Indians or
trailing wolf-packs.
Snow and wind, however, had no place in the thoughts of the lonely
farmer at the moment. Such things he had been used to ever since he
first homesteaded; this long haul with the products of his toil he had
been making for many years. What immediately concerned him was the
discouraging prospect of another wheat blockade instead of any
improvement in conditions which had become unbearable. With the
country as full of wheat as it was this year it required no great gift
of prophecy to foretell what would happen.
It was happening already. The railway people were ignoring completely
the car-distribution clauses of the Grain Act and thereby playing in
with the elevator interests, so that the farmers were going to be just
where they were before--at the mercy of the buyers, their legitimate
profits filched by excessive dockage, low grades, depressed prices,
exorbitant storage charges, even short weights in some cases. All this
in spite of the strong agitation which had led to Government action, in
spite of the Royal Commission which had investigated the farmers'
claims and had recommended the Grain Act, in spite of the legislation
on the statutes! Law or no law, the farmer was still to be preyed
upon, apparently, without a single weapon left with which----
The eyes of the man in the broad-brimmed hat grew grave. Scoff as he
might among the men of the district when the serious ones voiced their
fears to him, his own thoughts always came back to those fears. From
the Red River Valley to the foothills long-smouldering indignation was
glowing like a streak of fire in the prairie grass; a spark or two more
and nothing could stop the conflagration that would sweep the plains
country. If the law were to fail these red-blooded and long-suffering
homesteaders there would be final weapons alright--real weapons! It
was no use shutting one's eyes to the danger. Some fool would do
something rash, and with the farmers already inflamed and embittered,
there was no telling what desperate things might be attempted.
That was the fear which stirred and perplexed the solitary traveller;
for he had heard things that afternoon--seen things that he did not
like but could not ignore. He recognized an undercurrent of feeling, a
silence more ominous than all the heated talk, and that was where the
danger lay. Something would have to be done, and that soon. But what?
What?
So engrossed was he that beyond an occasional flip of the reins or a
word to the horses he paid no heed to his surroundings. A huge
jack-rabbit sprang up, almost from beneath the noses of the team, and
went flying off in great leaps over the stubble. A covey of prairie
chicken, fat and fit, whirred into the air and rocketed away. But he
scarcely saw them. Had he looked up he might have noticed a horseman
loping down a cross trail with the evident intention of heading off the
wagon. But the rider had pounded almost within hailing distance before
the other was aware of his approach.
It was Bob McNair of the "Two-Bar Ranch," as he insisted upon calling
his wheat farm. He waved an oil-spattered Stetson and came into the
trail with a rush, pulling up the wiry broncho with a suddenness that
would have unseated one less accustomed than McNair, former corporal,
Royal North-West Mounted Police.
"Howdy, W. R. Thought 'twas your outfit. Good job I aint a Blackfoot
on the warpath," he laughed. "I'd sure 'a' had your scalp sneaked
before you could draw a bead!" He swung alongside, stepped into the
wagon, looped the bridle-rein over the handle of the new plow and,
climbing forward, shook hands heartily and sat down.
"You're looking fit, Bob," welcomed the other with evident pleasure.
"What brings you over this way? Everything going alright?"
"So-so," nodded McNair. "Been over Sintaluta to see about gettin' a
car, among other things."
"Of course you got it?"
"Sure! Oh, sure I got it--got it still to get!" and McNair burst into
a flow of language that did even him justice. More or less vehement at
all times, the one-time corporal exhibited so much vigor in his remarks
that his good-natured auditor had to laugh. "I ain't tryin' to be
funny!" finished McNair. "I mean every dashed word of it, Motherwell.
If I don't get some of it out o' my system I'll bust to bits, that's
what. Say, I met Sibbold. He told me some of you fellows was meetin'
over at the Head to-day. What about it?"
"Why, yes, Johnny Millar got a few of us together to talk things over.
Lot of talk alright. Some of the boys were feeling pretty hot, I can
tell you! But I can't see that anything came of it except some
resolutions--the usual sort, you know."
"Pshaw! I was hopin' it meant action of some kind." The ex-rancher
was silent for a moment. Then his right fist went into his left palm
with a smack. "The only kind o' resolution that'll get anythin' is
made o' lead and fits in a rifle breech! And I want to tell you, old
man, if there ain't some pretty quick right-about-facin' in certain
quarters, I'll be dashed if I ain't for it! An' I won't be standin'
alone, either!" he added grimly.
