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BOTH father and mother have
taken a strong liking to Maskepetoon, and have given the old gentleman a
room in the new house, of which he is very proud. In this room he leaves his
paper and books and clothes, and into it he often goes to read his Bible.
His manly, courteous and kindly behavior makes it pleasant to have him in
the house, and in every good work he is as the missionary's right hand. It
is well it is so, for at this time the missionary needs all the help he can
secure. This strange, promiscuous, turbulent crowd need careful handling.
Men who have quarreled about a horse or a woman bring the case to the
missionary to settle. Women whose husbands have, as they say, "thrown them
away," come to him to reinstate them in their husband's favor and lodge.
Widows who have been robbed by their late husband's relatives pour their
complaints into his ear, and look to him to adjust their claims. Monogamy
versus polygamy is a burning question, and very often the preacher is sorely
puzzled to know what to do in the matter. All the sick in camp expect the
praying man to help them. What with meetings all through the week and almost
all day Sunday, father and Peter are constantly employed. Then comes the
solemn gathering of the big Council, when the long-stemmed pipe is passed
around, and every rite and ceremony religiously observed.
It has often seemed to me
that superstition and ritualism are synonymous in the minds and lives of
men. Here were these most superstitious of beings, and in all their life
intense ritualism had full sway. These council gatherings, however, were
fine opportunities for the missionary, who, if in the vicinity, and if he
had the confidence of the people, was always invited to be present. At these
would assemble both friends and foes. Conjurers and medicine men were there,
who felt their craft was in danger; warriors and horse-thieves, too, who
loved their life of wild lawlessness, and readily foresaw that if this new
faith should have sway their present mode of life would cease. Others there
were who intensely hated the white man. His cupidity, sensuality and
generally aggressive conduct had at some time in their history insulted and
wronged their whole being, and now they fairly loathed the sight of the
white portion of the race. On the other hand were the few who had embraced
the new faith, and who were in hearty sympathy with the mission.
War, peace, trade, the
present, the future, their old faiths, the new one brought in by these
missionaries, all these matters would be discussed at the councils, and the
tactful exponent of Gospel teaching would watch his chance, and from the
speeches and arguments of his audience turn the trend of thought to
Christianity and civilization.
It was fortunate that at this
time our mission had a strong friend and ally such as Maskepetoon proved
himself to be. With consummate tact he would preside over these council
gatherings, and in every one of them score a point or more in favor of the
missionary and the cause he represented.
Tennyson says:
"Here and there a cotter's
babe is royal born By right Divine."
I will say an Indian's babe
was "royal born by right Divine," when the child who became this man
Maskepetoon was born: his birthright the common heritage of natural man, his
birthplace the Rocky Mountains, his cradle lullaby the crash of tumbling
avalanches and the roarings of mighty "chinooks." The shrill cry of the
mountain lion, the deep bass note of the buffalo, the ripplings of limpid
streams and the ragings of mountain torrents in their wild race to a common
level—these with the pagan's death wail, the rattle of the conjurer's drum,
and the warrior's shout of triumph were sounds familiar to his baby ears.
His childhood was passed in
travellings constant and perilous. Winter or summer, his people had "no
abiding place." He was always in the presence of the giant forces of Mother
Nature. His youthful eye could ever and anon look out from some foot-hill
height upon scenes which the varying shades of heaven's light so glorified
that these became as pictures painted by the hand of God Himself. His young
manhood was passed in those times when the rich premiums of life, love,
respect, gratitude were lavishly bestowed upon the perfect horseman, the
successful hunter, and the brave and victorious warrior.
Maskepetoon had a free hand
in all this, and brought to himself and people great glory. As was the
manner of the period, he was a polygamist, and an inveterate hater of his
tribal enemies. This he had drunk in with his mother's milk, and yet as he
grew into strong manhood I can readily believe this unique man had his
moments of longing for better things. The Divine would stir within him so
strongly at times that the crusting of centuries of sin and darkness would
crack, and the man would aspire and look and long for something that he
instinctively knew would be infinitely better than his present.
It is related of Maskepetoon
that after he had become renowned as a victorious warrior, and already the
Blackfeet tribes had given him the name of Mon-e-guh.-ba--now (the Young
Chief), his aged father said to him, "My son, you are making a great
mistake. The glory you are now seeking will be short-lived. Delighting in
war, taking pleasure in the spilling of man's blood, is all wrong. If you
want to be a great man, if you want to be remembered long, turn about and
work for peace. This is the only thing that will give you true fame."
Six different times did this
heathen philosopher thus address his beloved son, and this proud and haughty
youthful chieftain would fold his arms around his head, and bowing himself
sit in silent reverence and meekly listen; but his warlike spirit would
rebel against this sage advice. Yet his father's words troubled him so that
at last he filled a pipe and went over to the lodge of another aged man, who
was said to be wise beyond the wisdom of other men, and lighting the pipe he
handed it to the old man, and asked for counsel as to what was best in life,
and what was evil and should be shunned.
