UNCLE DONALD AND THE BLACKFEET--THE CHIEF'S SPEECH--A FORTUNATE
RECOGNITION--PONOKO GIVES UP A LITTLE GIRL TO UNCLE DONALD--IMPOSSIBLE
TO DO ANY MORE--PONOKO URGES DEPARTURE--ROSE IS ADOPTED BY UNCLE
DONALD--HUGH MCLELLAN--MADGE--STORY OF A BRAVE INDIAN MOTHER--RED
SQUIRREL--THE HOUSEHOLD AT CLEARWATER.
I waited with intense anxiety for Uncle Donald who appeared to have been
a long time absent. I dared not disobey his orders by moving from the
spot, yet I felt eager to creep up and try and ascertain what had
happened. I thought that by seeming the horses to the trees, I might
manage to get near the Indian camp without being perceived, but I
overcame the temptation. At length I heard footsteps approaching, when,
greatly to my relief, I saw Uncle Donald coming towards me, carrying
some object wrapped up in a buffalo-robe in his arms.
I will now mention what occurred to him. He advanced, as he told me
afterwards, without uttering a word, until he was close up to the fire
round which the braves were collected, then seating himself opposite the
chief, whom he recognised by his dress and ornaments, said, "I have come
as a friend to visit my red brothers; they must listen to what I have to
say." The chief nodded and passed the pipe he was smoking round to him,
to show that he was welcome as a friend. Uncle Donald then told them
that he was aware of their attack upon the village, which was not only
unjustifiable, but very unwise, as they would be certain to bring down
on their heads the vengeance of the "Long-knives"--so the Indians call
the people of the United States. That wide as was the country, the arm
of the Long-knives could stretch over it; that they had fleet horses,
and guns which could kill when their figures appeared no larger than
musk rats; and he urged them, now that the harm was done, to avert the
punishment which would overtake them by restoring the white people they
had captured.
When he had finished, the chief rose and made a long speech, excusing
himself and his tribe on the plea that the Long-knives had been the
aggressors; that they had killed their people, driven them from their
hunting-grounds, and destroyed the buffalo on which they lived. No
sooner did the chief begin to speak than Uncle Donald recognised him as
a Sioux whose life he had saved some years before. He therefore
addressed him by his name of Ponoko, or the Red Deer, reminding him of
the circumstance. On this the chief, advancing, embraced him; and
though unwilling to acknowledge that he had acted wrongly, he expressed
his readiness to follow the advice of his white friend. He confessed,
however, that his hand had only one captive, a little girl, whom he was
carrying off as a present to his wife, to replace a child she had lost.
"She would be as a daughter to me; but if my white father desires it, I
will forego the pleasure I expected, and give her up to him. As for
what the rest of my people may determine I cannot be answerable; but I
fear that they will not give up their captives, should they have taken
any alive," he added.
"It would have been a terrible thing to have left the little innocent to
be brought up among the savages and taught all their heathen ways,
though they, no doubt, would have made much of her, and treated her like
a little queen," said Uncle Donald to me; "so I at once closed with the
chief's offer. Forthwith, a little girl, some five years of age, was
brought out from a small hut built of boughs, close to where the party
was sitting. She appeared almost paralysed with terror; but when,
looking up, she saw that Uncle Donald was a white man, and that he was
gazing compassionately at her, clinging to his hand, she entreated him
by her looks to save her from the savages. She had been so overcome by
the terrible scenes she had witnessed that she was unable to speak."
Uncle Donald, lifting her up in his arms, endeavoured to calm her fears,
promising that he would take care of her until he had restored her to
her friends. He now expressed his intention of proceeding to the larger
camp, but Ponoko urged him on no account to make the attempt, declaring
that his life would not be safe, as several of their fiercest warriors
were in command, who had vowed the destruction of all the Long-knives or
others they should encounter.
"But the prisoners! What will they do with them?" asked Uncle Donald.
"Am I to allow them to perish without attempting their rescue?"
"My white father must be satisfied with what I've done for him. I saw
no other prisoners taken. All the pale-faces in the villages were
killed," answered Ponoko. "For his own sake I cannot allow him to go
forward; let him return to his own country, and he will there be safe.
I know his wishes, and will, when the sun rises, go to my brother chiefs
and tell them what my white father desires."
Ponoko spoke so earnestly that Uncle Donald, seeing that it would be
useless to make the attempt, and fearing that even the little girl might
be taken from him, judged that it would be wise to get out of the power
of the savages; and carrying the child, who clung round his neck, he
bade the other braves farewell, and commenced his return to where he had
left me. He had not got far when Ponoko overtook him, and again urged
him to get to a distance as soon as possible.
"Even my own braves cannot be trusted," he said. "I much fear that
several who would not smoke the pipe may steal out from the camp, and
try to kill my white father if he remains longer in the neighbourhood."
Brave as Uncle Donald was, he had me to look after as well as the little
girl. Parting with the chief, therefore, he hurried on, and told me
instantly to mount.
