THE TURNING OF THE TIDE
For weeks Big Bear’s men had tried to persuade the Wood Crees to move
toward Battleford and join Poundmaker. James K. Simpson and I had
secretly opposed this.
“They killed the white people,” we told the Wood Crees, “not you. Let
them go. You stop. When the soldiers come we will make peace for you.
Big Bear’s men say they will fight. Unless you separate, that will make
it hard for us to help you.”
There was no love lost between the factions, but our efforts were
offset by some of the leaders, who stalked through the camp making
night hideous with their dismal wailing, pleaded, tore their clothes,
heaped dust on their heads, in their endeavour to hold the bands
together. The Wood Crees would have been pleased enough to see the last
of Big Bear and his men, but the others would not have it that way.
Apparently the red-handed assassins got a sort of moral bracing from
the association with their more respectable relatives that they were
unwilling to be deprived of.
Blocked in one direction, we turned, aided by Fitzpatrick, in another.
Our plan this time had in it the spice of danger, for it was nothing
less than an attempt to incite the Wood Crees to make open war on Big
Bear. How nearly we succeeded, what I am about to relate will show.
About the first of May the camp by short marches had begun to move
toward Pitt. Big Bear’s warriors continued to dance almost daily.
Scouts had been sent to Poundmaker and returned with news of the Cut
Knife fight. I was sitting with Stanley Simpson in Lone Man’s lodge.
The Indians, the scouts said, after a long and hard battle had almost
been defeated, many of Poundmaker’s men had been killed and the band
had moved away. They added that a big body of soldiers from across the
Rockies was marching down the Saskatchewan to attack Big Bear.
Lone Man flushed darkly as he listened to this. He turned suddenly to
me.
“_Kee topwaytin, chee?_ (You credit this, say?)” he asked. “It can’t be
true. The iron road (railway) across the mountains is not yet finished.”
I replied evasively as usual, for I saw he wished to disbelieve the
news and I did not care to risk offending him.
One afternoon a week later Big Bear’s band danced the war dance.
The warriors marched in a body round the inside of the great circle
enclosed by nearly two hundred lodges, squatting at intervals before
the lodges of the chiefs and headmen in a little circle of their own.
Simpson, Fitzpatrick and I, with some Wood Crees, looked on.
“Why do you let Wandering Spirit and his men kick you around as if
you were dogs?” we said to them in whispers. “They are not more than
eighty armed; you number three times as many. You don’t want to go
to Battleford, to join Riel, to fight the soldiers, yet you let this
handful of murderers walk over you. Are you frightened? Look at them
now—you could wipe them out in a minute as they squat there, like they
did the white men at Frog Lake! Why don’t you do it? They are your
enemies as well as ours. The government would be glad. They would do
more for you.”
It was a perilous business for we might be betrayed and would pay with
our lives. But life in the camp was becoming intolerably monotonous.
We thought, too, that we knew our men, nor were we deceived. Our words
took root. The idea budded and expanded into a conspiracy—of which more
later.
Wandering Spirit rose and made a speech.
“Fourteen years ago when we fought the Blackfeet, the River-Men (Plain
Crees) were afraid of nothing. When we heard the enemy was near we
rushed to meet him, and you all know Kahpaypamahchakwayo. He was never
behind. I look around me to-day and what do I see? None of the faces I
saw about me then—instead, the faces of young men. How will it be now?
It is because you asked me, you young fellows, that ashes is all that
is left of Frog Lake—that I did what I did. I hope we see the Queen’s
soldiers soon. When they come you will hear me, Kahpaypamahchakwayo,
calling, young fellows—you will hear me shout the war cry of the
River-Men—and if any does not follow me, he shall die as the white men
died at Frog Lake!”
He struck the stock of his rifle with his hand and sat down.
We moved on down the trail and about May 15th reached the Saskatchewan
near Pipestone Creek, two miles east of Pitt. The weather was
beautiful, the days long and warm, the sun bright, the grass riotously
luxuriant, the delicate foliage appearing on poplar and willow. All
nature wore a livery of brilliant green.
Big Bear’s band was still determined on joining Poundmaker; they had
endeavoured to coerce the Wood Crees by firing Fort Pitt, destroying
most of the provisions. But some buildings and the flour and bacon in
them were saved, and their action served only to further provoke the
Wood Crees. These desired to lay in a stock of food and one morning
sent carts to the fort for loads.
James K. Simpson and I had kept alive the spark of resentment kindled
in the breast of Cut Arm, one of the most discontented of the Wood
Cree chiefs. He decidedly favoured ridding himself of his compromising
associates.
“You speak good words,” he said to us. “We did not wish to raise a gun
against the white man. Our young men were forced into it by these dogs,
and see how they treat us now! They have taken our horses as they took
yours, and with threats they rule the camp. They kill our cattle—the
cattle we raised. They are not as brave as our own young men, but they
have held them down with words. But wait a little. You will see!”
We waited a good deal but without seeing much out of the usual.
