read the letter!'
"'He is delerious, poor feller.'
"'Mebbe he had a letter from somebody,' spoke up one o' the men, an'
they searched his pockets, an' sure 'nuff, found a small piece o'
paper. It had some writin' on it with a pencil; something like this:
'Send some medicine as quick as ye can to save Jack's life. I left him
at old Kootenay Brown's ranch. He wus nearly frozen to death when I
found him.'
"The men got an Indian boy, and sent him off with medicine an' a supply
o' provisions to Kootenay Brown's.
"After Bill got a little better, he told the men where he had found
Jack. He had an idea of the trail he would take, and after he'd
crossed St. Mary's River, the storm wus so bad that his horse wouldn't
face it, so to save himself he struck toward the mountains. Wall, as
he kep' travelling the storm quieted down an', wud ye believe, right
ahead o' him he saw a man walkin' round an' round in a circle leadin'
his horse. The snow wur deep, but he went as fast as his horse would
go, an' when he reached the place he saw it wus Jack.
"Both Jack an' the horse wur snow-blind, an' they wur wanderin' round
on the prairie, lost. They couldn't get away from the spot."
[Illustration: SNOW-BLIND AND LOST ON THE PRAIRIE.]
"Bill's horse whinnied, an' the other stopped an' then answered. The
poor thing wus glad o' company. Bill spoke to Jack, but the poor
fellow didn't know him. He wus out o' his mind. Bill got him on his
horse, and rode on to Kootenay Brown's ranch, where they rubbed poor
Jack an' put him to bed. He wus badly frozen an' they feared he
wouldn't get better.
"Bill stayed fur a day an' then started fur home to get help. It wus
stormin' an' he thought he might get lef', so he wrote the letter afore
he started out so that Jack might have his medicine.
"It wus a long time afore Jack wus well an' come back to the Fort, an'
my Bill lay four weeks in his bed; then he crawled round fur awhile,
but he never got over his ride.
"Whenever anybody said anythin' to him, he would say, 'Never mind, it's
all right: Jack got better.'
"All that winter an' the next summer he kep' about the Fort, coughin'
bad. Ah, my heart wur sore to see him go like the snow on a summer day.
"Jack wud come over to his shanty an' do all his chores fur him, an'
the two cronies would sit together fur hours.
"Jack wud look into Bill's face an' say, 'Bill, ye saved me, but lost
yer own life,' an' then Bill, as best he could fur his cough, would
say, 'Jack, it's all right; be a man an' help somebody else. One on us
had to pass in his checks, an' it wus me this time. Yer turn will come
too by an' by, mebbe afore ye think o' it. I've never done anything
worth speakin' about. Ye know it's not because I wus unwillin', but,
ye see, there's no chances o' doin' great things.'
"One day Jack an' Bill wur sittin' talkin', an' I went in ter see how
he wus gettin' on, an' Jack wus talkin' like I never heard him afore.
Ye'd a thought he wur a preacher. I think he must hev ben a good lad,
fur I wusn't expectin' to hear the like.
"'Bill,' ses he, 'I don't know much about the thing good folks call
religion, but I min' my old mother tellin' me, "It's not long prayers
an' talks, but it's just bein' like Himsel'." That wur what she called
Him. I guess He'll no judge ye for the fine things ye say, but the
gran' things ye do. He saw ye that day ye saved me when I wur frozen.
An' don't ye think He'll pay ye fur that? I'm sure He will. If I wur
rich I'd give ye all I had, and they say He's honester than any o' us.
An' that means if I canna pay ye, He will. Ye see ye must get yer pay
fur doin' that gran' deed, an' I'm too poor to pay ye, so ye must look
to Him for it.'
"'I think it's all right, but it's not worth much,' says Bill.
"'Worth much! It's worth all the world to me.'
"'I wonder if He'll understand us when we get yonder. Ye see, we
haven't been workin' much at religion, prayin', but, Jack, many's the
time I have looked up at the stars an' said to myself, "Does God think
about me?" Ye see the country is so big it wouldn't be strange if He
forgot me.'
"'I've heard He lived on the prairie, and that makes me feel better,
fur if He ever lived among the mountains an' on the prairies He'll know
our rough ways an' not be hard on us. I don't think thur wus any fine
churches an' fine clothes on the prairie when He wus livin'. If thur
wus no prairie an' no mountains in heaven, an' all the folks talked
fine language, I couldn't feel at home. I'd be like a stranger, an'
I'd want to go where I could see the buffalo an' talk some Indian once
in a while.'
"'He wus a good man,' ses Jack, 'an' He wouldn't be unreasonable, an'
if we didn't talk fine here He wouldn't expec' us to talk fine yonder.
I don't understan' much about it, but mother told me He wus a
gentleman; not a rich, proud fellow who'd pass ye by, but a man who
treated all alike. He could tell a rogue in fine clothes an' a
gentleman if he wus poor.'
"'I wonder, Jack, how I'll call on Him when I get yonder. Ye see, I've
never been in company, an' I suppose a great many big folk will be
crowdin' in the door, an' they'll be wantin' to keep me back. Will ye
lift yer hat an' say, "Good day, sir," or will ye wait till He speaks
to ye? I wish, Jack, ye'd go to the mission and ask the Sky Pilot that
lives there; mebbe he can tell ye what to say. Mebbe he has books
that'll tell ye, an' it's not the best thing to wait fur yer ticket
till the last minute.'
"Before Bill could say any more Jack hobbled off, got on his horse, and
rode fifteen miles to the mission house.
"The missionary wus at home, an' Jack wur surprised to see him wearin'
a buckskin just like the trappers, an' he'd ben cuttin' out rails fur
his fences an' had a axe in his hand. He greeted Jack civil, an' asked
him what he could do for him. Jack just told him about my Bill, an'
how he wanted to know what he wur to do.
"'Can ye giv' a poor fellow directions what to do after he's passed in
his checks, a kind o' passport like, to cheat the old fellow when he
would be bettin' on the game. Ye see, my pardner, Bill, that's nearly
finished his game, an' you bet he's a good un, but he kind o' thinks
he'd like to get posted afore he starts on the trip. Ye can mebbe giv'
us a prayer or a few words that we wouldn't be strangers. We might
fine it hard to get an interpreter. Bill is pretty good at the Indian,
an' he cud giv' them some Sioux or Cree, but the man at the door
wouldn't understand. I'll pay ye for yer advice, fur he saved me, an'
I hate to see him go; but I'll giv' him a good send-off an' a big
funeral.'
"Stranger, the missionary came right off to my Bill, an' Jack, he wur
proud to have the Sky Pilot ridin' beside him, an' when they come into
the Fort the men looked at the stranger goin' to Bill's shanty, an'
they ses, 'He's a rustler, that, an' don't ye forget it. Ye bet yer
life he'll see Bill through. He'll treat him on the square!'
"Bill's comrades wur sittin' round his bed talkin' when the prophet in
buckskin, fur that wus what they called the missionary right there,
come in.
"'Good day, gentlemen,' ses he, an' takes off his hat, an' then sits
down by Bill an' talks to him a bit to get a wee bit acquainted. He
ses:
"'Wall, friend, what can I do fur you?'
"'D'ye think a chap'll lose the trail to heaven, that's never ridden
over it afore?'
"'No, he'll get there all right if he follows the directions!' ses he.
"'An' ye can giv' them to me, I reckon,' ses Bill.
"'Yes; I haven't bin there, but the Chief has, an' He said afore He
went off on His last trip that He would mark the trail so that His men
wouldn't get lost.'
"'Ye can tell me the marks He left. Is it a heap o' stones, or a tree
blazed, or a fire burnin', so as I can see the smoke?'
"'I don't know what the marks are,' says the Sky Pilot; 'but, ye see,
His ways are square, an' I know what He says is true. There's none o'
the scouts ever come back to tell us. We are all tender-feet on that
trail.'
"'D'ye think they could o' lost it an' got down to the camp o' the old
fellow?'
"'No; but when an old-timer starts on that trail he must like the place
that he doesn't come back, or mebbe there's someone keepin' him there.'
"'I guess he's struck it rich, an' he'll not come back,' says Bill,
'but how am I to know when I don't know the marks?'
"'Wall, the Chief said afore He left on that long ride o' His that He'd
make the way plain so that ye couldn't mistake it, an' He never wus
false. All ye hev' to do is to pledge yerself afore ye start to join
His ranks, an' He'll be there to meet ye, an' He'll take care o' ye
Himself an' there'll be no mistake.'
"'Are ye sure that's so?' says Bill.
"'I'm sure. I hev served the Chief for many a year, an' I tell ye He
wus never false.'
"Bill turned on his bed, an' as he looked at his old comrades, he says,
'Boys, I'm goin' on the long trail. Many a time hev we ridden on the
prairie, but I'm goin' alone this time.'
"The Sky Pilot went down on his knees an' he prayed. It wus a right
touchin' prayer, an' the men couldn't help the tears comin' in their
eyes. Jack looked at Bill, an' says he, 'Bill's sure to pull through.
If anybody can find the long trail, it's Bill.'
"It wus only a little while after that, stranger, that my Bill called
out, 'He's waitin' fur me! Yes, I'm comin'!' an' his head fell back.
My Bill was gone. Stranger, he wus a fine man."
The old man ceased. He had told the sorrow of his life. The stranger
who listened knew no word was needed to express his sympathy, so with
only a kindly grasp of the old trapper's hand he turned to the couch
spread for him, and before many minutes had passed the occupants of the
cabin were in a sound sleep.
The shanty among the hills still stands, and is yet the home of the
grey-haired old-timer. As he sits at his doorway in the evening
watching the shadows lengthen into night, memory often carries him back
to the days when "my Bill" was the pride of his heart.
THE SPIRIT GUIDE.
There was a gay company assembled in the lodge of Eagle Rib, engaged in
the pleasant pastime of tea-drinking and story-telling. The old chief
had been successful in his late hunting expeditions, and from his sale
of robes to the Indian traders a good supply of provisions had been
brought to his lodge. A special invitation had been given to the
leading members of the camp to attend the feast, and a large number had
assembled to partake of the bounty in store. Every available pot and
pan had been brought into requisition, and around the blazing lodge
fire there stood vessels filled with buffalo meat, berries cooked in
fat, and tea. The invited guests did full justice to the delicacies,
both eating and drinking heartily. The pipe of peace was then passed
around, and comments were freely made upon the conduct of those present
who had been unfortunate in their hunting adventures. The stolid
countenances of the Indians relaxed, and seriousness at times gave
place to laughter loud and prolonged, as one after another related some
story of hunting, love or war. The old men fought anew their battles
of former years, and as the feast proceeded, a spirit of enthusiasm was
begotten which infused itself into the heart of every individual
present.
