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DURING the autumn of 1868,
and on the last page of "Pathfinding on Plain and Prairie," I bade my kind
reader adieu, with the promise that if opportunity came I would sometime
resume my narrative of life and adventure in the far West. As yet but little
change had come upon the scene; primeval conditions still largely obtained
throughout that great region. The party I had guided into the beautiful
valley of the Saskatchewan (as related in the closing chapters of my last
volume) had left the banks of the Mississippi several months before, and by
dint of continuous travel and many weeks of camping on the trail, had
succeeded in reaching this distant spot. These people had left railway
transport far to the south-east of this big upland country. Away under the
Stars and Stripes they had said farewell for long years to what might
fittingly be called civilized modes of travel. The ox-cart, the heavily
burdened waggon, the prairie schooner, were slow in pace, and when one took
into consideration the great wilderness, with its bridgeless and ferryless
rivers and its thousands of miles of ungraded trails and utter solitude, so
far as man was concerned, the enterprise of those few who ventured into this
distant field seemed sublime.
This little party brought
with them the first buckboards to come into Manitoba and the North-West.
Hitherto the Red River cart had reigned supreme—the aristocracy of the land
had nothing better; but now the light and easy- riding buckboard came to
conquer, and with base ingratitude the cart was relegated to the plebeian
work of freighting only. No more of the dangling of one's legs over the
front bar of this wooden coach; good-bye forever to the dulcet tones of
squeaking axles and the shrieking of unbushed hubs! No, gentlemen, we are
making history, we are entering on an epoch of development with the arrival
of the springless buckboard. God bless the man whose brain caught the
glorious idea and who thus became a benefactor to all who ventured upon the
great continents beyond the limits of steam. Even as a palace Pullman coach
is to a loaded flat-car, so is the buckboard to an honest Red River cart. We
can speak feelingly, if not regretfully.
Forward the Star of Empire
takes her course, and we on a glorious day in September of 1868, with but a
portion of the original party, move onward and westward. Up along the north
bank of the big Saskatchewan we ride and roll; across lovely bits of
prairie, through dense woods where the road as yet has been barely cut out
and countless stumps are in omnipresent evidence; the heavens above a sea of
glory, and the earth beneath full of autumn grass and herbage and foliage
colored and tinted and gorgeous. Ever and anon the graceful and majestic
bends and stretches of this mighty river are at our feet. Over thousands of
acres of rich soil, down into and across numerous streams and creeks—the
three "Was-uh-huh-de-nows," the Sucker, the Vermilion, the Deep, the
Sturgeon, and many others—all arteries feeding the giant river. The stream
is the father of the river, even as the child is the father of the man, and
the individual the progenitor of the nation. This is why we are camping and
rolling and straining and working up the slopes of a great continent. We are
here to preach and live loyalty to God and country, to make men strong and
true; therefore we worry along. What matters an upset, and serious loss in
consequence? Who cares for breaking axles and snapping dowelpins, and
splitting felloes and ripping harness, dew and rain and mud and cold and
storm, and sometimes hunger, and always danger? Behold, to the true pioneer
these are counted as nothing in order that the making of the man, the
building of the citizen, may go on and the world be made better.
Excepting my own family, our
party is entirely tenderfoot. The Rev. Peter Campbell and wife and children
are with us, also Mr. A. I. Snider, who has come out as teacher, and a
sturdy Scotchman with his Red River native wife; these latter going with us
to Pigeon Lake, and Messrs. Campbell and Snider to Edmonton. Even in a small
party of tenderfeet there is striking variety in point of vision. As we
gather around the camp-fires we listen and hear such talk as this: "Oh, what
a big country! months of constant travel, and it is still before us!" "Room
for millions!" "Splendid soil!" "Rich grass!" "What glorious landscapes!" it
air, clear skies!" "Surely this is God's country!" and in our hearts and
minds we say, verily it is God's country. Then it is another voice that
speaks, and what we hear is thus: ``What a fool I was to leave Ontario!" the
"0 h" long drawn out, almost a wail; it horrible roads!" "Such barren
wastes!" "A beastly, dirty country, only fit for dogs and breeds and wild
animals!" "Oh, I'm tired of this endless journey!" "My, my, how some men
will lie about a country!" "Surely this mud and these tormenting mosquitoes,
and these infernal bulldogs, and these constant bridgeless streams, I hate
them! oh, why did I ever come out here into this God-forsaken and beastly
land?" and so on through all the gamut of execration.