The humble-minded old Indian
said, "Your father is more capable of advising you than I am;" but
Maskepetoon persisted in seeking counsel, and then the aged philosopher cut
eight small sticks of different lengths, and stood them in the ground four
in a row. "Now," said this unschooled professor of ethical teaching, "these
sticks represent two lines of life. I will give them names. These four are
falsehood, dishonesty, hatred of fellowmen, war; those are truth, honesty,
love of fellowmen, peace. I will speak of each one; and now since you have
come to me, my son, I want you to open your ears and treasure in your heart
what I have to say." Then in his own natural eloquence the aged man
discoursed to his intent listener, and when finished he gathered the line of
sticks ending in war, and said: "Shall we keep these, or shall I burn them?"
"Burn them," came from the stern lips of the strong-willed young man. "Shall
I bind these others ending in peace together, and give them to you in
remembrance of what 1 have told you?" "Bind them well and give them to me,"
replied Maskepetoon, and thus he forsook war and became the champion of
peace, and in this way became the forerunner of the Gospel of Peace which in
a few years was to be preached for the first time in this new land.
In the meantime Maskepetoon's
reformation was put to severe tests by the murder of his friends and fellow
tribesmen, and by the frequent stealing of his horses; but he stood firm.
Then came the killing of his father by the Blackfeet, and while both friends
and foes, knowing him as they did, watched and wondered, still, like the
mountains under whose shade he was born, he was immovable, and remained
loyal to his new position as the apostle of peace in this lawless country.
It was soon after this that
Maskepetoon placed himself upon record before all men as the "Peace Chief,"
and it happened in this wise. He and his people were encamped near the Peace
Hills, close to where the little town of Wetaskewin now stands, when a large
party of Blackfeet and their allies came in on their way to trade at Fort
Edmonton. Under such circumstances the Blackfeet were only too glad to ask
for a temporary peace, and this being arranged, they came into the Cree
camp, seemingly forgetful that they had with them the very man who had
killed Maskepetoon's father. Somehow this came out, and caused consternation
in the minds of both parties. Said they, "If the young chief hears this,
then there will be terrible war." But our hero did find out that the man who
had killed his parent was in his camp. When he heard it he sent for his best
horse, had him saddled and accoutred as for war, fastened him at his
tent-door, and while intense anxiety prevailed, and all were nerved up for
the struggle which they thought inevitable, Maskepetoon sent for his
father's murderer. The man, an elderly warrior, came as to his death, and
Maskepetoon waved him to a seat near himself in the tent. Passing him his
own adorned chief's clothes, made of leather, decorated with beads and
quills and fringed with human hair, he said to him, "Put those on." "Now,"
thought the frightened yet stolid murderer, "he is only dressing me out for
my death," and brave men on both sides held their breath as they looked on,
calmly making ready for the desperate struggle they believed was coming.
Again Maskepetoon spoke: "You deprived me of my father, and there was a time
when I would have gloried in taking your life and in drinking your blood,
but that is past. What makes you pale? You need not fear; I will not kill
you. You must now be to me as a father; wear my clothes, ride my horse, and
tell your people when you go back to your camp this is the way Mon-e-guh-ba-now
takes revenge."
Then the old Blackfoot found
speech and said, You have killed me, my son. You are a great man. Never in
the history of my people has such as this you have done been known. My
people and all men will hear of this and say, 'The young chief is brave and
strong and good; he stands alone."
With this men breathed freely
again, and women laughed for joy, and little children began to play once
more among the lodges. No wonder that such a man was looking for something
better than the old faith. But who was to reveal this better something to
him? Thus far the white men he had met gave him no help. The trader's
ambition, it would seem, reached no higher than muskrats and beaver, while
the transient stay of the roystering, licentious, sporting aristocrat or
eastern grandee, with his impudent assumption of superior make, did the
Indian and white men 'Who followed him great harm. But now in the fulness of
time the same England that had sent to this new land rum and many a sample
of spurious civilization, was sending a messenger of another type. The
English Wesleyan Conference sent the Rev. R. T. Rundle to labor amongst the
Indians of the Hudson's Bay Territory. His objective point was the
Saskatchewan country, and presently it was rumored in the camps that a man
who talked to "Him" (meaning the Deity) had arrived in the upper country.
"Who is this mysterious being
who talks with God?" "What are the limits of his power? "What is his purpose
in coming to this part of the country ?" were questions frequently asked,
and around many a camp-fire and in many a leather lodge this strange being
was discussed. None was more curious and anxious than Maskepetoon, who
finally saw Mr. Rundle at the Rocky Mountain House. Then the missionary
visited his camp, which was at that time near Burnt Lake, a short distance
west of where the Industrial School on the Red Deer now is.