An interested listener half reclined with his head and shoulders on a
native reed pillow; but his face bore a stern expression, showing no
sign of participation in the others' merriment, as if the perils and
victories of his fellows were nothing to him. Although apparently
heedless of his surroundings, yet he was none the less a partaker of
their pleasure. This taciturn individual was Medicine Runner, a famous
chief of the Blackfoot Indians. Tall, stern and dignified, he
commanded the respect of all, and was honored with the position of war
chief of the tribe. Though his hair was turning grey, there were no
signs of mental or physical decay. When he addressed his people on any
subject every tongue was silent, all ears were opened to catch the
words of the illustrious chief. He was a true orator, sparing in
words, but every sentence was full of meaning; and though his language
was couched in nature's garb, not even the Indian trader could mistake
its full import. Many times he had led his warriors to victory when
contending with Cree, Crow or Sioux Indians. They loved and honored
him, while his enemies hated the name he bore. He lay for some time
thus, a silent spectator of the joys of his companions. Then his eyes
brightened, and he raised himself from his reclining position as if
about to speak. The host and his guests knew at once the meaning of
the change, and waited in respectful silence, anxious to hear what the
chief had to say.
"Twenty-five winters have passed away," said he, "since a party of
Sioux warriors entered our camp and stole a large number of horses. I
was young and active then, and without any loss of time I called my
warriors together that we might consult as to what was best to be done.
After much deliberation at last I told them that I had prayed about the
matter and felt it to be my duty to follow our enemies, taking another
chief with me, while the warriors who remained in the camp were to be
prepared for any sudden attack from the tribes who might be in our
vicinity. I chose Three Bulls, who was at that time called Medicine
Runner, to go with me on the expedition. We went out to the rock on
the hill and made sacrifices and prayers. I prayed to my god for
guidance, protection, and victory, and as I lay in my lodge at night,
the god came to me in a vision, and told me to go, assuring me of an
answer to my prayers. We had a war dance and feast, painted our bodies
and our horses with war paint, and then set out on our journey south.
We had gone but a little way when I got off my horse and prayed again.
I vowed that if successful and I was permitted to return I should
sacrifice myself at the next sun dance.
"Four days we rode and saw not any signs of our foes, but as evening
drew near on the fifth day we were pacing slowly on the plains when we
came to the brow of a hill, and there right at our feet was a camp of
Sioux Indians, numbering three hundred lodges. Our hearts beat fast
when we saw so many lodges congregated together, and my companion
expressed his determination to return that night, as it was impossible
to do anything against such a strong foe. I remembered my prayers and
my vow, and resolved to remain, though at the same time urging my
companion to go home and to take my horse with him. He begged me not
to throw away my life, but to accompany him and to bring back with us a
large number of our warriors to help in slaying all the Sioux Indians.
I told him I dare not consent, as my guardian spirit was driving me
onward and I felt sure of victory, though alone.
"Three Bulls bade me a sad farewell, and taking my horse with him he
rode away quickly in the direction of our camp.
"Again I prayed and resolved upon action. It was a dark night, and
thus highly favored I waited until the middle of the night, that all
the people might be asleep, watching meanwhile as closely as I could
and studying the lodges in the camp. The time had come. I descended
and entered the camp stealthily and unseen. Outside of a chief's lodge
there was fastened a fine horse, a good buffalo runner, and this lodge
I resolved to enter, examining my gun and knife to see that they were
all right. I then peered into the lodge and saw the chief and his
family quietly sleeping. Drawing the door gently back I went inside.
A few dying embers lay upon the fire, and beside it stood a pot of
meat. Feeling hungry I soon disposed of some of the food. I then took
off one of my moccasins and left it that they might know an enemy had
been there. Leaving the lodge as quietly as I entered, it was only the
work of a minute to cut the horse loose, jump on his back and depart.
Conscious of having gained the victory, and feeling safe on the back of
such a fine animal, I could not refrain from uttering the war-whoop as
I was leaving the camp. The greatest excitement prevailed when they
heard it, and I knew that I would soon be pursued. They had heard the
sound of the horse's hoofs, for presently several Sioux were on my
track, yelling and beating their horses to increase their speed. I had
nothing to fear, for a good horse and a good start were in my favor.
Most of my pursuers gave up the chase, and finally I could hear
distinctly the sounds of the hoofs of but two horses following. Right
ahead in the darkness I could hear the sound of rushing waters. I
hastened on. Plunging into the foaming waters I crossed the stream
safely and turned suddenly around as I reached the bank. Springing
from my horse I waited for my pursuers, and as they approached levelled
my gun and shot the leader. Before the other could escape by advance
or retreat I brought him to the ground with another bullet. Victory
was assuredly mine, for now two scalps were fastened to my belt, and I
rejoiced that full compensation had been made for the depredations of
our enemies."
[Illustration: "As they approached I levelled my gun and shot the
leader."]
"Homeward I sped, resting occasionally to give my horse time to recover
his breath and refresh himself a little. When I reached our camp I
heard the women wailing for me as one dead, for they had given up all
hopes of my safety, but when the people saw my approach and the scalps
by my side their sorrow was changed to songs of rejoicing. A great
feast and scalp dance were held. Three Bulls made a long speech
exalting my heroism, and ended by giving me his name of Medicine
Runner, which he then bore, and which I have since borne until this
day."
The chief had scarcely finished his story when a young man entered
named Running Wolf. He was tall, slim, and of noble aspect, showing
his relationship to the bravest of the tribe. He had a careworn
appearance and was evidently suffering keenly from physical exhaustion;
still a faint smile played upon his features and his eyes glistened
with unusual brightness. Five days previous, this young man had gone
from his lodge on an errand of some importance, as was evident by the
determination which was expressed in the firmly compressed lips and the
look of daring in his eye. For some time he had been very serious, and
it had been remarked by some of the aged people that he seemed to be
holding communion with the spirits. He withdrew within himself, saying
little but thinking much, and the young man who formerly had been so
full of merriment and delighted in all the amusements of the camp, had
become suddenly transformed into a sedate man, almost prophetic in his
looks. Without informing anyone of his intentions he had departed from
his lodge, going rapidly toward the hills, apparently hoping to meet
someone or determined to do some work. He walked quickly, shunning the
presence of his companions, heeding not the riders who were driving
herds of horses, and caring not for the scenes which always delighted
him.
Old and young who saw him travelling at such a rapid pace across the
prairie kept out of his way, for it was evident to their eyes that a
supernatural power was guiding him. For many hours he travelled
without halting, his eyes fastened on the ground, but with a holy
purpose in his heart. Into one of the deep ravines he entered, and far
into its recesses he travelled, where seldom penetrated the eyes of
man, haunted as the Indians believed it to be by spirits of the dead,
who possessed the power of inflicting injury upon the living.
It was in this community of spirits that Running Wolf found the resort
which his soul longed for, its gloomy shades, rugged, tall rocks and
scanty vegetation agreeing with the state of his soul. It was the home
of the buzzard, coyote and eagle. Loveliness there was none, and as a
resting place for man, no spot on earth could have been found more
uninviting. This was the place, however, which seemed pleasing to the
spirit of the young man, and for a few moments, although exhausted and
sad, a gleam of satisfaction shone from his countenance. He fell upon
his face kissing the ground, and in accents of tenderness cried, "My
mother!" He lay upon the sod for a long time, fatigued with his
journey and the physical exhaustion arising from nervous excitement,
but at length arose, gathered his blanket upon his left arm, and began
pacing to and fro, praying earnestly to the Great Sun for the
revelation of himself.
Alone upon the hills and in the deep recesses of the ravines he
wandered, praying and fasting, allowing nothing to pass his lips but a
little water. Earnest, solemn and prolonged was his communion with the
Great Power which overshadowed him, and the more keenly he felt this
invisible presence the more fervently he prayed and longed for the
fulfilment of his vows. Bright were his hopes, for he had implicit
faith in the spiritual influences with which he was surrounded.
For days and nights the young man wandered alone, his voice heard by
none save the spirits, the birds and the animals. At last he fell to
the ground worn out with his devotions, and as he lay in a
half-conscious state pleasant dreams flitted through his brain. The
air was filled with happy voices. Angel attendants came to minister to
him. Earth was no longer a weary place to live in, but the songs of
joyous hearts came to him in all their sweetness, more pleasing than he
had ever heard, and as he sang in unison with them, his heart was
filled with joy. How long this continued he never knew, but in the
midst of it all there came a voice assuring him of peace, the
acceptance of his vows and prayers, and the gift of a Guide and
spiritual Friend. The blessed vision rested on his soul as a rich
benediction; and in this pleasant frame of mind he awoke. As he raised
himself there came running toward him a small ground squirrel. This he
seized instantly, and as he held the timid animal in his hand he
remembered that this was the visitor named in his vision which would
come to him, and within whose body would dwell the Spirit which was
given him as a guide through life. As he held it, gently he drew it
toward his bosom, and there nestling with fear it suddenly ceased
breathing. His visitor was dead!
His heart was moved with sorrow; but he learned by the keen spiritual
perception which had been given him that the Spirit Guide needed not a
living agent wherein to dwell, for He could give animation if that were
required.
Quietly and with reverence he laid the little thing upon the ground;
tears filled his eyes. He prayed anew for guidance and strength, and
as he prayed he took his knife and removed the skin of his little
visitor and reverently preserved it.
A gentle voice whispered to him that the vision was ended. So casting
a few quick glances around, he turned homeward, tired and footsore, but
very happy.
A long journey lay before him, and in his fainting condition he could
walk but feebly, yet so strong was his spirit that it overcame his
physical weakness and enabled him to speed across the plains. New life
had been granted him, and a companion of the spirits was now beside him
wherever he went. As he drew near to the camp the dwellers fled at his
approach. They beheld something supernatural in his manner which made
them afraid. He entered the lodge of Eagle Rib as Medicine Runner
finished his story, and without speaking a word sought his accustomed
couch.
One by one the visitors left, impressed with the fact that some
prophetic power had fallen upon the young man, and they dreaded contact
with spiritual visitants.
