Another big meeting—Move camp—Sunday service all day.
Another even larger gathering took place in the evening, when father again addressed the motley crowd through Peter, and the interest deepened. The days were spent by the missionaries in a succession of services and councils.
On Saturday the whole camp moved some twelve or fifteen miles farther east into a still more picturesque and beautiful country, rich in its changing variety of landscape and scenery.
No wonder these aboriginal men are proud of their birthright, for it is indeed a goodly heritage.
To witness this large camp moving was to me an object of great interest—the taking down of tents, the saddling and packing of horses and packing of dogs. Both horses and dogs pulled a sort of vehicle made of poles, termed in this country "travois," and thus they both packed and pulled. To these "travois" the lodge-poles were fastened by the small end and drawn along the ground. Many of the children and the aged and the sick were carried on the "travois." Indeed, the carrying and pulling capacity of an Indian pony seemed to be unlimited. Two or three children and a lot of lodge-poles on the "travois," and the mother and a couple more children on the horse's back, and the staunch little fellow ambled along at a quick step, without any trouble or fuss.
When the camp moved, parallel columns were formed and all kept together, the riders and hunters keeping on either side and in front and in the rear.
WHEN THE CAMP MOVED, PARALLEL COLUMNS WERE FORMEDWHEN THE CAMP MOVED, PARALLEL COLUMNS WERE FORMED
In an incredibly short time the whole camp was in motion, and after we came to the spot selected for our new camp-ground, in a very little while tents were up, and stages standing, and meat drying, and work going on as at the other camp. In fact, were it not for the lay of the country one could imagine that the whole village had been lifted from yonder to here without disturbing anything.
Long practice and generations of nomadic life had trained the people to constant moving.
They were "itinerants" even more than the Methodist ministry.
Sunday was a special day. The chief's influence and the presence of the missionaries caused the day to be respected by all, irrespective of creed; and prayer-meetings, and preaching, and song services were continued all day, and manifest interest was shown by the people.
Great horse-race—"Blackfoot," "Moose Hair," and others—No gambling—How "Blackfoot" was captured.
While we were in the camp a great race was run between some famous horses. This was a trial of endurance and wind as well as speed. The race was from camp straight out and around an island of timber, and back home. The whole distance must have been between five and six miles, and although many of these Indians were inveterate gamblers, yet because of the presence of the missionaries this was omitted from the programme.
THE HORSE RACETHE HORSE RACE
A bay horse called "Blackfoot" came in ahead, and the horse which Mrs. Hawke had loaned father from Saddle Lake to White-fish Lake, called "Moose Hair," came in second. Our missionary, Mr. Steinhauer, told me some of the history of "Blackfoot."
Mr. Steinhauer was in the Cree camp when this was attacked by a large force of Blackfeet and their allies, and the fighting went on most of the day, the Crees, though driven in at times, still keeping the enemy away from their camp, and eventually repulsing them; and when the last successful rally was made by the Crees, one of our people gave chase to a Blackfoot, whose horse, after a long run, showed signs of distress. The "Chief Child," for that was the Cree's name, spurred on, and at last the Blackfoot abandoned his horse. "Chief Child" captured the animal, and very soon found he had a treasure, for the trouble with the horse was that his feet were worn down smooth, and he could not run. This horse, when he recuperated and his feet grew out, became famous, and was called "Blackfoot." Eventually he came into my hands, and later on I traded him to father, who kept him until "Old Blackfoot" died, and our whole family mourned for him. He was not only speedy, but the longest-winded horse I ever owned.
Many a time when I had left the other hunters, even on the start, and when their horses were winded, "Old Blackfoot" seemed to be only getting down to his wind. I gave a splendid horse, a pair of blankets and £8 sterling for him, and he was worth it.
Father prized him highly, and had him with him when, in 1867, he travelled with his own rigs from the Saskatchewan to St. Paul's, in Minnesota, and when he came back, in the autumn of 1868, he brought "Blackfoot" with him.
At that race which we witnessed, "Blackfoot" came in an easy winner, and because of his reputation, the "Hawke" was quite satisfied to have his horse, "Moose Hair," come in second.
Formed friendships—Make a start—Fat wolves—Run one—Reach the Saskatchewan at Edmonton.
We had now spent several days with this people, and had become acquainted with many of them. I had formed friendships with a number, which, grown stronger with the years, have helped me in my life-work ever so much. Now we must continue our journey. Father told them they might look for him next year about the same time, and as a pledge of this he was going to leave me with Mr. Woolsey in the meantime.