I was very much astonished to see the little girl, but there was no time
to ask questions; so putting spurs to our horses, we galloped back to
where we had left our men and the baggage.
As both we and our horses required rest, we camped on the spot, Pierre
and Corney being directed to keep a vigilant watch.
The little girl lay in Uncle Donald's arms, but she had not yet
recovered sufficiently to tell us her name, and it was with difficulty
that we could induce her to take any food.
Late in the day we met a party going out to attack the Indians; but, as
Uncle Donald observed, "they might just as well have tried to catch the
east wind. We waited to see the result of the expedition. They at
length returned, not having come near the enemy. The few men who had
escaped the massacre were unable to give any information about the
little girl or her friends, nor could we learn to whom she belonged.
All we could ascertain from her was that her name was Rose, for her mind
had sustained so fearful a shock that, even after several days had
passed, she was unable to speak intelligibly.
"Her fate among the Indians would have been terrible, but it would be
almost as bad were we to leave her among the rough characters
hereabouts," observed Uncle Donald. "As none of her friends can be
found, I will be her guardian, and, if God spares my life, will bring
her up as a Christian child."
It was many a long day, however, before Rose recovered her spirits. Her
mind, indeed, seemed to be a blank as to the past, and Uncle Donald,
afraid of reviving the recollection of the fearful scenes she must have
witnessed, forbore to say anything which might recall them. However, by
the time we reached Fort Edmonton, where Hugh McLellan had been left,
she was able to prattle away right merrily. The officers at the fort
offered to take charge of her, but Uncle Donald would not consent to
part with his little "Prairie Rose," as he called her; and after a short
stay we set out again, with Hugh added to our party, across the Rocky
Mountains, and at length arrived safely at Clearwater.
Corney and Pierre remained with us, and took the places of two other men
who had left.
Hugh McLellan was a fine, bold little fellow, not quite two years my
junior; and he and I--as Uncle Donald had hoped we should--soon became
fast friends.
He had not much book learning, though he had been instructed in the
rudiments of reading and writing by one of the clerks in the fort, but
he rode fearlessly, and could manage many a horse which grown men would
fear to mount.
"I want you, Archie, to help Hugh with his books," said Uncle Donald.
"I believe, if you set wisely about it, that he will be ready to learn
from you. I would not like for him to grow up as ignorant as most of
the people about us. It is the knowledge we of the old country possess
which gives us the influence over these untutored savages; without it we
should be their inferiors."
I promised to do my best in fulfilling his wishes, though I took good
care not to assert any superiority over my companion, who, indeed,
though I was better acquainted with literature than he was, knew far
more about the country than I did.
But there was another person in the household whose history is worthy of
narration--the poor Indian woman--"Madge," as we called her for
shortness, though her real name was Okenmadgelika. She also owed her
life to Uncle Donald.
Several years before this, she, with her two children, had accompanied
her husband and some other men on an expedition to trap beavers, at the
end of autumn, towards the head waters of the Columbia. While she was
seated in her hut late in the evening, one of the men staggered in
desperately wounded, and had just time to tell her that her husband and
the rest were murdered, when he fell dead at her feet. She, instantly
taking up her children--one a boy of six years of age, the other a
little girl, an infant in arms--fled from the spot, with a horse and
such articles as she could throw on its back, narrowly escaping from the
savages searching for her.
She passed the winter with her two young ones, no human aid at hand. On
the return of spring she set off, intending to rejoin her husband's
people far away to the westward. After enduring incredible hardships,
she had been compelled to kill her horse for food. She had made good
some days' journey, when, almost sinking from hunger, and fearing to see
her children perish, she caught sight of her relentless foes, the
Blackfeet. In vain she endeavoured to conceal herself. They saw her
and were approaching, when, close to the spot where she was standing, a
tall white man and several Indians suddenly emerged from behind some
rocks. The Blackfeet came on, fancying that against so few they could
gain an easy victory; but the rifles of the white man and his party
drove them back, and Uncle Donald--for he was the white man--conveyed
the apparently dying woman and her little ones to his camp.
The house at Clearwater had not yet been built. By being well cared for
the Indian woman and her children recovered; but though the boy
flourished, the little girl seemed like a withered flower, and never
regained her strength.
Grateful for her preservation, the poor woman, when she found that Uncle
Donald was about to settle at Clearwater, entreated that she might
remain with her children and labour for him, and a faithful servant she
had ever since proved.
Her little girl at length died. She was for a time inconsolable, until
the arrival of Rose, to whom she transferred all her maternal feelings,
and who warmly returned her affection.
But her son, whose Indian name translated was Red Squirrel, by which
appellation he was always known, had grown up into a fine lad, versed in
all Indian ways, and possessing a considerable amount of knowledge
gained from his white companions, without the vices of civilisation. He
was a great favourite with Uncle Donald, who placed much confidence in
his intelligence, courage, and faithfulness.
Nearly two years had passed since Rose, Hugh, and I had been brought to
Clearwater, and by this time we were all much attached to each other.
We had also learned to love the place which had become our home; but we
loved Uncle Donald far more.