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DURING the autumn father
visited our Mission, and as a large camp of Stonies had gone westward, among
whom there were children to be baptized and couples to be married, I
prevailed upon him to follow them up. Accordingly we set out on their trail,
and after two days of steady travel, during which we made a considerable
detour, we came up to them at Buck Lake. We spent a day and night with them,
father marrying several couples and baptizing some children. On our way back
father had a strange dream, which he related tome the next morning as we
rode along. It was to the effect that Mr. Connor, who had returned from
Ontario and gone into Lac la Biche to trade for the winter, was drowned.
Father said he could not shake off the spirit of depre3sion which the dream
had created in his mind. Reaching Edmonton, he met the word that Mr. Conner
was drowned, and, strangely enough, this had occurred at the time we were
camping between Buck and Pigeon lakes. Readers of "SADDLE, SLED AND
SNOWSHOE" will remember Mr. Connor as the gentleman who travelled with my
party across the plains in 1864.
Cutting and hauling timber,
building a stable, whip-sawing lumber, making dog-sleds and horse-sleds, and
fishing entailed an immense amount of work as winter came on. We made new
nets and mended our old ones, built stagings and hung the fish until the
real cold weather set in, when we froze them oil ice and then packed our
catch. But while the fish were plentiful, they were of a very poor quality,
both wormy and lean, so that out of hundreds a very small percentage was fit
to eat. It was a case of over-production. Later, when some scores of
thousands had been caught, there was a very perceptible improvement in
quality; but that took years to accomplish.
It was at this time that a
war party of Crees came to us. Fortunately there were quite a number of
Stonies camped beside the Mission at this time. It was in the evening, as
Francis and myself were working the whip-saw for all it was worth, in order
to finish our number of planks for the day, that these fellows, some thirty
in number, filed into our clearing. As the Stonies did not look upon them
with favor, Fox, their leader, an old acquaintance of mine, brought the
entire party of warriors into our house. Fortunately our one room was a big
one, and in the interests of peace and the future of our work it was better
to put up with a crowd for one night than to have turned them out, though
the Stonies would have stood by us in such a case. We told them plainly,
though, that we would have no nonsense this time; they might stay with us
for the night, but I would issue ammunition to to the Stonies, and have them
guard the place all the time that they were with us, and if they attempted
to play any tricks their own lives would be the forfeit.
Fox protested against any
evil intention on their part. He said they were tired and hungry, and were
on their way back home, disappointed in their attempt to make a foray
against the Blackfeet. Said he, "Let us stay with you one night, John, and
we will leave quietly in the morning." We therefore sheltered and fed them
and guarded them from the Stonies, who very naturally were resentful of the
conduct of the Crees at different times in the past. However, old Mark took
charge of the watch, and assured me that it would be all right. I have no
doubt that some of those men for the first time listened to the Gospel
message sung and spoken in the language wherein they were born.
We entertained our guests as
best we could, and spent the long evening by the light of our big chimney
fire, opening to their minds visions of peace and predicting to them the
near approach of the time when they should go to war no more. During the
evening an old warrior, who had evidently been listening to what we had to
say in an unbelieving mood, said, "You white men think you are very wise;
now I will give you something to count which you will never be able to find
out." "Well, let us have it," I said, when I saw that the crowd was
interested in the matter. So the old fellow propounded his great puzzle.
Said he, "There were seven buffalo bulls. Each had two horns and two eyes
and one tail, and each foot had a split hoof, and above the hoof were two
little horns. Now, for the seven bulls what was the whole number?" and the
painted warrior gave a contemptuous grin, as if to say, "There, take that
for your boasted wisdom to grapple with." I mentally worked out the simple
question, and quickly gave him the number, and then Fox laughed and said,
"Did I not tell you you could not catch John? He is very much wiser than we
are." But the old man, being much more obtuse and ignorant than Indians
generally are, would not believe that I had answered his question, so lie
got a small pole and faced it on all sides with his knife. Then he took a
piece of charcoal and began laboriously to make marks for the horns and eyes
and tail, etc., of the bull. But his companions chafed him so unmercifully
that he was soon lost in his calculations and gave up in chagrin.
This incident gave me a
chance to enlarge on the benefit of schools and of education. I told that
old mathematician that the little boys and girls in our schools would laugh
at such a simple question as he gave; that the white men went on into
millions upon millions in their calculations. Fox then said, "We are worse
than children in all these matters, and we are foolish to gainsay the white
man. But I believe John when he says that what has been possible to the
white man is also possible to us Indians, for I notice that in some things
our minds are quicker than those of most white men. But as for John, you
cannot play with him; he is both white man and Indian put together." I
warmly protested that I was but a child in wisdom; that I was learning about
the Indians every day, and wanted to be their friend in truth.
Early next morning the party
took their departure, and Mark and I saw them off some distance on their
road, for it was hard to restrain some of the more turbulent and revengeful
of the Stonies—they had too many old scores to wipe out.
Winter was now upon us, and
our people scattered in quest of food and furs, so that by the first of
December Francis and myself and our families were the only ones left at the
Mission. At times the solitude was oppressive, and would have been much
worse but that we were constantly busy hunting and fishing, taking out
timber, gathering in firewood, etc. Breaking in dogs also took some time,
for the old stock was about used up. Old Draffan and his contemporaries were
gone, either dead or now too old for hard service.
About the middle of December
Francis and I started out towards the plains with dog-trains. My object was
two-fold—to visit the people, if I could find any, and also to try and
obtain some provisions. We were growing tired of fish. We had about a foot
of snow to break on the trail, and were glad towards the close of the third
day to find the track of a solitary hunter, which we followed into his camp.