Quite a large number escorted us for several miles on our way, and seemed reluctant to have us go. They had provisioned us with the choicest dried meat and pemmican, and our horses were rested and ready to go on.
Our course was now westward up the Battle River, and then northward for Edmonton, or as the Indians term it, the "Beaver Hill House."
As we journeyed we came near the scene of our hunt a few days since. A number of big prairie wolves were to be seen. They were glutting themselves on the offal and carcases left on the field. They were fat and could not run fast, and one could kill them with a club from his horse's back. I drove one up to our party, and Peter and William and I amused ourselves by making him trot between us for quite a distance; then we let him go, for wolf-skins in those days were not worth packing any distance.
We went in by the "Bony Knoll" and what is now known as the "Hay Lake Trail," camped twice, and reached the Saskatchewan opposite the fort in the evening of the third day.
Swim horses—Cross in small boat—Dine at officers' table on pounded meat without anything else—Sup on ducks—No carving.
Swimming our horses, and crossing in a small boat, we resaddled and repacked and rode into the fort, where we were received kindly by the Hudson's Bay Company's officers and invited to partake of their fare, which was just then pounded meat straight—no bread, no vegetables, nothing else. Pounded meat with marrow-fat is very good fare, but alone it becomes monotonous, even before you get through the first meal.
At this time Edmonton was without provisions, and only now was sending a party out to the plains to trade with the Indians for some.
The next meal we dined on duck straight. No carving by the gentleman who served; he put a duck on each plate, and we picked the bones clean—at least, I did those of mine.
Edmonton then consisted of the Hudson's Bay Company's fort, and this was all in the vicinity. Out north, about nine miles distant, was a newly commenced Roman Catholic mission; but here the four walls of the fort enclosed everything. Stores and dwelling-houses were packed in a small space, and when the trip-men and voyageurs were home for the winter the post would be crowded.
I had now seen three Hudson's Bay Company's forts in the Saskatchewan—Carlton, Pitt, and Edmonton—all situate in one of the richest agricultural districts in Canada, but each and all striking evidence that the Hudson's Bay Company was nothing more than a fur-trading organization; they were not settlers nor farmers. Pelts and not bread, furs and not homes, were what they aimed at.
Though only a boy, I could readily see that before many years this would be changed, for no power under heaven could keep settlement out of this country I had already been privileged with seeing a portion of.
Start for new home—Miss seeing father—Am very lonely—Join Mr. Woolsey.
Father was now at his objective point in the west, and as the season was advanced he must make haste to return to Norway House.
His plan was to go down the river in a skiff. I was to remain with Mr. Woolsey as a sort of assistant and interpreter.
Our present plan was for Mr. Woolsey to accompany father in the skiff to where we had crossed the river on our southward journey some weeks since, and Peter and I were to take the horses down on the north side to meet them at this point.
William had gone on to Smoking Lake and would meet us there.
We were to leave Edmonton the same day, and hoped to reach our rendezvous about the same time; but Peter and I had quite a bunch of horses to drive, and most of the road was dense forest, with the path narrow and almost overgrown with timber. Our horses, too, would run off into the thicket, so that when we came to an open space beyond, and counted up, we would generally find some were missing. While I guarded those we had, Peter would go back and patiently track up the rest. Thus, instead of reaching the spot where we were to meet father and party the second evening, it was long after dark on the third evening when we came there.
I had not seen father to say "Good-bye," at Edmonton, and I had many things to say to him before we parted for the year, and now I expected to meet him camped on the banks of the river, but as we rode down the hill into the valley all was darkness. There could be no mistake; this was the spot, but no camp and no sign of father. We wondered what was up; presently I saw something white, and, riding to it, found a note stuck in the end of a small pole, and we lit a match and I read:
"My DEAR BOY,—
"We came here early to-day and waited some hours, but the season urges me on. Am sorry to miss meeting you. Play the man. Do your best to help Mr. Woolsey.
"God bless you, my son. Good-bye.
"Your loving father,"G. McDOUGALL."
If I had been alone I could have cried heartily in my great disappointment. Oh! what a fit of lonesomeness and homesickness came upon me, but there was no time for long lamentation.
We found that Mr. Woolsey and William had gone on towards Smoking Lake, and we followed and came up with them late at night, and I began my service with Mr. Woolsey; but it took days of constant change to lift from my mind the shadow of my disappointment in missing father.