Old Chiniquay, one of our
chiefs at Morley, who was brought up in Maskepetoon's camp, tells me that
from that first visit of the preacher of this new faith there was a marked
change in the conduct of the chief. Later on he learned the Syllabic system,
taught him by Mr. Harriott, an officer of the Hudson's Bay Company, who was
stationed for some time at the Mountain Fort. Then he became a student of
the New Testament, translated by Steinhauer and Sinclair into a dialect of
his mother tongue, and from that day took sides with the Gospel and became
the true friend of the missionary.
Two other friends of the
pioneer preacher of the Gospel were Stephen and Joseph his son, whom I have
already referred to in earlier chapters. The old man had been a mighty
hunter. Grizzly bears, mountain lions, and all manner of game, big and
little, had been his common prey, and of his pluck in battle there could be
no question. With his left arm broken near the shoulder, he caught up the
swinging limb, and gripping the sleeve of his leather shirt with his teeth,
he charged the enemy, and in the defence of his camp did such heroic deeds
with his one arm that his foes gave way, believing him to be possessed of
"Spirit power."
I will never forget the old
hero's eloquent harangue before a council of excited warriors, who had been
discussing the desirability of driving the white people out of the
Saskatchewan country. Many had been the grunts of approval and assent, as
one after another wrought upon the assembly in the endeavor to stir up
strife. Then old Stephen got up, and leaning on his staff, spoke as follows:
"Young men, your words have made me sad. I have said to myself, while I
listened to you, These men do not think. Has it never come to your minds
that this big country we live in is almost empty of men, that one can travel
many nights between the dwellings and tents of men, and not see a human
being; and do you think this can continue? Were not these broad plains and
great hills, this good soil and rich grass, and these many trees made to be
used for the good of the great Father's children? I think so. I am not
selfish enough to believe that all this big land was for me and my people
only. No, I seem to see great multitudes occupying where I have roamed
alone. Young men, the change is near, and the Great Spirit has sent his
servants to prepare us for its coming. Again, young men, your words are
foolish, for you are not able to drive the white man out, nor yet keep him
back from coming into this country. Can you "—(and here the old man's eye
flashed, and his almost palsied arm took on fresh life, pointing to the
mighty river flowing near)— "can you dam that river? Can you send those
strong waters back up on the mountains from whence they came? No, you cannot
do this; likewise you cannot keep the white men out of this land. Can you
stop yonder sun from rising in the morning? Come, gather yourselves, make
yourselves strong, stop him if you can No; neither can you stop the incoming
multitudes. It will be; it must be; it is destiny. Then, young men, be wise,
and listen to those who can prepare you for these changes which are coming,
surely coming."
Ah, thought I, this man has
attended the school of the prophets; the Infinite has spoken to him. And
other men, notwithstanding the paint and feathers, and the centuries of war
and ignorance, thought so too. Joseph also, like his father, was solidly on
the side of the mission, and no other man I have ever been associated with
lived so strictly and consistently as did this man. The law of God was to
him supreme. He followed the letter as well as the spirit. The snow might be
deep, the cold intense, the distance we had travelled for the day long, the
way difficult; but if it was Saturday night, Joseph would work until
midnight cutting and packing in wood, so that our supply would not need
replenishing before midnight Sunday night. Legalism, you say. Never mind,
this man was of the true Puritan stock, and his pedigree, is it not written
in heaven?
Joseph also was a mighty
hunter. He told me (and this was fully corroborated by his contemporaries)
that quite early in his career as a hunter he had kept count of his killing
grizzlies up to forty-two, then he had lost count, but had killed a large
number since that time. Think of this, you Nimrods who go afield with your
big bores and modern repeating rifles! Joseph's best weapon was a pot-metal
flintlock, single-barrel, and muzzle-loading at that. With such a gun it
required pure pluck to tackle the big grizzlies of the mountains, but my old
friend was full of it. There was another fine fellow, "The Red Bank," or, as
he was baptized, Thomas Woolsey, a kind, cheerful, everyday Christian, one
it did you good to meet, and from whose camp I always came away refreshed
and made stronger in the faith.
These men were some of the
fruits of missionary labor. Bundle and Woolsey and Steinhauer had not
visited distant camps and undergone all manner of hardship and risk without
accomplishing good. These men I have mentioned and others, both men and
women, were now the nucleus of a church, and the comfort and help of the new
mission. Moreover, there were among the conservative pagans some good
fellows, kindly disposed to all men, and these, too, became the friends of
the mission party. There was the "Blood" man, whom I have already spoken of,
who had to whoop every little while or else lose his soul, as he thought. He
would have made a first-class shouting Methodist or Salvation Army man. I
should not forget old Mah-mus, who could neither eat nor smoke without first
ringing a small bell he - constantly carried with him. He was an A1
ritualist, and would have done credit to an extremely High Church
establishment. |