But now we are approaching
Edmonton. This is a prominent place; has been on the map of Britain's empire
for scores of years, has been a "station" in the Minutes of a large
Conference for a long time. Are there any hotels? None. Are there any
churches? One, a Roman Catholic. How many stores? One, the Hudson's Bay
Company. What is the population? From twenty to one hundred and fifty; and
in tones of bitter disappointment the sad traveller turns away with the
despairing comment: "And this is the end of it all! Oh, my, what folly to
send us out to such a place." Well, just here we are in accord, and
sometimes even wise men make mistakes in their disposition of humanity.
Edmonton, as she really is, stands for the centredom of the great
Saskatchewan country—the centre in religion, government, commerce,
transport. Within the four walls of yonder little fort, and within its
wooden bastions and picket sides, large business is conducted and
far-reaching measures are planned. Its tentacles run out and grip this
country in all directions. The population, we have just said, was from
twenty to one hundred and fifty. We meant in this the residents of the post,
for outside its walls hundreds, sometimes thousands, encamped. Hither the
tribes came up for trade and barter, as also for war and revenge; here many
a temporary peace was patched up and again broken; here scenes of butchery
and rapine and murder took place, and it was truly wonderful how this stout
little frontier post had held its own throughout the years, amidst such
constant turbulence and strife. The policy of the great Fur Company had much
to do with this. They took sides with none, they were the friends of all;
theirs was truly a paternal attitude to every Indian in this whole land.
And now in this autumn of
1868 we are at Edmonton, and those of our party destined for this point
remain, while we go on. This time fortunately there is a scow, and by dint
of much pulling and tracking we cross our carts and stock, and climb the
southern bank, and keep our eyes alert as we move up athwart the converging
trails, upon all or any of which our enemy might come. To-day we are
fortunate, and we slip away into the timber country between here and Pigeon
Lake with a growing sense of security; and yet we watch and listen and
safeguard as best we may, and travel on and reach our home on the northern
shore of this forest-fringed lake. If we have any home, this is the spot.
Here we began in 1864, and for two years this mission was, I am bound to
say, unique in the fact of its being maintained without any contributed
funds. It cost the Society it served not one farthing. We hunted and fished
and trapped, and, like our people, were nomads, sometimes feasting and then
starving; for, such was the energy of our life, I cannot say we fasted.
During the last two years we have had a humble salary, which has had to
perform the cantilever act and lift us out of the hole of the past as well
as hold down the present. Now we have a simple home, a one-roomed shanty,
and in line with this another similar for our man. Ours has been kitchen,
dining-room and sleeping apartment. In it we have held many public services
and councils, and entertained various guests—Hudson's Bay officials,
wandering missionaries, and vagrant Indians. Horse-thieves and war parties
have stopped with us for the night, and we have watched them sleep, and
stood guard over their every action until the next day relieved us of the
anxiety of their presence.
We now went to work to add
another room to our house, and soon the logs were up and the chimney built.
My man and myself were, between the intervals of hunting and fishing,
exceedingly busy sawing lumber for the floor of this new room, when a couple
of travellers came upon us from the West, an altogether unexpected quarter.
These proved to be an English half- breed, House by name, and Henry Hardisty,
whose brother Richard was my sister's husband. These men had come across the
mountain by the Vermilion Pass, and, reaching the Rocky Mountain fort, had
come by way of Buck Lake to Pigeon Lake as the safest and most secure route
to Edmonton; for the southern Indians had so often ambushed and slain small
parties of white men passing through the country, that the way was fraught
with extreme peril. Of course these camped with us for the night. It was a
delightful change for us to have intercourse with men who came from afar,
and to listen to their story of travel and adventure on the Pacific slope.