Nothing occurred. The Wood Crees had not been brought to the point of
open defiance. Then came this day on which they went to Fort Pitt for
provisions.
Oskatask was a Big Bear Indian. Gladieu, my Wood Cree friend, sat this
morning on the grass before his lodge holding by a line his roan mare.
She was a good mare. Oskatask came up.
“I’m going to the fort,” he said. “Lend me your mare.”
Gladieu knew some Plain Cree would want to borrow his mare and that if
he lent her he would be just one good mare out. That was why he was
holding her this fine May morning. He shook his head.
“I’m going to use her myself,” he said.
Oskatask lowered his rifle and jabbed the muzzle in the Wood Cree’s eye.
“_Muchastim!_” he muttered, and snatching the line out of Gladieu’s
hand he jumped on the horse and rode off.
Wandering Spirit witnessed this. He had for some time divined that a
rupture was imminent between the two factions and was doing all he
could to prevent it. In his new rôle of peacemaker, he went after
his unruly follower, calling on him to stop. Oskatask faced about
and the two Indians—the one sullen, defiant; the other wrathful,
threatening—with fingers on the locks of their guns—lowered for a
moment on one another from beneath their war bonnets.
“Give up the mare, fool!” said the war chief presently in a low voice.
“Do you want to bring war between us and these Wood Cree people? We are
not strong enough to beat them if they once will fight.”
Oskatask held his ground stubbornly. “I am riding to the fort. I will
return her after,” he retorted.
Wandering Spirit raised his rifle. “Give her back, dog!” he said
menacingly, advancing a step.
To temporize over compliance with the head soldier’s order was to court
instant death as Oskatask knew, but he took the chance.
“I said I would, didn’t I?” he returned belligerently. “But when I’m
ready—after a little.”
He wheeled suddenly and with an eye over his shoulder, jammed his heels
in the mare’s ribs and clattered away toward Pitt. Doubtless Oskatask
recalled the day his coat had been slashed off his back by command of
Wandering Spirit and found much secret gratification in braving the war
chief’s fury.
Wandering Spirit, sensing the tenseness in the air and dreading an
outbreak, hurried round the lodges, humiliating himself, with humble
apologies to the Wood Cree chiefs.
“He goes only to the fort,” he said, “and will give her back. He is of
those pitied by Manito—a fool. So why should I bring shame on myself by
killing him? Let the miserable one live!”
That Oskatask had his friends among Big Bear’s men may not have been
without its effect on the war chiefs inclinations. He returned to his
own side of the camp.
Five minutes later a young man of Cut Arm’s band rode swiftly away
in the direction taken by Oskatask. Immediately afterward the chief
himself came round among the lodges.
“Stay inside and have your guns ready,” said Cut Arm quietly to the
inmates. “The young man has gone after the mare. If he shoots Oskatask
he will shout when he enters the camp: ‘_Nipahow!—I have killed him!_’
It is the war cry. Rush straight at the lodges of the Plain Crees.
Shoot them as they run out. Drive them into the river!”
Louis Patenaude was away, scouting toward Battleford. He had left me a
gun and asked me to watch his horses. The Wood Crees feared Big Bear’s
band would decamp some night, leaving them afoot. I felt I would be
glad to crook a finger for the Wood Crees, and avenge, too, at least
one of the poor fellows at Frog Lake, yet as I knelt in the lodge with
the rifle between my knees, my grip I found was none too steady. It was
an anxious moment, a trying one on the nerves.
The wait seemed long, though I do not suppose more than half an hour
passed. Then I heard the rattle of a horse’s hoofs. I gripped the
rifle tighter, fixing my eyes on the lower end of the camp. At a racing
gallop, Cut Arm’s young man presently burst into view. Behind, at the
end of her line pounded the roan mare.
Not an Indian was in sight, not a sound save the ring of the hoofs to
be heard. The Plain Crees must have been suspicious, and alert like
ourselves. My heart beat faster as I watched the lips of the young man,
coming, with the solemn issues of life and death like an oracle behind
them. But they were tightly sealed and his face betrayed nothing.
Onward he swung, straight through the centre of the camp. And then he
stopped, before the door of Gladieu’s lodge, slipped to the ground and
handed the line of the roan mare to her owner. He had not uttered a
sound.
A moment later Oskatask appeared, riding with his brother a single
horse. They made directly for Gladieu’s tent. He flung himself off and
approached the Wood Cree. Gladieu snatched up his gun.
“Take care!” he warned. The two Indians stood glaring in each other’s
faces.
“_’Wus!_ I spit on you!” sneered Oskatask. “Let me get her again and
try to take her!”
“My gun will do my spitting!” retorted Gladieu. “Try to take her, crow!”
They waited, each for the first offensive move from the other, and
I, watching, thought I might yet find use for my gun. But meanwhile
several of Big Bear’s men had hurried over; they seized Oskatask and
dragged him off. Cut Arm’s young man had found the mare, when he
arrived, outside the fort. Oskatask was inside.
[Illustration:
THE THIRST DANCE: _The Torture._
_Facing p. 169._
]