W. R. Motherwell[2] glanced sharply at the tense face.
"Don't talk nonsense!" he reproved quietly.
"I ain't talkin' nonsense. Not on your life! If I am, then I reckon I
know a hundred or so hard-headed farmers who're doin' the identical
same. An' if I know that many in my territory, W. R., how many d'you
suppose there are if we take in Manitoba and clean through to the
mountains?"
"Then all I've got to say is: there are more and bigger fools in the
country than I had any idea of."
"What d'you mean, talkin' like that?"
"That's just what I've got to say to you, McNair," retorted the big
farmer with heat. "What do _you_ mean, talking like that? If you're
serious in what you say----"
"I said I was, didn't I?" snapped the other.
"Then you ought to be tied up on the Two-Bar and muzzled, for you're
plumb mad, McNair! It's just that kind of firebrand talk that's
hurting our cause. The farmers have got enough enemies now, God knows,
without making a lot of new ones. Doggone your hide, Mac, what're you
trying to do?--Stir up another rebellion like that of '85?"
"If it's necessary--you bet I am!" he brazened.
"You, of all men!"
"An' why not me? Just because I've worn the Queen's uniform, eh?
Well, let me tell you, sir, I belonged to a body of men who stood for
British justice an' a square deal to even the meanest Injun in the
Territories." The ex-mounted policeman spoke with pride. "We'd never
have handled the beggars if it hadn't been for that. Even the Injuns
were men enough to recognize justice, an' that's more'n these
commercial blood-suckers to-day can do! If our case was in the hands
of the Force it'd rest on its merits an' us grain growers'd get
justice. Instead, where is it?--in the hands of a pussy-footed,
hifalutin' bunch o' political windbags in the East who don't care a
damn about us hayseeds out West! An' what's more----"
"The Royal Mounted stood for law and order, Bob; but you'd class
yourself with the half-breeds, would you? Have another little
rebellion like that of '85 with all the----"
"Not like '85," interrupted the rancher. "No, sir, this one'll be
bloodless; but it'll knock the spots off the 'breeds' little shindig
all the samee!"
"You spoke of rifles, McNair. Guns go off," interpolated the other
sententiously. "What'n the mischief do you expect to gain by that sort
of thing?"
"A hearing, by Jingo! That's more'n all your letters to the papers an'
your meetin's an' resolutions have got us. We'll show 'em we mean
business----"
"Rot! How did we get the Royal Commission except by those letters and
meetings? That put the Manitoba Grain Act on the statutes, didn't it?
Mean to say we're no farther ahead? We've got the whole grain trade
under control and supervision----"
"Like ducks you have!" The former rancher threw back his head and
laughed.
"We've got the privilege of loading our wheat direct on cars through
the flat warehouses or any other way we like----"
"What's the good o' that if a man can't get a car when he wants it?"
demanded McNair impatiently. "The elevator gang 've organized to grab
everything in sight. I know it. You know it. Everybody knows it, by
heaven! So what's the use o' talkin'?"
"We've got to be fair, though. The elevator people have put a lot of
money--Say, why can't we organize, too?" suggested Motherwell with a
flash of inspiration. "We haven't tried that yet. That's
constitutional. That's what the livestock breeders have done," he said
eagerly.
McNair shook his head.
"I tell you, Bill, it's too late for that sort o' thing," he objected.
"Unless you mean organizin' to fight--"
"Exactly."
"With guns, if necessary?"
"It won't be necessary."
"Possibly not to shoot anybody. The showin' mebbe'll turn the trick.
Now, look here. My idea is that if a bunch of us fellows got together
on the quiet some night an' seized a few elevators--Say, wouldn't it
bring things to a head so quick we'd get action? The law's there, but
these fellows are deliberately breakin' it an' we got to show 'em----"
"The action you'd get would be the wrong kind, Mac," protested W. R.
Motherwell emphatically. "You'd land in jail!"
"Don't see it that way," persisted McNair. "Wouldn't give a
continental if I did so long's it woke a few people up."
"I tell you you're on the wrong trail unless you want to get it where
the chicken got the axe!"
"Doggone it, man! Ain't that where we're gettin' it _now_?"