William goes to the plains—I begin work at Victoria—Make hay—Plough—Hunt—Storm.
Father had suggested two plans for immediate action: One was to send William out to the plains to trade some provisions; the other was to send me to the site of the new mission, and have me make some hay and plough some land ready for next spring, and thus take up the ground.
Mr. Woolsey decided to act on both. The former was very necessary, for we were living on duck, rabbits, etc., and the supply was precarious.
William took an Indian as his companion, and I a white man, by the name of Gladstone, as mine.
We travelled together as far as the river. This time we took a skiff Mr. Woolsey had on Smoking Lake.
We took this as far as we could by water and then loaded it on to a cart, and when we reached the river we took William's carts apart and crossed them over, and he and his companion started out to look for provisions, while Gladstone and myself to put up hay and plough land.
For the former we had two scythes, and for the latter a coulterless plough; but we had a tremendously big yoke of oxen.
We pitched our lodge down on the bank of the river and went to work; but as we had to hunt our food as well as work, we did not rush things as I wanted to.
My companion had been a long time in the Hudson's Bay Company's service, but was a boat-builder by trade, and knew little about either haymaking or ploughing or hunting; but he was a first-rate fellow, willing always to do his best. He told me that though he had been in the country for a long time, he had seldom fired a gun and had never set a net.
We had between us a single-barrelled shotgun, percussion-lock, and a double-barrelled flint lock.
The first thing we did was to make some floats and put strings on some stones, and I tied up a net we had and we crossed the river, and set it in an eddy; then we fixed up our scythes and started in to cut hay on the ground where we intended to plough.
We had several horses with us, and these and the oxen gave us a lot of trouble. Many an hour we lost in hunting them, but we kept at it.
At first our food supply was good. I caught several fine trout in my net, and shot some ducks and chickens. We succeeded in making two good-sized stacks of hay.
Then we went to ploughing, but our oxen had never pulled together before—good in the cart, but hard to manage in double harness. It was not until the second day, after a great deal of hard work, that we finally got them to pull together.
Then our plough, without a coulter, bothered us tremendously; but we staked out a plot of ground, and were determined, if possible, to tear it up.
Once our oxen got away, and we lost them for three days. "Glad," as I called him, knew very little about tracking, and I very little at that time, but the third day, late in the evening, I came across the huge fellows, wallowing in pea-vine almost up to their backs, and away they went, with their tails up, and I had to run my horse to head them off for our tent.
One morning, very early, I was across looking at my net, and caught a couple of fine large trout. Happening to look down the river, I saw some men in single file coming along our side, keeping well under the bank. My heart leaped into my mouth as I thought of a war-party; but as I looked, presently the prow of a boat came swinging into view around the point, and I knew these men I saw were tracking her up.
What a relief, and how thankful I was to think I might hear some news of home and father and the outside world, for though it was now more than four months since I left home, I had not heard a word. I hurried up and fixed my net, and pulled across and told Glad the news about the boat, and he was as excited as myself.
Isolation is all very fine, but most of us soon get very tired of it. I for one never could comprehend the fellow who sighed, "Oh, for a lodge in some vast wilderness!" Very soon the boat came to us, and we found that it contained the chief factor, William Christie, Esq., and his family, and was on its way to Edmonton. Mr. Christie told me about father passing Carlton in good time some weeks since, and assured me that he would now be safe at home at Norway House. He said that there was no late packet and he had no news from the east.
He went up and looked at our ploughing, and laughed at our lack of coulter. "Just like Mr. Woolsey, to bring a plough without a coulter," said he; but the same gentleman bought a lot of barley of us some three years after this.
They had hams of buffalo meat hanging over the prow and stern of their boat. I offered them my fish, hoping they would offer me some buffalo meat. They took my fish gladly, but did not offer us any meat. This was undoubtedly because they did not think of it, or they would have done so, but both Glad and I confessed to each other afterwards our sore disappointment.
However, we ploughed on.
One morning I had come ashore from the net with some fish in my boat, and, going up to the tent, Glad went down to the river to clean them. In a little while I looked over the bank, and, sitting within a few feet of Glad (who was engaged with the fish, just at the edge of the water), was a grey goose, looking earnestly at this object beside him; but as Glad made no sudden movement, the goose seemed to wonder whether this was alive or not. I slipped back for my gun and shot the goose, and Glad who thought somebody was shooting at him, jumped for his life, but I pointed to the dead goose and he was comforted.