During the course of the
evening, spent in the blaze of our chimney fire, Hardisty noticed my skates
hanging on the wall, and inquired if I could skate. I answered, "Some."
Again came the question, how fast could I skate? I answered that I had never
timed myself. "Could I skate eight miles an hour?" And I laughingly
answered, "I would not think much of my running without skates if I did not
do better than that." Then my new-found friend began to take an interest in
me; he evidently admired speed —said he was quite a sprinter himself; had
more than once run among the miners and Indians in Washington and Oregon,
where he was known as the "Pondura antelope"; strongly advised me to go over
there and make a vast deal more money by running and athletics than I
possibly could by preaching in this country. He, like a good many more I
have met, did not quite comprehend our estimates of values.
Holding meetings at home,
visiting adjacent camps, building and making lumber, plastering and mudding
and preparing for winter, and all the while keeping a good lookout for the
approach of a wily enemy, thus occupied the short days and long nights found
us busy. And now that the lake was frozen over, the work of fishing began in
earnest. We needed several thousands to carry us through until spring. The
fish in this lake are not very good, and we are making them better by making
them less. As we pick the bones of the poor fish we solve the problem by
mentally determining to help rid this lake of its surplus life. Two hundred
thousand whitefish out of this little body of fresh water will give the
balance opportunity to live and thrive. This is why we have gone without
clothes and furniture, even to a cooking stove, in order to invest in twine
and net material, all of which is exceedingly costly. We have introduced
these amongst the Indians, and quite a number who in all their previous
history never owned or used a net are now the happy possessors of a narrow
fifteen or twenty fathom one. To these men this is a wonderful advance in
civilization and permanent life; to us it is all this and more, for it is so
much toward the carrying out of our method of making the fish in this
particular lake fitter food for man and beast.
We had already found that the
first few weeks of winter are the best time for catching fish, and now with
long pole and forked stick and cod lines we pass our nets under the ice, and
every morning overhaul them and freeze the fish, and carry them up to the
storehouse, and thus prepare for home and journey and general work, and also
for the inevitable wanderer, who will doubtless, as in the past, come to us
singly and in droves. And, as ever, if we would reach the heart and soul we
must, as did the Master, do this through the stomach; and, as we know full
well by this time, even a poor fish is better than an empty stomach. Thus
the early morn of the twenty-fifth of November found us on our knees on the
ice of this beautiful highland lake, literally jerking the fish from the net
with our teeth and swinging them out upon the ice beside us with a toss of
the neck, when in looking out upon the lake I discerned an object which it
seemed to me must have come upon the scene since the previous evening. After
glancing at it a few times, I pointed it out to an Indian, who also was
overhauling his net. He laughingly replied, "Oh, it is only the ice- crack
shining up in that place," and we went on with our work; but ever and anon I
looked at the object and determined to investigate it later.
This being our little
daughter's birthday, we had decided upon a humble feast, and as there were
twelve or fifteen 'lodges of our people with us, all were invited. But as
this would not take place until afternoon, I went on as usual and put my
fish away- and washed my nets, and then, being at leisure, quietly took my
gun and skates and went down to the lake. The snow was beaten hard to the
ice in ridges or drifts, and in between these there was good skating. With
my skates firmly tied on, I started to reconnoitre the object far out on the
ice. When the Indians saw me, some of their best runners came in pursuit.