These people are often called savages by members of the white race, yet
they have been taught the greatest respect for all forms of religion,
recognizing these forms as methods by which men approach the Supreme
Power, hence their reverential attitude when the young man came into
the lodge. In a few moments all the visitors had gone, and there
remained only Eagle Rib and his family alone with Running Wolf.
He slept many hours, and then awaking fully refreshed, he partook of
food, but said little to anyone. Becoming much reserved, not because
of his superior position or knowledge, but rather because of the
consciousness of this invisible companion, Running Wolf increased in
favor with all the people. Gentle, sober and true, he won the hearts
of the young men and maidens, who of all the natives of the lodges were
most exacting.
A few uneventful years passed by, and the young man stood at the head
of the young warriors of the camp, a recognized leader, well qualified
to direct and destined to become victorious over every foe. His words
were few, but when he spoke his judgment seldom erred, and his decision
always carried away all opposition. Clothed with power and wisdom he
had nothing to fear from any antagonist, and still he seemed unhappy.
A restlessness of spirit appeared suddenly to take possession of him,
compelling him to depart from the peace and happiness of the camp.
One evening, while sitting in the lodge, surrounded by his friends,
without any word of warning or expression of any kind, he arose and
departed, no one daring to follow, and no one asking the cause of his
action.
The sun sank behind the Rocky Mountains, and the prairie was soon
enveloped in darkness, but the young man heeded not the deepening
shadow; he was not afraid. He wandered far from the camp and entered
the forest unnoticed and unpursued. Straight as an arrow he went
onward until he came to the foot of a giant tree, and kneeling upon his
knees, he breathed out a prayer, simple, majestic and brief.
Drawing his knife from its sheath, he began to dig vigorously under the
sod, never resting in his eager search for some hidden prize.
Presently from the depths of the soil he brought forth a tender
rootlet, upon which he gazed with admiration, hugging it closely to his
bosom as a treasure of rare value.
Then, quietly retracing his steps, he soon found rest in the lodge. No
questions were asked, and few indeed were the words spoken, his
reticent manner preventing any undue familiarity.
A few nights passed by and a messenger came to the lodge in deep
sorrow, to inform Running Wolf that the daughter of Mastwena was very
sick. Without manifesting any surprise, Running Wolf arose, went
direct to the lodge of his friend where the sick child lay, and bending
gently over her, he looked into the face of the little one. A gleam of
satisfaction passed over his countenance. She was very sick, but not
beyond hope of recovery.
The medicine drums were brought down and beaten to call to his aid the
spirits which flitted from tree to tree and from stone to stone outside
the lodge. The medicine song was chanted by all the members of the
family, and Running Wolf sang vigorously as he swayed his body to and
fro in an excited manner.
As he sang and prayed he drew from his medicine bag a piece of root,
which he broke, and placing it in a vessel with a small quantity of
oil, stirred it well. As he muttered words of import which acted as a
charm to aid the medicine in performing its desired end, he gave it to
the feverish child with the gentleness of a woman.
As the little one drank the medicine, he again repeated the strange
words which had fallen from his lips, and although misunderstood by the
members of the family, a shudder ran through the company, for they felt
the sacred power which accompanied the casting out of the evil spirit
which had taken possession of the child.
The child lay motionless for a few moments as Running Wolf prayed over
her, and then a sudden change took place, the whole physical frame
being strangely contorted through pain, the agony being almost
unbearable. Heavy drops of sweat stood upon the child's forehead and
rolled off her body, until as the agony increased and the culminating
point seemed to be reached, she uttered a piercing cry, and then fell
back motionless upon her earthen couch.
Deep slumber fell upon her, and she lay asleep for hours as if under
the influence of a gentle opiate, no one daring to arouse her, or
caring to intrude upon the territory of the home of the spirits.
As the sun arose in his splendor behind the hills which lay across the
prairie, the Indian maiden opened her eyes, refreshed with her
slumbers, free from pain and the disease overcome. In a few days she
was running with her companions as strong and merry as she had ever
been.
The fame of Running Wolf was spreading fast and was not confined to his
own tribe, and had he been a man of ordinary ability he would no doubt
have become elated over his success. Keeping his own counsel he still
felt humble, for he depended solely for his success on the
ministrations of the Spirit Guide and the wondrous revelations which
were frequently made to him.
Many uneventful days were passed in the camp, the severe illness of a
friend or a skirmish with some neighboring tribe alone breaking the
monotony.
No counsel was more eagerly sought in the gatherings of the chiefs, and
there was no chief in greater demand as arbitrator in difficulties than
Running Wolf.
He was loved for his wisdom, kindness and unassuming manner. The
children listened to his stories as he sat in his lodge surrounded by
the youth of the camp, who became so docile under his influence that
with a single wave of his hand they quietly departed. Frequently they
gathered around his lodge fire, and when the shadows of evening fell,
they ran homeward to repeat the wonderful stories he had told them.
Many a needless war was averted by his cool judgment and courage.
Late in the fall of the year this wise counsellor stood at his lodge
door, and called aloud for his friends to attend a feast which he had
made. A large company assembled to do honor to their friend. As they
sat around in his spacious lodge, entertained by the conversation of
the most notable men of the tribe, the evening passed away pleasantly.
Running Wolf led off in the conversation late in the evening, and as he
spoke in a tone of gravity, yet with a spirit of deep feeling, every
ear listened and every heart beat in sympathy with the sentiments
expressed. The orator proceeded to relate the history of the tribe,
the story of its conquests, the records of the noble deeds of its great
men, the advent of the white race and the present condition of the
Indians. He depicted the future in dark colors, the gradual decay of
the red men, the diseases and debauchery of the people, the corruption
of the Indian politicians and the utter overthrow of the native
religion. He counselled them to accept of the glory of the coming day
when the red men would mingle with the white race, accepting their
teachings and civilizations and finding therein peace, plenty and
contentment. His voice faltered, and their hearts grew sad as he told
them he would always remain with them to cheer them with his presence
and encourage them by putting wise thoughts into their hearts; and he
would touch the hearts of the white men, so that more tenderly than
ever would they treat their brothers in red.
With downcast countenances they left his lodge and sought repose,
although few of them slept because of the strange visions of the future
his words had awakened in their minds.
Upon the following day a strange rumor spread rapidly over the camp
that Running Wolf had not been seen after his great feast with the
chiefs. Forebodings of dark destiny filled the minds of the people,
and sorrow was depicted on every countenance. Women and children wept,
and the men groaned in spirit, heavy with foreboding fears.
Running Wolf's favorite horse stood at the lodge door, his gun and
military habiliments lay in their accustomed place, but the wise man
was gone. A few footprints were seen leading out towards the prairie
in the direction of the mountains, but after following them a short
distance all traces of them were lost. Far and near they sought him
but found him not.
Then the chiefs recalled the sadness of their hearts when he assured
them he would always abide with them, encouraging their hearts and
subduing their enemies. They now believe that he is true to his
predictions, and that he still presides over them in a higher degree as
chief among the spirits. Yet they cannot help going out every day to
look across the prairie for the return of Running Wolf.
Some day he may return, but not as we look for him. As the guardian
spirit of the tribe he still maintains his ascendancy over the people,
and with greater power than ever he waits upon them in their counsels
and religious feasts, no longer guided by the spirits, but himself a
seer among the gods.
ALAHCASLA.
Namukta, the aged chief, was dying. As he lay on his earthen bed in
the buffalo-skin lodge, friends gathered in and now sat near, talking
in low tones. While the old man's faltering voice rose and anon fell,
in the delirious utterances of a fevered brain, they recounted his
deeds of bravery and recalled his wise counsels.
Namukta was a great chief, a warrior who could tell more thrilling
tales of encounters with the enemies of his tribe than any other among
the lodges, and the young men had listened and had caught from his
oft-repeated words the spirit of the warrior before they went upon the
war-path. He was telling now of by-gone battles in the south, of
victories won and scalp-locks taken from the foe; but his mind wandered
and there was no connection in the talk.
Presently he ceased, and every eye was turned toward his couch. He was
still for a few moments, and the people waited. Then the dying chief
raised himself on his bed and called in clear, peremptory tones,
"Isota! Isota! Isota!"
A young girl, fairer than any of the other maidens in the camp, yet
dressed as one of them, rose from the buffalo-skin where she had been
reclining, and crept nearer to the old chief's side.
"I am here, my father." But the chief made no reply. His ears were
closed to the voice he loved, and the girl sighed as she resumed her
seat.
Again he raised his voice and called aloud. "Isota! Isota! There
they come! Lie still!"
He was fighting over again one of the battles of the past. In broken,
disjointed sentences, bit by bit, Isota and the friends who were with
him in the lodge heard the story told, which, put together, was
something as follows:
"That was a hard time. It was the year of the rabbits. We had gone
away to the east to hunt the deer, and we intended to take some horses
from the Chippewas. Our young men had told us the Chippewas had some
fine horses that they had taken from the white men. It was a long
journey, but it was fine weather, and we had plenty of feed for our
horses. When we reached the forests we saw tracks of the Chippewas.
We kept a sharp lookout for our enemy.
"Early one morning we saw smoke from their camp-fires. We made ready
to attack them; we would rush upon them unawares and defeat them. We
sent out two of our young men, who brought back word that there were
fifty lodges and the men were well armed. We consulted together, for
it was no easy task to fight with so many, but we were ready and in
good trim for fighting. We sent our young men again at night, and when
they got back they reported that there were some fine horses in the
camp, but some of the men were out hunting. We made up our minds to
attack the camp early the next morning.
"There was not much sleep for us that night; we were too near the camp
of our enemy. There were only twenty-five of our warriors, but they
were all good men who had won many battles.
"Long before the sun was up we started for the camp, travelling
quietly, and when we reached the camp we made a dash for the horses and
fired into some of the lodges. The enemy rushed out, the men fighting
and the women and children screaming. Five of the Blackfeet were
killed, but we had ten scalps and thirty horses. As we were leaving
the camp I saw a little pale-face sitting at the door of one of the
lodges crying. I rushed to her quickly, picked her up and placed her
on my saddle. The Chippewas were beaten and we did not care to fight
any more. We had taken the scalps and the horses and the little
pale-face. That was a great fight. I had the best part of it. You
know my little pale-face; I called her Isota."