"Whereas with the right kind of organization----"
"Don't believe it," grunted McNair, starting to climb back to his
horse. "The time for any more o' these here granny tea-parties is past
to my way o' thinkin' an' if we can't agree on it, we'd better shut up
before we get mad." He vaulted easily into the saddle. "But I'll tell
you one thing, W. R.--there's the sweetest little flare-up you ever saw
on its way. I was talkin' the other day to Ed. Partridge, the Railton
boys, Al. Quigley, Billy Bonner and some more----"
"And I'll bet they gave you a lot of sound advice, Mac!" laughed
Motherwell confidently.
"That's alright," resented McNair, the tan of his cheek deepening a
trifle. "They're a pretty sore bunch an' a fellow from down Turtle
Mountain way in Manitoba told me----"
"That the mud-turtle and the jack-rabbit finally agreed that slow and
steady----"
"Bah! You're sure hopeless," grinned the owner of the Two-Bar, giving
his horse the rein.
"Hope_ful_," corrected W. R. Motherwell with a laugh. "Tell Wilson, if
you see him, that Peter Dayman and I are expecting him over next week,
will you? And I say, Mac, don't kill too many before you get home!" he
called in final jocularity.
The flying horseman waved his hat and his "S'long" came back faintly.
The other watched till horse and rider lost themselves among the
distant wheat stocks. The twinkle died out of his eyes as he watched.
So McNair was another of them, eh? After all, that was only to be
expected of an old Indian fighter and cow-puncher like him. Poor Bob!
He had his reputation to sustain among the newcomers--hard rider, hard
fighter, hard drinker; to do it under the changed conditions naturally
required some hard talking on occasion. While Mac had become civilized
enough to keep one foot in a cowhide boot planted in the practical
present, the other foot was still moccasined and loath to forget the
days of war-paint and whiskey-traders, feathers and fears. Over the
crudities and hardships, the dirt and poverty, the years between had
hung a kindly curtain of glamor; so that McNair with his big soft
kerchiefs, his ranger's hat, his cow-puncher's saddle and trappings and
his "Two-Bar" brand was a figure to crane an Eastern neck.
Likeable enough chap--too much of a man to be treated as a joke to his
face, but by no means to be taken seriously--not on most occasions. In
the present instance, with feeling running as high as it was in some
quarters, that crazy idea of seizing a few elevators at the point of a
gun--! What in heaven's name would they do with them after they got
them? Nevertheless, McNair might find rattle-brained listeners enough
to cause a heap of trouble. There were always a few fellows ready for
excitement; they might go in for the fun of it, then before they knew
it the thing would curdle over night like a pan of milk in a
thunder-storm.
"He's just darn fool enough to try some funny work," muttered the
anxious driver of the grain wagon. "Jailing him only makes a hero of
him and that's the kind of thing the beggar glories in. The
son-of-a-gun!"
One by one throughout the afternoon the miles crept tediously beneath
the wagon. The sun which had steeped the stubble in gold all day had
turned the sky and was poising for its nightly dip below the horizon by
the time the long misty blue line of the Qu'Appelle hills began to
creep from the prairie. When the lone traveller at last could count
the deep shadowy coulees the sun had disappeared, but the riot of
after-fires still burned brightly in the west. He had passed his own
place hours before, but had stopped there only for a change of horses
and a brief rest; a parcel and an important message which he wished to
deliver in person at Fort Qu'Appelle without delay was extending his
day's journey.
Six hundred feet below the level of the plain the grassy slopes of the
Qu'Appelle Valley bowled to the blue lakes. Hugging the water's edge,
the buildings of the romantic old fort scattered in the twilight. The
winding trail stood out like a white thread that reached down the
valley towards the Catholic Mission of Lebret.
Before heading into the steep descent the farmer from over Abernethy
way slipped on his heavy cardigan jacket; for behind the rim of the
hills the sunset fires were dying and already the coolness of the
October night was making itself felt. At the mouth of a coulee he
spoke to a solitary Indian, standing motionless before a camp fire.
The appetizing odor of roasting wild fowl reminded him that he was more
than ready for the "bite to eat" which he would enjoy with the good
Father Hugonard at the Indian Mission--he of the dark, gentle eyes, the
quick understanding, the quiet tones. There would be much to talk
about.
So it proved. The hour was growing late when finally he bade good-bye
to his pleasant host and resumed his journey in the starlight,
refreshed and encouraged. For here in the seclusion of this peaceful
valley, since the days of the great buffalo herds, Father Hugonard had
ministered to the Indians, starved with them, worked patiently with
them through many seasons of flowers and snows. Nevertheless, out of
many discouragements and privations had this sterling man retained an
abiding faith in the triumph of righteousness in all things.
