GREAT HEART WITH THE INDIANS
MANY acts of service rendered to his new brothers on his frequent
visits to them had made the Blackfeet Indians know that Brother Van
was truly their friend. One incident in particular is now of interest
to illustrate the character of the red men and the manner in which the
missionary won their liking.
One day when White Plume was chief of the Blackfeet and Piegan tribes,
camp was made and the evening meal was prepared. Into this busy and
picturesque scene came the preacher, and with the aid of an interpreter,
he started to speak the good tidings to these people of the plains.
The Indians were interested and listened respectfully. Suddenly a
runner came quietly but swiftly into the group and uttered an Indian
word. Instantly the audience dissolved. They went so quickly that the
astonished preacher inquired of the interpreter as to the reason of
their going. There was reason enough. While these people were listening
to Brother Van, the Crow Indians, a rival tribe, had come and driven
off the ponies which had been turned out to graze for the night.
When the preacher understood the plight of the Blackfeet, he offered
his own fleet pony to them that they might overtake the raiders.
Brother Van always had a good horse. The herd was easily overtaken and
turned back to the camp. Then, much to the surprise of Brother Van, the
Indians returned to the place of meeting and indicated that they wished
the service to proceed.
Early on the following morning a messenger came to Brother Van
telling him that the Blackfeet were going on a buffalo hunt, and a
formal invitation was delivered requesting him to accompany them.
Taking his sure-footed pony, Brother Van joined the riders, and soon
the excitement of their hunt was on. An Indian honor was then conferred
on this, their well-loved guest. After the herd of buffalo was sighted
and had been started on the run, the Indians signified that the white
man was to have the distinction of killing the magnificent specimen
which was leading the herd. Riding toward the front of the stampeding
beasts, the unskilled marksman picked out the herd leader and shot him
in the head. It was a great shot. An Indian could have done no better.
The herd was a large one, containing nearly one thousand of the great,
brown giants of the plains. Once more the preacher by his prowess had
won the favor of the Blackfeet.
With such experiences as the buffalo hunt, an Indian feast, a hurried
visit to the bed of the sick or dying, and the preaching of the gospel,
the years passed. After serving five years as a missionary at large
without ordination, Brother Van consented to become a Conference Member,
that is to say, a regularly ordained traveling-preacher according
to Conference rules. The first missionary appropriation ever made
to Montana Conference was given to Brother Van when he became the
first regular supply. That allowance was three hundred and twenty-five
dollars. He was given the Sun River and Smith River charge as his first
aggressive work in North Montana.
So the Methodist circuit-rider started out once more on his pony with
his little all in his saddle-bags. A journey was still one of many
hazards, for Indians were everywhere and any sign of fear would have
been fatal, while any weakness would have met with scorn from the
cowboys. Brother Van visited Sun River, a settlement on the overland
freight trail between Helena and Fort Benton, where he organized the
first Methodist church north of the mountains. First, Brother Van
held a meeting in this settlement and then started a church building.
Afterward, he had to rescue the church from the sheriff’s hammer, but,
finally, he completed the building――assuming responsibility for the
rest of the debt. By and by there came a great day when he preached the
dedication sermon of a church free from debt.
To this very settlement at Sun River, the tenderfoot Easterner had come
with the Adjutant from Fort Shaw shortly after his arrival in Montana
several years before, and had announced his desire to hold a service.
The service had been held in the cabin home of Mr. Charles A. Bull. Now,
as an experienced plainsman and missionary, Brother Van came again and
built a church, over which through the busy years since then, he has
kept loving watch.
In Philbrook, Judith Basin, Brother Van found that Indians were
stealing horses and terrifying settlers. Prowling bands of raiders
were scattered all through the region. Again the scout-preacher was
frequently in danger as he went about his ministry. Riding one day
along the bank of the Cut Bank River, he saw a powerful Indian in full
war-regalia, making rapidly toward the crossing to which he, too, was
going. Believing that discretion was the better part of valor, Brother
Van turned his horse into a coulee, and rode hastily into the deep
shelter of the ravine. From that vantage ground an approaching enemy
was at the mercy of the watcher.