Isota listened, her head resting on her hand. She remembered being in
the camp of another tribe of Indians, but who they were or where they
came from or dwelt she knew not.
Namukta had ever treated the pale-face as a princess, a child of the
gods, for had not the gods blessed his people ever since she had been
in his lodge? The men had not gone so frequently upon the war-path,
there was not so much sickness or quarrelling in the camps. The
maidens loved her because she was ever ready to help them; she had the
finest skins for her dresses, and bear's claws and elk teeth were used
in plenty to decorate the lovely Isota.
The chiefs consulted her on matters affecting their bands of people,
and wondered at her wisdom. Her gentle manner, her calm dignity and
queenly carriage impressed them with a sense of superiority. They
believed she was possessed of many secrets not known by the
medicine-men, and this added to her influence over the tribe.
Namukta guarded his treasure carefully, and there was nothing too
valuable to be given to his Indian princess. And now Isota had tended
him in his sickness, and even the eldest of his wives had not objected
to this usurpation of her rights.
There was one other who loved the maiden as fondly as Namukta.
Alahcasla had been taken by the Blackfeet during one of their raids
upon some of the numerous tribes of British Columbia, and because
Namukta was the war chief he had dwelt in his lodge. Alahcasla was
tall and handsome, and of an intelligent countenance. He had played
with Isota, grown up with her, and loved her better than all the world
beside. Once when Isota had been attacked by a bear, his trusty rifle
had pierced the brain of the savage animal and saved the girl's life.
[Illustration: "His trusty rifle had pierced the brain of the savage
animal."]
Namukta, after the relation of the story of his capture of Isota, lay
for several days unconscious, but when he drew near the border of the
spirit-land he awoke, conscious though very weak. He summoned all the
minor chiefs to his lodge, and divided his property among his friends.
His favorite horse was given to Isota, and the next in value to
Alahcasla. Then turning to the peace chief he said:
"And now I am going to the sand hills and I leave Isota and Alahcasla
to protect the interests of our people. They cannot be chiefs, but
they are greater than all the chiefs and medicine-men. If you consult
them and follow their counsels you will never be led astray. Give them
one of the best lodges, let them have a portion of all the game you
kill, never go to war without seeking their advice, and you will become
prosperous and happy. Good-bye. I am going. Bury me as an Indian
warrior. I have done."
Namukta died and was buried with all the rites of his people, who
mourned for him many days. His last instructions were obeyed, and
while they followed the counsels of Alahcasla and Isota the tribe was
prosperous.
Twelve months passed and some of the women saw that Isota's cheeks had
lost their color; they talked of it among themselves, but said no word
to Isota. Then one morning when the chiefs went to the lodge of their
leader they found the widows and children of the camp weeping.
Alahcasla and Isota were no longer in the lodge. No one had seen them
since the night before, and the fear in their hearts was that their
enemies had stolen Isota, and because of his love for her Alahcasla had
followed. The tribe had heard of rumors among the Crow Indians and
about the camp-fires of the Gros Ventres, that it would be a good thing
if they could secure Isota, the white leader, that prosperity might
come to their lodges as it had to Namukta, the old chief, and his
people.
The chiefs held a consultation, and it was decided that runners should
be sent out to the territories of the hostile Indians, and learn by
stealth the fate of their princess.
Far and wide they went, but could find no trace of Isota. The people
grieved, many of the children sickened and died, the buffalo
disappeared and the warriors sat around in the lodges idle and
dispirited.
Isota had departed and her people were to know her no more.
* * * * *
"You bet yer life she's a beauty, an' don't ye forget it. She's no
Injun, that. She's got queer tastes to be the wife o' an Injun, but
he's a smart un, none o' yer common prairie Injuns."
Such at all events was Dutch Fred's opinion. A day or two before two
travellers, an Indian and a young woman of fair complexion, had arrived
at the ranch and been treated with more than the usual hospitality by
the head man. They had not been very communicative, and after resting
for two days had ridden away north in the direction of the line of
white settlements. This and the superior appearance of the pair had
excited a good deal of curiosity, and called forth the above expression
of opinion.
Dutch Fred was right. Isota and Alahcasla were no common Indians.
Namukta's story of how Isota had been brought to his lodge had sunk
into the girl's heart, and as Alahcasla loved her better than himself,
he was helping her to solve the mystery, although he knew that every
day which brought her nearer to her own people took her farther from
him and his love.
They had travelled many weary miles before they reached the Thunder Bay
district. When Isota stood upon the shore of the great lake some
memory was stirred within her, and a word long forgotten seemed to leap
once more into life.
She knew that she had before stood beside a great sheet of water like
this. Where was it? She could not tell. In vain she sought to recall
something more definite than the vague sense of having seen broad
sparkling waters such as this. She could not, but the train was set
alight and here a word was to supply the needed clue--Huron!
They stayed that night with a band of Chippewa Indians who were camped
on the shores, and as Isota lay in the wigwam weary and sad she heard
the story of an old chief whom his people loved; how he had grieved for
and sought a pale-faced child that had been stolen. She had been
entrusted to his keeping by the chief of another band, and while he was
absent on a hunting expedition she had been carried away by a marauding
band of Blackfeet.
Isota could not understand at first, but a long illness and the care
bestowed upon her by the wife of the Chippewa chief gave her time to
learn their language. It seemed to come back to her as a forgotten
tongue.
When the sickness left her, Alahcasla, who had waited and watched
beside her faithfully, brought the horses to the lodge door, and
together they set out once more to reach the Huron country.
After many days of weary travel the shining waters of the lake lay
before them. They had passed few settlements, but now the country was
more cleared, and as the tall Indian and the beautiful Isota entered
the long, straggling street of the pioneer towns they attracted
considerable attention. Unused to the prying eyes and rude stare of
ill-bred curiosity, Isota held herself more erect and Alahcasla drew
closer to her side. During their stay in one of these frontier towns
Isota's horse had sickened and died, and Alahcasla had put the girl
upon his and walked by her side.
They were often faint for food and from weariness; they were not
familiar with the ways of the white people, and did not know that they
must ask for what they needed. It was not the Indian custom to ask for
the hospitality that it was considered a privilege to be allowed to
offer to the stranger within their lodges.
But the talk of the people in the streets had revived another link in
the chain of Isota's memory of the past.
She heard the children call "Mother!" and immediately she knew the word
had once been familiar to her lips. With these words "Huron" and
"Mother" as talismans, the pair went on their way.
* * * * *
In one of the larger towns on the shore of Lake Huron, a crowd had
gathered around two figures whose appearance was evidently causing
considerable interest. Travel-stained, their once handsome dress of
finely tanned and handsomely embroidered deerskin with beaded ornaments
worn and discolored, Alahcasla stood, resentment in his eye and
indignation expressed in every line of his tall, commanding figure,
sternly eyeing the gaping crowd, while Isota leaned against the wall of
the house, her whole attitude telling of weariness and despair. Her
lips were parched and dry, yet they still could utter the words,
"Huron," "Mother!"
Was there no one to respond; none to answer her?
Presently a woman better dressed than the majority among the crowd drew
near, and with the kindliness of a heart long softened by sorrow, and
one which found relief only in thought for others, she stayed to ask
the cause of the gathering there.
"Poor things," she said, as the crowd parted and her eyes fell on the
strange group; "they are surely strangers here, and their proud bearing
in such surroundings would lead one to suppose they are no common
people."
Isota looked into the kind grey eyes, and though despair of ever being
understood had filled her heart, she uttered once again the words,
"Huron," "Mother!"
A woman's sympathy and love for another had led her to stay her steps
and ask the cause of the gathering crowd, and now an answering echo in
her heart, a sorrow long borne, a wound made and never healed, replied.
Isota and Alahcasla were taken home, the one to her mother's arms, the
other to seal with his death the sacrifice of his love.
The long strain, the hardships of the journey from which he had
shielded Isota, and the confinement of living in a house and amid
crowded streets where his free spirit could not breathe, was more than
the child of the mountains and plain could bear.
Isota tended him faithfully and closed his eyes in death. Loving hands
laid him to rest in the beautiful cemetery just outside the town. A
simple stone was set up, bearing the names "Alahcasla and Isota," thus
linking the living with the dead, and keeping alive the memory of the
one who had sacrificed his own happiness that the woman he loved might
be restored to her people.
THE HIDDEN TREASURE.
Snow had fallen thick and fast during the night, and as we looked out
over the prairie and saw it still being driven in long rolling drifts
by the strong western wind, we shuddered and turned again gratefully to
the fire within the house.
The cold was so intense on that winter morning that we were slow in
getting out to our daily duties, a dilatoriness which we shared with
our fellow-citizens of the frontier town. When late during the day we
strolled down the street, we were struck by a change in the appearance
of what had been one of the dreariest, most desolate and dilapidated
houses in the place. The house had been vacant for some time, but
there was on the morning of which we speak unmistakable evidence of
life within its roughly built walls.
In the early spring three young men had paid our town a visit. They
did not remain long; apparently they were not favorably impressed with
its appearance or with the manner of its citizens. Our people were
certainly not of a style to attract, nor did they on their part care
for the presence of strangers. This peculiarity probably arose from
the fact that respectable strangers seldom found their way there, and
the townsmen had lost all desire to cultivate the acquaintance of any
but those who belonged to the community. Being, as we have said, a
frontier town, situated not far from the international boundary line,
many fugitives from justice had sought refuge among us, and the
presence of such an element was not conducive to the growth of the
town, either socially or commercially. The shanties which these rough
characters had made their homes were, during the long winter nights,
veritable pandemoniums, and the looks and behavior of their occupants
were sufficient to deter any honest young man from taking up residence
among us. Many of the houses, like that we have described, had fallen
into a dilapidated condition; log buildings were falling to pieces,
while in many of them factory cotton stretched over the sashes was the
substitute for glass long since broken, or possibly never inserted.
The roadways, too, were in a wretched condition, even on the one street
the town could boast of.
It was little wonder, therefore, that the young men referred to had
made so short a stay in the town. Following the river, and choosing a
beautiful site on its banks farther north, they had pitched their
buffalo-skin lodge, and there they had lived for the months preceding
our story, cutting cord-wood, fishing and shooting.
We had seen so little of these men that we did not at first connect
them with the altered appearance of the old shanty on this bitter
winter morning. In a town like ours, the inhabitants of which were
composed of such a heterogeneous mixture of men and manners, we did not
ask many questions of who or what a man was, unless there appeared to
be some good cause for such inquiries. It was only after we recognized
in two of the young men the strangers who had passed through the town
in the early spring, that the surmise occurred to us that the third
might be the inmate of the old house.