Philanthropists make a great mistake when they begin to comfort others through their heads. Let them begin at their stomachs, which makes straighter and quicker work.
"GUN-SHOCK"--"GOOSE-COMFORT""GUN-SHOCK"—"GOOSE-COMFORT"
We were still three or four days away from our self-set task, when, as if by mutual agreement, the fish would not be caught, the ducks and geese took flight south, and the chickens left our vicinity. To use a western phrase, "The luck was agin' us." We had started with two salt buffalo tongues as our outfit, when we left Mr. Woolsey. We had still one of these left. We boiled it, and ate half the first day of our hard luck. We worked harder and later at our ploughing the second day. We finished the tongue and ploughed on. The third day we finished our task about two o'clock, and then I took my gun and hunted until dark, while Glad gathered and hobbled the horses close to camp. Not a rabbit or duck or chicken did I see.
If I had been a pagan Indian, I would have said, "Mine enemy hath done this. Somebody is working bad medicine about me." But I had long before this found out that the larder of a hunter or fisherman is apt to be empty at times.
Glad and I sat beside our camp-fire that night, and were solemn and quiet. There was a something lacking in our surroundings, and we felt it keenly. For a week we had been on very short "commons," and since yesterday had not tasted any food, and worked hard. In the meantime, there is no denying it, we were terribly hungry.
Early next morning we took down our tent and packed our stuff. We had neither pack nor riding-saddles, as we had come this far with William, and we had hoped that he would have returned before we were through our work; but going on the plains was going into a large country.
You might strike the camp soon, or you might be weeks looking for them, and when you found the Indians, they might be in a worse condition as to provisions than you were. This all depended on the buffalo in their migrations—sometimes here, and again hundreds of miles away. William may turn up any time, and it may be a month or six weeks before we hear from him. As it is, Glad and I do the best we can without saddles, and start for home.
Having the oxen, we went slow.
After travelling about ten miles, I saw someone coming towards us, and presently made out that it was a white man, and I galloped on to meet him, and found that it was Neils, the Norwegian, who was with Mr. Woolsey. He was on foot, but I saw he had a small pack on his back, and my first question was, "Have you anything to eat?" and he said he had a few boiled tongues on his back. Then I told him that Glad and I were very hungry, and would very soon lighten his pack. He told me Mr. Woolsey had become anxious about us, and at last sent him to see if we were still alive. When Glad came up, we soon showed Neils that our appetites were fully alive, for we each took a whole tongue and ate it; then we split another in two and devoured that. And now, in company with Neils, we continued our journey, reaching Mr. Woolsey's the same evening, but making great attempts to lower the lakes and creeks by the way, for our thirst after the salt tongues was intense.
Establish a fishery—Build a boat—Neils becomes morbid—I watch him.
The next thing was to establish a fishery.
The buffalo might fail us, and so might the fish, but we must try both; and as I happened to be the only one in our party who knew anything about nets and fishing, this work came to me. So I began to overhaul what nets Mr. Woolsey had, and went to work mending and fixing them up.
About twenty-five miles north of us was a lake, in which a species of white-fish were said to abound, and our plan was to make a road out to that and give it a fair trial.
In the meantime, because of an extra soaking I got in a rain storm, I had a severe attack of inflammation, and, to use another western phrase, had a "close call." But Mr. Woolsey proved to be a capital nurse and doctor combined. He physicked, and blistered, and poulticed for day and night, and I soon got better, but was still weak and sore when we started for the lake.
I took both Glad and Neils with me, our plan being to saw lumber and make a boat, and then send Glad back, and Neils and I go on with the fishing.
Behold us then started, the invalid of the party on horseback, and Glad and Neils each with an axe in hand, and leading an ox on whose back our whole outfit was packed—buffalo lodge tents, bedding, ammunition, kettles, cups, whip-saw, nails, tools, everything we must have for our enterprise.
These oxen had never been packed before, and were a little frisky about it, and several times made a scattering of things before they settled down to steady work.
THE START TO THE FISHERYTHE START TO THE FISHERY
We had to clear out a great deal of the way, and to find this way without any guide or previous knowledge of the place; but our frontier instinct did us good service, and early the third day we came out upon the lake, a beautiful sheet of water surrounded by high forest-clad hills.