Here we found Samson and old Paul and other of our own people, all very glad
to see us, but, like ourselves, on "short commons." The buffalo were far
out, and these people were barely existing on an occasional deer and a few
porcupines. But, fortunately for us, someone had run across a deer and
killed him just before we arrived in camp, and we feasted with the rest on
good fat meat. It was a rare treat to taste some fatty substance once more.
We held a meeting that night
and another the next morning, and then went on, taking Samson with us,
hoping to find some food. But after three days' steady travel all we got was
a starving bull, which made both dogs and men sick, so we concluded to
separate, Samson to strike straight for camp, and we for home. Snow had
deepened, our dogs, like ourselves, were hungry and tired, and the miles
seemed longer than usual, so that it was midnight on the fourth day on the
home stretch before we reached the lake, glad enough to settle down again
even to fish diet.
Christmas of 1864 came, but
no Santa Claus for any of our party. However, my frugal wife managed to
contrive a plum-pudding, and our little company enjoyed immensely such a
delightful break in the monotony of our daily fare.
During the holidays I started
alone for Edmonton, and there found my brother-in-law Hardisty from the
Mountain House. He accompanied me to Victoria, where we spent New Year's day
with father and mother and the rest of our family. We found that at
Edmonton' and Victoria there was the same scarcity of food as with us. The
buffalo were as yet far out, and the Indians were between us and them, and
in a semi-starving condition. Moreover, the winter was a hard one, the snow
deep and the cold intense.
Hardisty accompanied me back
to Pigeon Lake on condition that I would go on with him to the Mountain
Fort. "For," said he, "you should visit your sisters; our fort is part of
your parish. You can preach to us—we need it— and you may meet some Indians
in on a trade. Besides we can spare you a little provision." I here confess
that while all the other reasons were true, the last one at that time was
convincing and unanswerable.
I took Francis along, and we
fought our way through deep snow and extreme cold to the Mountain House, a
distance from Pigeon Lake of one hundred and twenty miles, reaching there
after dark the third day. For both Francis and myself, after the meagre
piscatorial diet of some months, it was hard work. Heavy exertion such as
this requires strong food. But while at the fort, where we spent part of
three days, we fared sumptuously on good dried meat, which had been brought
in from the plains by the Blackfeet. We had a delightful visit with my
sisters and the people of the fort. Some Stonies came in to trade while we
were there, and among these was my old friend Jonas, whom I was well pleased
to see again. We held several services, and would gladly have stayed longer
were it not that our families were in a state of semi-starvation at the
distant lake.
We had presented to us 125
pounds of dried meat, and with this carefully tied on our sleds we said
good-bye and turned our faces homeward. Though the road was heavy, by
travelling most of the night we were back at the Mission early the third
day, where we found all well and exceedingly glad to see us.
Not a single Indian put in an
appearance. These were having all they could do to keep soul and body
together. It was a hard winter all over the Saskatchewan country. We got up
a lot of firewood and cut it into proper lengths, spending several clays at
this work. Meantime, we tried to fatten our dogs on fish, but even they
would not thrive on these. Then we started for Victoria, hoping that by this
time a change for the better in the provision line would have taken place.
At Edmonton we found the
people of the fort on limited rations. Pushing on we made a big day without
any trail, from above Sturgeon River to Victoria, over sixty miles, and when
comfortably seated in the Mission mother said, "I am sorry, John, but all I
can give you for supper to-night is potatoes and milk." Both Francis and I
vehemently asserted that this would be a glorious change for us, and so it
was.
Here also the whole
settlement was on short allowance. Father had heard of Maskepetoon's camp
being about 150 miles down country, but the reports were not encouraging.
"Still," said he, "those Indians ought to be visited, and I am glad you have
come, for now you can go to them." To do this we must have food, and as my
brother David had made a fishery out at Long Lake that fall and his fish
were still out there, we first went out to the lake, about sixty miles
north, for the fish. On this trip David and father's Cree boy Job went with
me. The round trip was only one hundred and twenty miles, but it still
lingers in my memory as one of the hardest on record in my experience. The
cold was so intense it worried our dogs to stand it, and the snow was so
full of friction that our sleds seemed almost as though they were being
pulled through sand. The camps were smoky, and on the whole it was a hard
and disagreeable journey.
In the Mission house at this
time there lay upon his dying bed a poor young fellow who had wasted his
substance in riotous living and was now paying the penalty in extreme
physical prostration. He had gone out on the plains the same summer that I
did, and wintered in the Saskatchewan the season of 1862-63. During that
winter, while he and a companion were out hunting near Battle River, their
camp was attacked one night by Indians. His companion was shot and killed,
he himself wounded, and in making his escape, and in the subsequent journey
to Edmonton, he underwent great hardship. It was after this, when he had
thoroughly recovered, that I first met him. He was then a very strong man,
one of the best swimmers I ever saw in the water. But he went across the
mountains into the mining camps, and when he came back to our side his
strength was about gone.
Father found him in a room in
the fort at Edmonton in sore straits, and arranged for his transport to
Victoria. Both father and mother and all the rest were now doing everything
they could to make him comfortable, but he was dying. He said to me as I
bade him farewell for our trip to Maskepetoon's camp, "Good-bye, John, until
we meet up yonder." "Why, Harry," T said, "I expect to come back soon."
"Ah," he said, "but I will be dead before you come." And so it proved. Poor
Harry was now all right. He had come to himself, and was born again. But it
was a heaven-send to that young fellow in this wild country to fall at last
into mother's hands. She in a multitude of ways soothed and comforted the
last weeks of his life. |