We learned that the poor fellow had been ill for some time, and as he
grew worse and the weather more severe, his companions had decided to
bring him into the town, and see if any better help could not be
procured for him than they could give in their camp.
The hearts of the rough and even the most wicked men in the West beat
tenderly for the helpless, and it is well known that many of the most
hardened among them will give their last cent, aye, even their last
crust, to aid such among them as are rendered helpless by accident,
misfortune or disease. This characteristic trait of the old-timer was
known to these strangers, and their confidence in the manifestation of
sympathy for their friend was not misplaced. They had brought the sick
man into town upon a rudely-made sled, taking the precaution to wrap
him warmly in buffalo robe and blanket, that he might be protected from
the cold. The journey over the smooth snow had been safely
accomplished, but the bed they found in the rough shanty was of the
barest description. They had, however, made the best they could of it.
A curtain over the windows, the floor well swept, and the simple
furniture, consisting of the merest necessaries, gave it at least a
habitable appearance. Here his friends left him.
Learning the poor man was alone, we went to see him. At first,
although it was evident he was anxious for sympathy and help, he
regarded us with suspicion. The water left by his bedside was frozen
in the cup, the fire had gone out, and the cold wind seemed to find its
way through every crack and crevice in the rude log walls. The man was
pale and emaciated, and, when spoken to, his replies were interrupted
by the difficulty of breathing and pain of body.
"You have been sick for some time?" we asked.
"Yes--some--weeks."
"Where is your home?'
"In--Oregon."
"Are your parents living?"
"Yes."
"Have you any money?" A quick glance of suspicion was the only reply
to this last question. We hastened to explain that we had no desire
for his money, and our question was prompted only by a wish to help him.
"We have come to do what we can for you, and if you have no money, we
can get some and use it for you, and see that you want for nothing."
"I guess--I'm not--down--to bed-rock--yet," was the muttered reply.
"Will you tell us your name?" we asked.
"Jerry--Lindley."
We needed no deep knowledge of the man to recognize that this was not
his true name. We were not unprepared for it. Many of the old-timers
had several, and it was not until we became intimate with them that we
learned their true names.
We went again many times to see Jerry, and always found him alone. It
seemed strange that his companions should desert him, and we also
noticed that the old-timers avoided his shanty. They were not as ready
to afford him the aid usually given to the lonely and helpless, whose
lot it was to be among them. Jerry was a castaway--ostracized by
whiskey-traders and gamblers. Why or wherefore we failed to learn.
The weather grew colder, the sick man every day worse, and at last it
became absolutely necessary to remove him to some warmer shelter than
the old shanty. There was in the town an old man who was known by the
name of Kamusi, a genuine specimen of the "old-timer." He was rough
and ready in language and manners, drank freely and gambled and
grumbled continually, yet in all the country there was not a more
tender-hearted man. He had an Indian wife and several half-breed
children, whom he loved intensely and swore at incessantly. He led a
careless, easy-going and, in some respects, a wild life, yet he was the
most liberal giver to the Indian school and mission church. The log
building, consisting of the kitchen, where Ling, the Chinaman, cooked,
a small dining-room, a billiard and bar-room, which represented the
hotel in the town, was owned and kept by Kamusi. This rough old man
offered to take Jerry in and care for him free of expense.
We carried the sick man on a blanket, and laid him on an old mattress
in the corner of the billiard-room. There, amid the strange
surroundings of men and women, Indians, Mounted Police, half-breeds,
traders, cowboys, and rough settlers, the sick man lay slowly dying.
We went to see him frequently, and endeavored to lead his thoughts
upward to higher things. The men at the billiard table, as we talked,
would often lower their voices or play more quietly in deference to our
presence, or it might be to the near approach of the deepening shadow
of the death-angel's wings; and eager as they were over the games or
the sums at stake, they gave many a thought to the dying man so near to
them.
We had succeeded in getting a doctor to look at him, but he could do no
more than repeat our own opinion that the man had not long to live. As
we tried to tell him of the way of peace, and prayed, our hands resting
on the side of the billiard table, the gamesters ceased, doffed their
hats, and let their cues rest on the floor. Such a prayer-meeting, in
such a place and with such a congregation, could not but leave abiding
memories in many hearts, and, we trust, led some to better living.
A few days before his death one of Jerry's old comrades returned, and
by his devoted attention and continuous watch over the dying man
aroused the suspicions of some of the men who frequented the
billiard-room. Rumors were soon floating about that Jerry was known to
have possessed several hundred dollars. No one knew where it was
hidden, and the general opinion was that Tom Hastings was after no good.
One night just before Jerry died, and after a draught had been given
him to ease the pain he was suffering, he seemed anxious to communicate
some intelligence. Unable to speak, he traced, with feeble, trembling
fingers, some straggling characters on the wall against which he lay.
We could not decipher their meaning, but the men standing near seemed
to understand. Presently two of them mounted their horses and rode out
of the town.
Jerry died the next day, and we buried him on the prairie. No one, not
even his two "pals," knew or could tell where Jerry came from. We made
some inquiries, but failed to find any of his relatives or obtain
information of where his parents lived. We knew no more about him than
what he had told us himself in answer to our first questions.
Some days after his companion's death, Tom Hastings went south with an
ox-train. Before he left he paid all who had incurred any expense in
befriending the sick man. Pete Rowley, the third of the trio, remained
in the country and seemed to prosper for a time. He never worked, but
was always well dressed and appeared to have all the money he required.
After hovering about the billiard tables for several months he
disappeared. No one cared to ask where he had gone.
What the writing on the wall betrayed, who had found the treasure whose
hiding-place Jerry's trembling hand had described, we never knew; but
we often thought that if wrong had been done by any or either of his
friends, a day of retribution would surely come to the one who had
acquired it, and the mystery surrounding it would then be fully
revealed.
THE WHITE MAN'S BRIDE.
The Blood Indian camp was pitched on one of the bottoms of the Kootenay
River, and with its two hundred or more lodges formed a picturesque
group, the painted buffalo-skins of the lodges and the gay attire of
the numerous Indians who rode in and out among them and on the
surrounding prairie, making a brilliant and attractive scene.
There was unusual excitement in the camp on the evening on which our
story opens. This excitement was most noticeable among the female
portion of it, and was caused by the arrival of Major Brown, an
Englishman, and a fine specimen of that educated class of his
countrymen who, being possessed of private means, are able to indulge
their desire of change and adventure. White men had visited the camp
before; some had even made their homes for a few months among the
tribe, but never at any time had so much interest and curiosity been
excited, or so many questioning glances been exchanged between the
women as on the arrival of this particular Englishman.
Major Brown's personal appearance was doubtless a sufficient reason for
the unwonted stir among the women, especially in the lodges where the
younger ones dwelt. He certainly was a handsome man, and, in conscious
indifference to its effect, bore himself in a dignified manner among
the people. Belonging to an old family of noble lineage, his youth had
been spent in one of the best public schools; two years of hard work at
Oxford had followed, and the foundation of a good education laid.
Unable, owing to a lack of fortune, to maintain the position his birth
and education had entitled him to in the Old World, he determined at
the close of the two years' residence in the University to seek a home
where he might in a short time earn sufficient to enable him to start a
good business in England, and eventually become one of her merchant
princes. His friends tried to dissuade him from carrying out this
plan, but without success. He had heard of the Indians, had read much
of the sport to be had, of the freedom of the life in the north-western
part of Canada, and the conditions of existence appeared so fascinating
to him, so attractive in comparison with the formality and
conventionality of social life at home, that he could not be induced to
give up a prospect of pleasant adventure for the present and possible
prosperity for the future to live a narrow life hampered by want of
means at home. Therefore bidding his friends farewell, he set out for
the New World, resolved to make a stay of some years in the far West.
He arrived in the country at the time when a great gathering of the
tribes--Crees, Stoneys, Blackfeet, Piegans, Bloods and Sarcees--was
assembled at the Blackfoot Crossing.
The tribes had been invited to meet the representatives of the
Government at Blackfoot Crossing. Having implicit confidence in the
Great Mother, the Queen, they made their way to the place of meeting.
There were assembled nearly three thousand belonging to the different
tribes when Major Brown arrived. He was much impressed with the
people, and listened in amazement to the oratory of Crowfoot, Red Crow
and Bear's-paw, notable chiefs of the Blackfoot, Blood and Cree tribes.
The Government Commissioners addressed the people in the name of the
Queen, urging them to make a treaty surrendering their lands to her for
the benefit of her subjects, and assuring them that she would
compensate them amply for their loyalty.
It seemed a difficult matter for the Indians to give up the lands
whereon they had dwelt so long, and to allow the white man to come in
and take possession, but they knew that every promise which had
hitherto been made to them in the Queen's name had been faithfully
fulfilled, and that the advice given them was for their good.
The great chief of the Blackfeet, Crowfoot, arose, and addressing the
Commissioners in the presence of the large assemblage, said, in the
impressive manner of which he was a master:
"While I speak, be kind and patient. I have to speak to my people, who
are numerous, and who rely upon me to follow that course which in the
future will tend to their good. The plains are large and wide. We are
the children of the plains. It is our home, and the buffalo has always
been our food. I hope you look upon the Bloods, Blackfeet and Sarcees
as your children now, and that you will be indulgent and charitable to
them. They all expect me to speak now for them, and I trust that the
Great Spirit will put it into their breasts--into the minds of the men,
women and children and their future generations--to be a good people.
"The advice given me and my people has proved to be very good. If the
police had not come to this country, where would we all be now? Bad
men and whiskey men were killing us so fast that very few, indeed, of
us would have been left to-day. The police have protected us as the
feathers of the bird protect it from the frosts of winter. I wish them
good, and trust that all our hearts will increase in goodness from this
time forward. I am satisfied; I will sign the treaty."
Several others spoke, but they for the most part repeated what Crowfoot
had said. At last the terms of the treaty being fully explained and
understood, the names of the chiefs were written in the native
language, and the men signed it with their marks or totems.
Food was given the people, and the chiefs accepted the officers'
uniforms and medals which were given in commemoration of the event.
After being informed that they would receive their money payments
regularly every year, the vast assembly dispersed.