The Indian pursued him to the entrance and then gave up the chase. Had
he known that the white man was unarmed, this history might never have
been written, for the Indian was out to get revenge upon the whites,
and the story of his pursuit afterward created nation-wide interest. It
is a gruesome story, but has much of value as it reveals some reasons
for the Indian traits which our government has not always understood in
the past.
The first scene was enacted when a troop of United States soldiers
under Colonel Baker who were quelling Indian troubles, came into an
Indian village while the braves were out raiding. They laid waste
the camp and killed some three hundred women and children. When the
Indian men returned they found desolation, and, of course, could not
understand the reason. All that they could think of doing was to set
forth again on a raid of devastation. One big brave, Spoo Pee, made a
vow to kill the first white man he met, for had not the white men taken
the life of his aged mother?
The other scene was enacted when a Canadian prospector having seen
enough of western life came down from the North on his way to the
nearest railway station that he might return to his home in the East.
He drove a fine team hitched to a good wagon. As he journeyed he met
two Indians, one a big brave, the other a stripling of a boy. The
Canadian asked his way. The Indian offered himself as a guide to the
wealthy traveler and as such was accepted.
A friendship seemed to spring up between the white man and his red
companions as they proceeded. The first camp was made and on the next
day they were setting forth again when the boy, Good Rider, spied some
deer in the distance and asked the loan of a gun that he might bring
fresh meat for their evening meal. Walmesley, the Canadian traveler,
promptly loaned him his gun and the boy went on his quest for meat.
Spoo Pee, the Indian brave, now took his own gun and shot the white man.
He threw the body on the muddy bank of the Cut Bank River along which
they had been riding.
With the fine horses in their possession, the two Indians came to Fort
Shaw, a Piegan Agency, where Major Young was in charge. They remained
over night and then went on. These visitors caused much comment at
the agency. Curiosity was aroused because the horses which they were
driving were much finer than red men usually had. They were well kept
and well fed. The second cause for speculation was that the dog which
had come with them stayed behind after the departure of the Indians. An
Indian’s dog is most faithful. He follows in spite of hunger, distance,
or hardships, but here was a dog which preferred the agency to the
master.
One day a traveler appeared who reported finding the body of a white
man on the bank of the Cut Bank River. The Major sent a party to
investigate. Among them was the agency doctor. As the body was examined,
the doctor noticed a peculiar scar on the heel of the victim, and he
exclaimed, “I went swimming with a man once who had a scar exactly
like that one. The man’s name was Walmesley.” Detectives were put on
the case; Spoo Pee was overtaken, and with the boy, Good Rider, was put
into jail. The agency doctor, Major Young, and his daughter became the
chief witnesses.
Miss Young describes the journey to court in the thirty-below-zero
weather. As she was almost ready to start for Helena, an old, dirty
squaw came to see her, and throwing her arms around Miss Young’s neck,
implored her to save her boy. This was Good Rider’s mother. The woman
was unwashed and disheveled, because it was the custom of the tribe
that no ordinary practise of cleanliness should be observed when
an individual was in trouble. Miss Young brought Good Rider back to
his mother but Spoo Pee was committed to prison. From the day of his
sentence to jail no word or sound passed Spoo Pee’s lips for twenty
years. After a few years he was considered a harmless lunatic and moved,
first to Michigan, and then to an asylum in Washington.
One day a party of western visitors came into the corridors of the
asylum. A woman of the party, Mrs. Ella Clark, observed the pathetic,
blank face of Spoo Pee, and began to speak in an Indian language.
The prisoner observed her with something akin to interest. Failing to
secure a clearer response from him, the woman began to croon an Indian
lullaby. She sang as a mother to a child. A look of dazed intelligence
appeared on the face of the prisoner. Eagerly Mrs. Clark ceased
her singing and began to speak to him. She told of tribal wars and
conquests. She repeated traditions held most sacred. The attendants and
keepers watched her efforts interestedly. At last from Spoo Pee’s long
sealed lips there broke an Indian word. The kindly woman’s victory was
complete, and with tears flowing unchecked, Mrs. Clark told the Indian
of his people.
She explained to the keeper the reason that the deed had been committed;
how Spoo Pee had returned to his village on that dreadful day and had
found the women all slain. The prisoner told of his strange vow and
of the long silent years. Spoo Pee was pardoned and he returned to his
tribe but only sorrow was his lot. New and strange customs had arisen
since he had gone away. His family had become scattered. He could not
learn the new ways, and he pined for the friends who had gone. In two
years the broken spirit of the red man went to its long rest.