They reasoned, "John has a far-seeing glass; he has already made that spot
out, and it is worth a run; let us race him for it." The fact was, I had no
glass, but was of that make that I must find out if possible what this
object was, and this was the spur of my action that morning and many
mornings since then. Soon the whole camp was astir, and soon they saw that
the fleetest men were not in it, for even on the snow I ran about as fast as
they could, and when in the windings of the ice doubled and quadrupled on
them, all the time with my eye keenly on the speck which had aroused my
curiosity, and which was now quickly growing larger. Presently, as the big
animal rose to its feet, I saw this was a full- grown cow moose. Ah, thought
I, this is a royal birthday present for little Ruth. Now began the chase and
fun in real earnest, and still my skates gave me a great advantage, for
while my game made fast time on the snow-clad spots, it slipped and
sometimes almost fell on the places where I was making the greatest speed.
Verily it was a most unfair race, as usually are indeed such between man and
the lower order of animals, for this was but a sample of all hunting. In a
very short time I was upon the big moose, and suddenly she turned to strike
me, but I fired right into her breast, straight for the heart, and
down upon the ice fell my
quarry. By the time I had bled the moose and got nicely to work skinning it,
my Indian friends came up smilingly congratulating me on my good fortune and
speed. I gave my good old skates—a pair I had brought into the country in
1860—all the credit, and invited them to share the meat, just as any one of
these fellows would have done to me if I had come upon his kill. Our menu
that day included moose-nose and brisket and meat, all of which was
delightfully opportune, and I was truly thankful. It was a great day to
those simple people; such a feast some of them had never seen, much less
partaken of. The King of England may feed once in a lifetime a host of his
poor subjects, but we at that time were really doing more in feeding half a
hundred; and the appreciation was great. Enduring bonds of friendship and
trust were made that day between us and those wild roving men and women.
A strange little company that
was to thus meet and for the little while forget all the alien idea, and in
common give themselves to enjoyment and goodly cheer; a motley crew, of
strange history and tradition, murderers and poisoners and horse-thieves,
and conjurers and medicine-men, and gamblers and warriors, and skilful
hunters, etc. Many a foul crime, many a glorious deed, is written in the
faces of those who linger at our feast to-day. Yonder sits old Paul. Even
now the avenger is on the lookout for him, and his kin and his arms are ever
at hand, and his eye ever alert to guard his life and home. He and his
brother each killed his man over a gambling quarrel. Now both are repentant,
and Paul is, as I verily believe, a converted soul, and one of our staunch
Christians; but the recent past hangs over him all the same. God is more
ready to forgive than man.
Yonder is Simon, who also is,
as we watch him, gripping his gun, and feeling for his knife, and listening
and looking doorwards. He also has recently murdered two men, both half-
breeds, and knows full well that if any of their friends come upon him
unawares his life and perhaps that of his party will make atonement for the
crime. He, too, is sorry, but still rankling with the insults that he claims
these men gave him and his people. There is the look of murder in his very
attitude as we behold him as our guest.
Here is a noted horse-thief.
At the time of which I write this was a glory, a meritorious act, with most
of the native population of the West. There is no blush on his brow; the
more horses he has stolen the greater man is he, and the more renown and
favor he has in camp with both sexes.
On the other hand are Samson,
and John, and William, all noble specimens of manhood, valiant in war,
heroic for peace, and exports in animal lore and hunting life. Grizzlies and
moose, mountain and elk, cariboo and wolverine, all manner of small game,
and black and cinnamon bear, have fallen to their scouting skill and
unerring marksmanship. Now in the prime and full vigor of their mature
manhood, these noble fellows are our welcome guests, and in all confidence
we depend upon them under God to keep the peace at our festive board. Some
good folk, as also some merely inquisitive people, have often said to us,
"How did you win the confidence and faith of these native tribes?" To-day's
experience is in part the answer. We companioned with them in sorrow and in
joy, in fasting and in feasting, in peace and in war; were in all things
like them, without in any sense compromising either principle or manliness.
We were nomads or permanents, as our work needed. We hunted and trapped and
fished, and engaged in all manner of athletics, foot races, horse races,
anything for real fun and common brotherhood. Thus we found out men, and
these in turn saw us and read us as a book, until they knew that on every
page of our life there was written friendship and the true desire to help
them. More than this, they saw we believed in them, and at last they grew to
believe most heartily in us. |