Major Brown was busy among the people, and through the aid of one of
the interpreters he made many friends among the red men.
A large detachment of Mounted Police travelled southward until they
came to the prairie village on the banks of the Old Man's River, where
they had erected their barracks of logs and mud. The Major accompanied
them, and was not long in getting a position as clerk in one of the
trading establishments in the primitive-looking town, where by his
manly bearing and genial disposition he very soon made friends among
the white people and the red men.
After breaking up their camp the Indians started southward on a buffalo
hunt, and few of them were again seen until about the time when they
returned for the annual treaty payment. They met on the banks of the
Kootenay River, pitched their camp and then rode into the prairie
village to receive their annuities.
Several thousands of dollars were paid, for each received five dollars
per annum--men, women and children--the chiefs receiving ten dollars
and the head chief twenty-five dollars.
As soon as the payments were over Major Brown set out with three men
and a large supply of goods for the Indian camp, and it was upon his
arrival that the women were struck with the handsome appearance of the
tall Englishman.
A large tent was pitched, and the people gathered in large numbers to
feast their eyes, like little children, upon the great display.
Blankets, beads, tea, tobacco, fancy pipes, shirts, belts, guns and
various kinds of cloth in fancy colors attracted young and old.
The presence of the Mounted Police in the country had made it possible
for this handful of men to expose their goods in this loose fashion
among the people. In the days previous to the advent of this force of
red-coats the trading was done in a very different fashion. Formerly
the traders built a log fort, which they fortified with a high
stockade. A few Indians were allowed to enter for the purpose of
trading, and while they stood at the counter they were guarded by men
who had rifles, ready to shoot them down if they showed any intention
of stealing, or acted in a spirit of enmity. Brawls were frequent
under such conditions, as some of the traders were unscrupulous, and
when under the influence of liquor took advantage of the natives.
The Major had picked up some of the common words among the people, and
was able to make himself understood. A brisk trade was done in the
camp for several days. The Indians were paid in one-dollar bills, as
they did not understand bills of a larger denomination.
Five women were seated in a lodge conversing while the men were
visiting their friends or buying goods at the trading tent.
One of them spoke up saying, "Have you seen the tall man?" and another
said, "Yes; have you seen the white chief?" "He is a handsome man!"
"He has a good temper!" "He does not get angry!" "He is always
smiling!"
With expressions such as these, mingled with a gentle titter, the women
talked about the man who was in charge of the tent.
"Has he a wife?"
"No! he has not any," replied one of the women. "I was at his lodge
and I did not see any woman there, and he has not another tent in the
camp."
"He is like all other white men; he does not care for an Indian woman,"
ejaculated another.
"No! he is not like others; he is a far better looking man, and he
would not treat an Indian woman like them. He has too good a heart."
"I would not trust him. He is like all the others. They are all
alike. My chief says they are all the same. They look very pleasant,
but they have the heart of a snake."
In the lodge sat a young woman who took no part in the conversation,
and yet listened intently to the words of the others. She was an
interested listener, but with the quiet demeanor of an Indian her
countenance was unmoved while they were speaking. She was a comely
maiden of about fifteen or sixteen years, whom her father loved so much
that he would not give her to any of the men in the camp; thus she had
remained unmarried longer than was generally the case. She was modest
and beautiful, dressed neatly and worked hard. She, too, had seen the
white chief, as they called Major Brown, for she had accompanied her
father several times to trade. He had even spoken to her, and she had
replied in her own quiet way to his questions when her father signified
his desire for her to speak. It was not, therefore, an uninteresting
conversation to her, although she refrained from discussing his
personal appearance or character.
"Come, Napiake, what do you think of the white chief?" asked one of the
women.
"I don't think anything about him," she replied, in her modest way.
"Oh, yes, you do," replied one of the group. "You do not go to the
trading tent with your father every day for nothing."
She was silent, however, upon this subject, and although the women
tried to draw her out by their questions they failed. It could not be
doubted, however, from the expression of her eye, that she had
experienced some emotion when the subject was touched upon, but from
her manner she seemed to care little about the matter. This may have
arisen from her womanly nature. At any rate she remained quiet while
the women talked on upon a topic so pleasing to them.
After the busy time was over, the white men determined to remain two or
three days longer, and during this period Major Brown was a frequent
visitor at the old man's lodge. He seldom came without bringing some
tobacco or other present to the chief, and although he did not
understand much of the native language, he listened respectfully while
the chief would relate in his own animated style the thrilling tales of
his early days.
The Major was able to follow him to some extent in his stories, and at
any rate he seemed delighted with what the old man said, which pleased
his host very much. Napiake sat in the lodge an interested listener.
The tent at last was cleared of all the goods and placed on the large
wagon, and in a few hours they would take their departure for town.
Major Brown bought a fine horse and made a present of it to the chief,
with a gun and some provisions. He then turned to the young woman and
simply said, "Napiake." The father nodded his head, spoke a few words
to her in the Blackfoot tongue, and the girl arose, dressed herself and
followed Major Brown.
The women peered from the doors of their lodges, but Napiake cared not,
for well she knew that some of them would be jealous and others
delighted that she was the wife of the white chief. Unceremonious it
might seem to the civilized, but Napiake had long expected that some
day she would have to go forth at the bidding of her father to be the
wife of some Indian who would take her father's fancy, or reward him
well, so that his love would be outweighed. The time had come, and she
had got better than an Indian chief for her husband, and the maiden was
delighted beyond measure. She had heard that the white men had only
one wife each, and that they were kind to them, so felt that she was
elevated above the Indian maidens in thus becoming the sole wife of one
man. Unregretfully she left her father's lodge, for she was going not
more than a day's journey distant, so that she could see her kin often;
besides she had remained at home full two years longer than the maidens
of her camp, and she felt grateful to her father for his love.
Major Brown was a happy man as this beautiful Indian woman of tender
years followed him at a close distance. He was following the custom of
the white men in the country in taking an Indian woman for his wife.
He placed her upon the wagon and along with the men she went to town.
She found a home for two weeks with the Indian wife of one of the white
men in town, and during this time the Major built a small log-house,
neat and comfortable, and furnished it well. Napiake was pleased to
have a house of her own, and she set to work to make it as attractive
as she could for her husband. As husband and wife they were happy and
contented. He had a good situation, was steady and industrious, and
she was tidy, hard working, and faithful.
A babe was born to them and their cup of happiness seemed full. He was
the welcome heir of the log mansion, the father's pride and the
mother's joy. At night when the heavy day's work was done, the Major
would dandle the child on his knee, and sing and coo to him. He was
happy, and nothing could induce him to leave his home in the evenings.
The babe resembled his father, a fact of which both parents were proud.
The child was only a few months old when Major Brown received
instructions to proceed to Pincher Creek, nearly forty miles distant,
with a supply of goods to trade with a camp of Indians located there.
The Major and Napiake went along with the other members of the party
who were to accompany them.
A few days were spent with the Indians near the mountains, and upon
their return home, the mail having arrived, the Major found some
important letters awaiting him from the home land. The business of the
camp for a time kept him later than usual at his office, but after the
busy season was over, he informed Napiake that he was going to give her
a visit of a few days in the camp with her friends, and during her
absence he would start off to the mountains on a hunting expedition.
Napiake was delighted with the idea, as she had seen the Major's face
for the past few days was paler than usual, and felt sure that a
hunting expedition to the mountains would restore the color to his
cheeks. She began at once to make clothes for her babe, that she might
show him off to advantage in the lodges of her people.
The day came for her departure, and the Major took her and the child to
the lodges of her people. Napiake and her babe were received with
great joy, and her husband welcomed, for the Major had not been in the
camp more than twice since the day that he took Napiake from her home.
Nearly three years had passed since she departed with the Major, but it
had been such a happy period that it seemed but as yesterday since she
turned her back upon her father's home.
Major Brown returned to the camp at the time promised for Napiake and
his child, and the aged chief was delighted to see him. The Major took
his wife and child to their home, and was as happy as ever in their
company. Napiake said nothing to him about what she had heard in the
camp, for she had trusted him, and he seemed to be worthy of all her
confidence.
A few months passed by and another babe was born. The Indians came to
see the fair skinned babe, whom they named Morning Star. She shed her
light for a while in the home, and then it was suddenly extinguished.
The child sickened and died, and great was the sorrow of the household
at her loss. But there is always a blessing in affliction, uniting the
hearts of the sorrowing ones more firmly together and increasing their
love for each other. And it was so in this instance. The Major could
not do enough for his wife to soothe her heart for the loss of the
babe. Little Morning Star was placed in a beautiful coffin, and laid
away to rest in the ground beside the graves of the white men in the
settlement.
Napiake often wandered with her little boy to the grave of her darling,
and sitting beside it she would pour out her grief. So intense was it
that she oftentimes forgot to go home, and the Major would find her
weeping by the spot. The father was sad, but he restrained his grief
and endeavored to comfort his wife.
One evening after the mail had come in, Major Brown came home with a
serious countenance. His wife and child met him at the door. At once
his serious mood disappeared and he was himself again. He dandled his
boy upon his knee and talked cheerfully to Napiake. Supper over, he
drew a large envelope from his pocket, and opening the letter it
contained, read it inaudibly, but with an earnest, serious expression
on his face. His wife busied herself about her household duties,
glancing occasionally at the Major as he sat poring over his letter.
"Napiake," he said sadly, "I am going on a long journey across the sea.
I have some important business to attend to at my old home, and I must
go there to look after it."
[Illustration: "Napiake," he said sadly, "I am going on a long journey
across the sea."]
The woman stopped her work as the Major uttered these words, a great
fear coming into her heart.
"May I not go with you and make you happy among your people? I am
willing to go anywhere with you," she said, as she looked steadfastly
in his face.
"That would never do, Napiake, to take you away from your own people."
The tears started to her eyes. Was her devoted husband going to leave
her, and would he never return? Perhaps he might follow the example of
others, and leave her. No, that was impossible. He was too good. She
never had cause to doubt his faithfulness, and she knew that he would
either take her or return to dwell in the country.
"When are you coming back?" she asked timorously.
"I shall be absent about a year, and then I will return, and we shall
never again be parted."
Napiake gazed earnestly at him through her falling tears, but his
glance was so honest and true that she said, "Well!" Not a word more
escaped her lips, but the tears ran freely down her cheeks.