In the quiet beauty of the wonderful October night was little place for
the anxious thoughts of the day. Bitterness of spirit, the bickerings
of men, commercial Oppression and injustice--these were things far
removed from the planets of the Ages that sparkled like jewels in the
vault of Night. A vagrant breeze whispered in the valley sedges to the
placid lake. High in the air, invisible, migrating _wavies_ winged
into the south, the distant gabble of their passing falling weirdly
earthward.
The trail began to ascend sharply. Off to the right the sky was
growing rapidly lighter behind a distant hill and presently a lop of
yellow moon crept slowly over the edge and rose into the air like a
broken chalice, chasing the shadows to their retreats.
As he watched it the driver of the grain wagon recalled again the old
Indian legend that haunted this valley and had given it its name--how,
long ago, a young Indian chieftain was paddling his canoe through these
waters on his way to win a bride when suddenly above "the night wind's
melancholy song" he heard a voice calling him through the twilight.
"Qu'appelle? Qu'appelle?" he answered in French. "Who calls?" But
only his own voice came back in echoes while the gloom of night
deepened and a wan moon rose silently behind the distant hill. Then
when he reached the Indian encampment it was only to see the death
fires lighted on the shore, to hear the wail of women and to learn that
just before her lips had closed forever, his beloved had called for
him--just at the moon-rise. Thus, ever since, the Indians claimed,
strange spirit voices spoke through the lone valley at every rising of
the moon.
Thrilled by the beauty of the valley scene, misty in the moonlight, the
big farmer half unconsciously drew rein and listened. All he could
hear at first was the impatient stamp of his horses' feet, the mouthing
of the bits as the animals tossed their heads restlessly, the clink of
the trace-chains; but presently he sensed a subdued undertone of night
noises that wafted mysteriously over the silver water. It was nothing
that could be recognized definitely; rather was it an impression of
strangely merged minor sounds that grew upon him as imagination was
given play under the influence of time and place. It was easy to
supply interpretations of that faint medley, even while one knew that
it was merely the murmur of night airs in the dry grasses, the whisper
of the water-edges, the stirring of restless water-fowl in the dying
reeds.
The man who had ridden all day with his thoughts began unconsciously to
apply other meanings to the sound, to people the night with dim faces
and shapes that came trooping over the edge of the tablelands
above--toil-bent figures of old pioneer farmers, care-worn faces of
women and bright eager faces of little children who were holding out
their hands trustfully to the future. There seemed to be a
never-ending procession--faces that were apathetic from repeated
disappointments, faces that scowled threateningly, brave faces tense
with determination and sad faces on which was written the story of
struggle hidden within many a lonely wind-buffeted shack on the great
bosom of the prairie.
Was it, then, that all the years of toil and hardship were to come to
naught for this great company of honest workers, these brave pioneer
men and women of the soil? Was all their striving forward to find them
merely marking time, shouldered into the backwater while the currents
of organized commercialism swept away their opportunities? Were not
these producers of the world's bread themselves to partake of the
fruits of their labor?
Yes! Surely the answer was _Yes_! It was their Right. Wrong could
not endure forever in the face of Right; else were the world a poor
place, Life itself a failure, the mystic beauty of God's calm night a
mockery.
The man from Abernethy roused himself. It would be nearly dawn before
his team would reach their home stalls. He whistled to the horses and
they plunged into the black shadows of the coulee up which the trail
rose in steep ascent from the valley. When they emerged into the
moonlight he drew rein for a moment.
Somewhere back in a forgotten arroyo a coyote yapped lonesomely.
Around through the night were flung the distant glow-dots of the
burning straw piles, and as he filled his lungs with the fresh sweet
air the hope of better days warmed the heart of the belated traveller.
The Hand which set the orbits of the universe created the laws of Truth
and Justice and these never could be gainsaid. Everything would come
out aright if only men were steadfast in faith and duty.
He gave the horses their heads and they were off once more through the
cool night upon the wheatland sea that was bounded only by far purple
shadows.
[1] The provinces of Saskatchewan and Alberta, Western Canada, were not
created until 1906. Prior to that the entire country west of the
Province of Manitoba was known as the North-West Territories, of which
the District of Assiniboia was a part, the part which subsequently
formed the southern portion of the Province of Saskatchewan.
[2] Hon. W. R. Motherwell, Minister of Agriculture, Province of
Saskatchewan.