It was this revengeful warrior that Brother Van had met at the river
crossing, but danger held no terrors for him, and that night in the
coulee, near the scene of the tragic murder of the Canadian prospector,
he took the saddle from his pony, pillowed his head on it, and slept
peacefully with the stars smiling down on him. God’s protection was
with the man who had a vision of the life of peace and righteousness
which could come to the West only through the gospel that it was his
privilege to preach.
The Epworth Piegan Mission is ministering to these Indians to-day
under the leadership of one of Brother Van’s “boys,” Rev. A. W. Hammer,
who, with his talented wife, is continuing the service begun many years
ago. Mr. Hammer is peculiarly fitted for this task because he knows the
habits and language of the people. He was but a youth when he went west
to the plains of Texas as a cowboy in 1877. Later he came to Montana
and worked on a ranch not far from Chinook. He craved the opportunity
to enjoy the finer pleasures of life, and when a literary society was
started at Chinook, he rode in from the ranch to attend it.
One night the meeting place was deserted. Everybody was at the revival
meeting. Taking his pal with him, Hammer went to have some fun. They
sat on the back seat and made flippant remarks about the meeting, but
confessed to each other that they liked the preacher’s singing. The
next night found them on that same back seat. A change came to young
Hammer in this meeting and he altered his manner of life. He joined
the church and took charge of the Sunday-school. He was later given a
preacher’s license. Then he began to want an education that he might
work for his Master more acceptably. He attended school and college and
went back to the range to ride and to serve as a shepherd of people,
instead of as a cowboy. His life exemplifies the ideal missionary to
the Indians.
In Brother Van’s new district were the famous great falls of the
Missouri, which Lewis and Clarke had heard roaring in the distance as
they pushed across the plains. Perplexed as to the cause of the strange
sound that rolled to them over the lifeless prairies, they traveled
seven miles before they reached the spot where the great river takes
its tremendous plunge. The magnitude of the falls astonished them
beyond measure. The largest falls were given separate names later and
became known as Great Falls, Rainbow Falls, and Crooked Falls. It is
claimed by local residents that the water in Crooked Falls runs in
every direction, even upstream. Great power-plants are built along the
river at this point, and they produce power second only to Niagara.
When Brother Van reached the settlement of Great Falls on his first
visit, it was nothing but a great undeveloped possibility. “Here we
must have a church,” said this apostle of first things. An ambitious,
far-seeing group of men constituting the Townsite Company was
interviewed. They gave several lots to the enthusiastic dreamer of a
greater day for Montana. With the assured membership of two devoted
souls and the gift of land, a church was started.
Is this record of “first things” beginning to make you dizzy? Does
the recounting make you weary? But suppose you were the missionary!
Through heat and cold, through drought and rain, over green prairie and
bleak desert, you would have to travel. You would have met plainsmen
and Indians, friends and foes. You would have endured hunger and
thirst. You would have rested under the stars on the open prairie and
in the rude shelter afforded by the ranchmen’s bunks. You would have
been obliged to be the leader in the building of first churches and
first parsonages. All this costs energy and vitality, as Brother Van,
seemingly tireless though he was, once discovered.
Illustration: BROTHER VAN WAS “HAIL FELLOW WELL MET” WITH THE
PEOPLE
One day death seemed about to claim the scout-missionary. He was very
weary and very ill, for mountain fever had him in its firm hold. Then
how the little churches rallied to their friend! After much praying and
after careful nursing, he was sent on a vacation that he might get well.
This was the only sick leave that he has ever had. Forty-five years
Brother Van has spent with his “shoulder against the horizon.” He has
pushed the frontier back and back, and in all those years he has never
been ill but once; then nature demanded a rest.
Leaving his friends greatly concerned over his condition, Brother Van
went to Seattle, Washington, to recuperate. That rest period turned
out to be something of a joke. In an old record of the Battery Street
Church in Seattle, there is an entry showing that certain meetings were
held in the church at this time, and noting that the evangelist was
W. W. Van Orsdel. He had gone away in October. In December he was back
in Montana holding revival meetings from Helena to Glendive, a distance
of two hundred and forty miles.