In a few weeks the Major had all his matters arranged and was ready to
leave. A few minor matters had to be attended to, so he took his wife
and child to camp. The aged chief received him with marks of esteem.
He loved his son-in-law, and thought there was no one in all the
country equal to him for ability, and he never tired telling his
friends that the Major was a handsome man.
The Major related his plans to his father-in-law, who listened
attentively, and when he had finished he placed a sum of money in the
hands of the old man.
Early next morning as he bade them farewell, a large party stood around
the lodge to see him depart. He stooped and kissed Napiake and his
son, and with a wave of his hand, drove away.
A grand banquet was given the Major in town by his friends, many of
whom came miles to attend this farewell supper, for he was a great
favorite with all. A large crowd gathered about the stage-coach to
shake hands with him as he said good-bye to one and all.
That same evening there were a number of his friends in the neighboring
town of Leighton to see him off at the little railroad station. The
night was dark, and as he stood in the circle of friends, he excused
himself for a moment and stepped aside. There in the gloom stood an
Indian woman with her boy, looking on and weeping. It was Napiake and
her child who had come a distance of thirty miles to get a last glimpse
of him. Faithful to the last, there she stood, weeping disconsolately.
The Major was touched by this evidence of her devotion to him, but as
he strove to comfort her the conductor shouted, "All aboard!" the
engine whistled, and the Major, placing a sum of money in the hands of
each, kissed them both, sprang upon the train, and was gone. Napiake
and the boy watched the retreating train until it disappeared in the
darkness, and then sadly retraced their way to the camp.
"I'll give you two horses for her," said Pinakwaiem.
"Two horses are not enough. She is a good worker, and she is young,
and you know she can talk English, and is a good housekeeper, for she
was the wife of the white chief."
"The wife of the white chief! And that's the reason she is not worth
so much. I'll give you the two horses."
"All right, you can have her."
Napiake, after waiting patiently for two years for the return of her
white chief, had become the wife of an old Indian, sold for two horses
and destined to slavery. Pinakwaiem led Napiake and her son to his
lodge. Not a word escaped from the patient woman. As a sheep led to
the slaughter she was dumb, submissively following the man who had
bought her, for she was now his wife according to the Indian custom.
There were three women already in the lodge to which she was going who
were recognized as wives, and Napiake as the latest addition held a
good position for a while amongst them. The old man then treated them
well, and she seemed to have a hold upon his affections. She did her
work faithfully, uttering no word of complaint. But in a few months
the novelty of the new life wore off, and Pinakwaiem began to treat her
harshly. It was not hard for him to see that her heart was not with
him. Napiake never smiled, and seldom spoke. Her life was sad and
hard. She carried the wood from the bush on her back, the burden
bending her almost in two, and bore large pails full of water a long
distance from the stream. Her little boy seemed to be always in the
way; he was scolded, but never struck, for the customs of the natives
frown upon the harsh treatment of children.
The old life and the new were in strange contrast. She had become the
drudge of the lodge and the most despised of the wives of the old man.
Doomed as she now was to a life of sadness, toil and oppression, all
hope died out of her heart and she had no delight in any of the
amusements of the camp.
Sometimes the name of the white chief was mentioned in her presence as
a taunt, and stung with the remembrance of her former treatment,
Napiake sought peace in the solitude of the bush or by the river, where
she sat for hours with her little boy by her side. She gave not
railing for railing. The sweet and beautiful countenance of the former
days had fled, and given place to a haggard expression which made her
appear to be an old woman, as she dragged her wearied limbs through the
camp. Some of the Indians jeered at her, but others pitied her in her
loneliness and grief. The thought of her boy alone sustained her, and
by a great effort she determined to live for him.
She could not flee to another camp, there was no place for her among
the white people, divorce there was none, and she hoped that some day
her Indian husband might sell her to another Indian who might treat her
more humanely. But the seeds of disease were sown in her system, and
she was already doomed to fall a victim to the curse of the Indians,
that fell destroyer, consumption.
The medicine drum was beaten night after night, and the song and
prayers of the medicine-man sounded through the camp. But all was of
no avail; Napiake's life was slowly ebbing away.
Late one night there entered the lodge a white man, dignified and
grave. The Indians gave him the seat of honor in the lodge. He knelt
beside the sick woman, beautiful now as ever in the days of health.
The haggard looks had disappeared, and a peaceful contentment rested
upon her face. The visitor spoke in a low tone, and Napiake listened,
attentively answering his questions. Her father and friends leaned
forward to catch her faintly expressed words. After some quiet
conversation, raising herself in a state of excitement and looking the
missionary in the face, Napiake inquired:
"Shall we see each other there?"
"Yes, in the land of God, we shall see each other."
"Shall we know each other?" eagerly asked the woman upon whose
countenance the shadow of the death-angel had fallen.
"Yes," was the simple answer of the man.
"I shall see him! I shall see him! Shall we live there always?"
"Yes, we shall, never to be parted again!"
Napiake fell back upon her couch, saying, "I'm satisfied, I'm
satisfied! God is just."
A few heavings of the breast and the hands fell by her side. Napiake,
the beautiful Blackfoot woman, was at rest.
In a large and busy manufacturing town in the west of England, a
merchant sat in his office reading his letters. At the door stood a
coach with a pair of handsome horses; seated in it a lady with a babe
upon her knee.
"Tell your master that I am waiting," said she to the footman, who
promptly obeyed the command.
"I will be there in a few minutes," was the reply. The merchant seldom
went for a drive, his extensive business usually requiring his whole
attention; but he had made up his mind to spend this afternoon with his
wife and child. The letter-carrier had just delivered his mail, and he
was hastening to give directions to the letter clerks to answer them
before leaving.
Among the others was a paper from the Canadian North-West, in which a
marked paragraph caught his eye:
"There died last Friday, on the Blood Reserve, Napiake, an Indian
squaw. Some of the pioneers of the district may remember her as a
beautiful woman when she was young, who lived for a time in the village
in the early days."
Turning suddenly pale, he laid the paper aside and left the office. As
he sat in the coach his wife pointed to several objects of interest
which they passed, chatting freely about them, but he paid little
attention. It was as though he heard her not. All her efforts to
drive away his morose silence were in vain. Far away at the foot of
the Rocky Mountains the husband saw a woman dying in an Indian lodge, a
woman who loved him to the last, but whom he had deserted and
forgotten. Forgotten? No! He could never forget her.
But in that busy English town he is a merchant prince, holding an
honored position in society. He is a member of several societies, and
is often speaking on behalf of the enfranchisement of women and popular
education.
Sometimes an old man leading a boy by the hand may be seen standing
beside a mound on the wide prairie of the West, but there is no other
that ever visits that lonely grave.
Little Charlie Brown finds a home among the Indians, depending on them
for food and clothing, and sometimes an old-timer takes compassion upon
the boy and gives him a morsel of food or some clothing. He endures
the poverty of an Indian lodge, while over the sea his father enjoys
the comforts of an English mansion.
THE COMING OF APAUAKAS.
Night after night during the long and dreary winter, from where the
lodges were pitched among the small patches of timber that fringed the
river bank, came the low, monotonous beating of the medicine-drums, a
sad refrain telling the story of sickness and death.
"Take pity on me! Take pity on me!" floated upon the evening air, a
wail from the lips of the aged warrior as he lay on his earthen couch
and wrestled with the grim spirits who were waiting for his soul.
Thick clouds of pestilential fever hung over the camp. The ruddy glow
of the lodge fires served but to deepen the gloom. The happy hunting
days were gone; the excitement of the buffalo chase was a thing of the
past. The ancient traditions of the coming of a race of white men who
were superior in numbers and strength were now being fulfilled, and the
hearts of the mourners in the camp by the river were heavy. "Take pity
on me!" was the burden of their song. Strong men bowed their heads as
they uttered the plaintive words; the women wept and prayed. The
children alone were merry and wondered why their mothers were sad.
In the deep recesses of the wood, high in the forks of the trees, the
dead lay still and cold, freed from the pain and poverty of the
plague-stricken camps. No angel visitant came with mercy in her hands
to relieve the sick or to bestow gifts upon the poor. Forsaken by
friends and foes, the dying turned from their friends and sighed their
lives away.
Night had closed in upon the desolate scene, and the dwellers in the
lodges were seeking what rest they might, when a sharp cry rent the air
causing many to raise their heads and listen. But it was no warning
shout of danger; it was only the wail of a stricken heart. A father
had returned from the mountains, whither he had gone in quest of game,
and on entering his lodge found none to meet him save an aged
medicine-woman. Wife, sister and children had all been called to the
spirit-land. His hearth was desolate; the song and the prattle of
merry childhood which had always greeted his home-coming were silenced
forever. Throwing himself upon the ground he wailed forth his anguish
in the cry that had startled the sleeping camp.
Hope had well-nigh died in the breasts of the people. Their
medicine-men's charms no longer protected them from sickness, and their
guardian spirits had abandoned them in the hour of distress. They
prayed and longed for release from the pain and burden of life. Yet a
few days more and their prayers would be answered.
The morning sun was gilding the eastern horizon as a young man,
footsore and weary, drew near the camp and ran eagerly toward the
chief's lodge.
"What news? What news?" asked the people of each other, but none could
reply. The men dragged themselves to the lodge where the young man
waited impatiently the coming of the chief. The latter entered
presently with his friends, and in obedience to his command the young
man delivered his message before them all.
"Chief: It is now three moons since I left my people here and travelled
toward the northern land, where dwell the Sarcees, Crees and Stoneys.
I went to a large camp of the Crees. The people received me in
kindness and supplied me with every need. Their hearts were filled
with joy and they sang from daylight till the darkness fell. There was
abundance of food; the medicine-man's drum had ceased to beat, there
was no sickness in their camps. Guardian spirits hovered over the
lodges, and as I sat day after day among the people I listened to songs
and stories that were strange to my ears. I waited for the feasts that
we ofttimes have in our own camps that I might take part in the
amusements of my people, but as I spoke of these things they gazed at
me in astonishment and pity. I became angry and would have departed
had not an aged chief named Jacob come into the lodge.
"The old chief looked upon me with kindness in his eyes and addressed
me in my native tongue. He related to me the tales of my childhood and
my heart was glad. I had found a spirit kindred to my own. He spoke
of the 'Old Man of the Mountains,' the 'Blood Clot Boy,' the 'Morning
Star' and all the wonderful things they had done.
"'Your fathers have told you, young man,' he said, 'of the coming of a
tribe vast in numbers and different in color and habits from the
Indians of the plains. You have listened in the lodges of the south to
the story of the great hero Apauakas, who is to come bringing blessings
in his hands for all the people. When he comes the buffalo shall
increase in number, the people shall have food in plenty and shall not
need to toil so hard. The land shall obey his command, the rivers
shall have many fishes, the mountains and prairies be covered with
antelope, sheep and goats. The wolf and the bear shall flee away into
the secret places of the hills, and no longer shall they molest us.
Our camp shall be filled with children and happy mothers. My son, the
Great Chief is coming! coming!'
"My heart was filled with joy as I listened to his words, and I longed
for the coming of Apauakas. The chief had risen as he thus spoke
kindly to me, but was silent. He struggled to control his emotions,
then leaning forward and gazing earnestly into my face he said slowly:
"'Young man, the white tribe has come, the prophecy is fulfilled. All
over the prairie the men and women of the white tribe are building
their lodges. The buffalo have fled before their presence, disease and
death have spread desolation among our camps. The land of our fathers
has been taken from us, the Indian race is doomed to depart before the
feet of the white stranger and we dwell in the land of an enemy. Would
that I had died before I had seen this hour; I had then been spared the
pain and anguish that have fallen upon us.'
"As he ceased, smitten with sorrow and anger, I laid my hand upon my
knife, determined to depart and slay the oppressor or drive him from
the land. But the chief spoke again.
"'I am not done,' he said. 'When I think of the happy days enjoyed by
my people I am silent, though the warm blood coursing through my veins
makes it hard to restrain my anger. One day as we sat in our lodges
nursing our sick in sadness, while the medicine-men beat their drums
and prayed, there came to our camp from the lodges of the white tribe a
pale-faced man. He could not speak our language, but he made signs
that he wished to live with us. We suffered him to stay, and gave him
a share of our scanty food.
"'Every morning and evening he knelt upon the ground and prayed. We
knew not what he said, for his tongue was strange to us. He helped the
men and women at their work, played with the children, and nursed the
sick. He learned our language quickly, and then he began to tell us of
a Great Teacher who had come to bless all people.
"'He held in his hand pieces of bark of a kind we knew not. They were
fastened together and had writing on them that was not like the writing
upon our lodges. These he held reverently, for he said it was "the
writing sent by the Great Spirit to his children."
"'Day by day we gathered in the lodges or under the shade of the trees,
and listened to the holy man as he sang sweet songs and taught them to
us in our native tongue. He prayed and the sick were healed. He
struck the ground, poured water upon it, and food came out of it for
young and old.
"'We prayed to him, and then he became angry. "I am only a man," he
said; "pray to the Great Spirit." We followed him wherever he went,
and blessings came to us. Again and again he told us the story of the
Great Teacher, and we drank eagerly of his words. The sick and the
aged sent for him and said, "Tell it over again!" and when he told it
they said, "Tell it again!"
"'One day when the people were assembled listening to his words, a
little child sat beside him. Again he related the glory of the coming
Great Chief, of the peace and joy that would dwell in our camps when
the little children should know and love Him. As he looked upon the
writing and sang and prayed, his lips quivered and tears flowed from
his eyes. The little child by his side looked up into his face and
then at the people, and whispered, "Apauakas!"
"'Then the people fell upon their faces and cried with one voice,
"Apauakas! Apauakas!" As they rose they saw the white stranger on his
knees and heard him say, "He has come! Christ has come!"
"As the aged chief Jacob related this to me, the people in the lodge
clasped their hands together and sang a song about Apauakas, whom they
called the Christ. When they had finished, Jacob took my hand and
said, 'Young man, the Great Teacher has come; stay with us and you will
see Him soon, for He dwells in our hearts and gives us peace.' I
therefore stayed in the camp and looked daily for His coming, but I saw
Him not.
"My heart was sad, and I prayed to the spirits of the prairie to help
me. I walked, turning over in my thoughts all the wonderful things I
had heard. I fell upon my face and groaned, 'Apauakas! Apauakas!'
Brothers, my cry was answered: a bright light shone around me, and a
voice from the overhanging clouds said gently, 'Arise! Apauakas has
come. Call me no longer Apauakas, but Christ, for I shall aid and
deliver you from all your foes!'
"I arose and sped towards the camp, and as the people saw me coming,
they ran to meet me, shouting, 'He has found the Christ! The Christ
has come!' I sang for joy, and the weeks fled as if they were but
hours.
"One day the chief came to me and said, 'Brother, a messenger has come
from the south bearing sad tidings. Sickness and death are in the
camps of your people. Go, tell them of Apauakas the Great Teacher, who
will relieve and bless them in their hours of woe.'
"I bade him farewell and hurried homeward. My heart sank within me as
I came through the wood near the camp and beheld the trees bearing the
bodies of my people whom I had left strong and well. I bring a message
of peace. Apauakas has come to bless and heal His children. Chief, I
have finished."
The eager eyes and haggard countenances of the men who listened to the
young man's story had been strained and then relaxed as they followed
the story with absorbing interest to the end. A great silence fell
upon the lodge, and one by one the men arose and went away to their own
lodges. They spoke no word, but pondered in silence over the strange
things that they had heard. Throughout the next day they talked to
each other by the lodge fires; the coming of Apauakas was the burden of
the stories told to the women, and a deep, earnest longing took
possession of their hearts. At evening time they waited and prayed,
but He came not. Despair began once more to be depicted on the faces
of the people, and the signs of a coming storm added fear to their
misery. The sky grew dark, the air heavy. As they waited in an agony
of spirit for the consummation of all their woes, the storm broke, and
as it increased in strength the women prayed. One voice alone was
heard above the wild wailing of the wind, and the terror-stricken
inmates of the lodges listened as it sang, "Apauakas is coming! coming
soon!"
At this the women stilled their whispered prayers and waited, looking
for the Teacher. The rain ceased to beat upon the lodges, the clouds
were swept from the sky, the sun shone out in all its glory, and the
air seemed full of voices singing words of love and tenderness.
They looked to where the young man knelt, and saw that a smile of joy
rested on his face as he gazed up into the heavens. A strange feeling
of awe made them bow their heads. When they looked again they saw he
had fallen to the ground. They ran to him, and as they raised him in
their arms, gazing in pity into his face, he murmured, "Apauakas has
come!" and closed his eyes.
A beautiful spot on the prairie is the honored resting-place of the
gentle messenger of love; the Great Teacher had come and taken him
home. Health, peace and comfort returned to the people, bringing with
them a better knowledge, a nobler life. The stranger who now sits in
the lodges and listens to the stories told by the Indians will hear the
young man's name repeated with reverence as the prophet who led his
people to look for the coming of the Teacher, and see eyes suffused
with tears as they repeat,
"APAUAKAS HAS COME! THE CHRIST HAS COME!"
FOREST, LAKE AND PRAIRIE
TWENTY YEARS OF FRONTIER LIFE IN
WESTERN CANADA, 1842-1862.
By JOHN McDOUGALL.
WITH 27 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. E. LAUGHLIN.
Read the following comments:
"This is a true boy's book, and equals in stirring interest anything
written by Kingston or Ballantyne. It ought to sell by the
thousand."--Mrs. S. A. Curzon, in _Orillia Packet_.
"Possessed of an intimate acquaintance with all the varied aspects of
frontier life, Mr. McDougall has produced a book that will delight the
heart of every boy reader."--_Endeavor Herald_.
"There are many graphic descriptions of scenes in that vast fertile
region in those early days when travelling was difficult and dangerous,
but most fascinating to a youth of John McDougall's temperament and
training. He lives those stirring times over again in his lively
narrative, and relates his personal experiences with all the glow and
vividness of an ardent, youthful hunter."--_Canadian Baptist_.
Canadian Savage Folk
The Native Tribes of Canada.
BY
JOHN MACLEAN, M.A., Ph.D.
AUTHOR OF 'THE INDIANS OF CANADA,' 'THE WARDEN OF THE PLAINS,' ETC.
In one volume, 642 pages, fully illustrated and handsomely bound.
PRICE, . . $2.50
CONTENTS: SOME QUEER FOLK--IN THE LODGES--CHURCH AND CAMP--NATIVE
HEROES--NATIVE RELIGIONS, RACES AND LANGUAGES--ON THE TRAIL.
"There is no man in Canada, possibly anywhere, who has made a more
careful, painstaking life-work in the study of the aboriginal races and
all the writings extant relative to them, their traditions and history,
than Dr. John Maclean.... While gleaning information from all the
recognizedly authentic sources, Dr. Maclean, by his personal experience
and individual knowledge, has added not only a vast amount of hitherto
unpublished material, but has revivified and reset the old in the most
attractive and readable form."--_The Week_.
"The whole ground is covered with a wealth of historic knowledge, while
the style makes it as interesting as a romance. The author's
familiarity with the subject, being for years a missionary in the far
North-West, makes the work a thoroughly reliable treatise."--_Neepawa
Register_.
SADDLE, SLED AND SNOWSHOE
PIONEERING ON THE SASKATCHEWAN IN THE SIXTIES
By JOHN McDOUGALL,
Author of "FOREST, LAKE AND PRAIRIE."
WITH 15 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. E. LAUGHLIN.
PRICE, $1.00.
"... If it be their good fortune to obtain it, 'SADDLE, SLED AND
SNOWSHOE' will not disappoint their most sanguine expectations....
While hard work, hardship, and plucky endurance characterize and give
vim and go to the story, the incidents in which the love of fun,
inherent in every boy's nature, finds opportunity of play, add much to
the brightness and realistic value of the book. The book is well
illustrated, the drawings being faithful to the reality, and the scenes
well chosen."--_The Week_.
Press Comments on "Forest, Lake and Prairie."
"Mr. McDougall is a true child of nature. He has passed through scenes
that would stir the pulses of less impulsive men, and he writes with
the keenest enthusiasm: and this spirit possesses the reader of his
thrilling pages."--_Christian Guardian_.
"I have read no book better fitted to inspire our Canadian boys with a
healthy interest in their own undiscovered country: nor any more
calculated to put into our growing youth the strong, sturdy,
self-reliant spirit of a real manhood, an heroic, muscular
Christianity."--_Canadian Home Journal_.
WILLIAM BRIGGS, Publisher, Toronto.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Warden of the Plains, by John Maclean