We had with us ten large sleigh dogs, and they were hungry, and for their sakes as well as our own, we hardly got the packs and saddles off our animals when we set to work to make a raft, manufacturing floats and tie-stones, and preparing all for going into the water. Very soon we had the net set; then we put up our lodge, and at once erected a saw-pit, and the men went to work to cut lumber for the boat we had to build.
Before long, in looking out to where we had set the net, I saw that all the floats had disappeared under the water. This indicated that fish were caught, and I got on the raft and poled out to the net. My purpose was to merely overhaul it, and take the fish out, leaving the net set; but I very soon saw that this was impossible. I must take up the net as it was, or else lose the fish, for they would flop off my raft as fast as I took them out of the net; so I went back to the end of the net and untied it from the stake, and took in the whole thing.
A BIG HAULA BIG HAUL
Fortunately the net was short and the lake calm, for presently I was up to my knees in water, and fish, a living, struggling, slimy mass, all around me, so that my raft sank below the surface quite a bit. Fortunately, the fish were pulling in all possible contrary directions, for if they had swam in concert, they could have swum away with my raft and myself. As it was, I poled slowly to the shore, and shouted to my men to come to the rescue, and we soon had landed between two and three hundred fish—not exactly, but very nearly white-fish. As to quality, not first-class by any means; still, they would serve as dog food, and be a guarantee from starvation to man.
We had found the lake. We had found the fish, and now knew them to be plentiful; so far, so good. After the dogs were fed and the fish hung up, and the net drying, I began to think that I was running the risk of a relapse. So I took my gun and started out along the lake to explore, and make myself warm with quick walking. I went to the top of a high hill, saw that the lake was several miles long, shot a couple of fall ducks, and came back to the camp in a glow; then changed my wet clothes, and was apparently all right.
While the men were sawing lumber, and chopping trees, and building the boat, I was busy putting up a stage to hang fish on, and making floats and tying stones, and getting everything ready to go to work in earnest when the boat was finished.
This was accomplished the fourth day after reaching the lake, and Glad took the oxen and horse and went back to Mr. Woolsey.
Neils and I set our net and settled down to fishing in good style.
We soon found that the lake abounded in worms, or small insects, and these would cling to the net, and if the net was left long in the water, would destroy it, so we had to take it up very often; and this with the drying and mending and setting of nets, and making of sticks and hanging of fish, kept us very busy. So far north as we were, and down in the valley, with hills all around us, and at the short-day season, our days were very short, and we had to work a lot by camp-fire, which also entailed considerable wood-cutting.
Our isolation was perfect. We were twenty-five miles from Mr. Woolsey; he and Glad were sixty from White-fish Lake and 120 from Edmonton, and both of these places were out of the world of mail and telegraph connection, so our isolation can be readily imagined.
Many a time I have been away from a mission or fort for months at a time, and as I neared one or other of these, I felt a hungering for intelligence from the outside or civilized world; but to my great disgust, when I did reach the place, I found the people as much in the dark as myself.
But this isolation does not agree with some constitutions, for my Norwegian Neils began to become morbid and silent, and long after I rolled myself in my blanket he would sit over the fire brooding, and I would waken up and find him still sitting as if disconsolate. At last I asked him what was the matter, when he told me it was not right for us to be there alone. "You take your gun and go off. If a bear was to kill you?" (We had tracked some very big ones.) "You will go out in the boat when the lake is rough; if you were to drown, everybody would say, 'Neils did that—he killed him.'" On the surface I laughed at him, but in my heart was shocked at the fellow, and said, "If anything was to happen to you, would not people think the same of me? We are in the same boat, Neils, but we will hope for the best, and do our duty. So long as a man is doing his duty, no matter what happens, he will be all right. You and I have been sent here to put up fish; we are trying our best to do so; let us not borrow trouble."
For a while Neils brightened up, but I watched him.
Lake freezes—I go for rope—Have a narrow escape from wolf and drowning—We finish our fishing—Make sleds—Go home—Camp of starving Indians en route.
All of a sudden the lake froze over, and our nets were under, and we had no rope to pass under the ice. So, leaving my gun with Neils, for he had none, and whistling the dogs to me, I set out on a run for home; and as it was only twenty-five miles, my purpose was to be back in camp the same night, for I could conveniently make a fifty-mile run in those days. Down the valley and over the hills, through the dense forest we went—the ten dogs and myself. Presently, as we were coasting along the shore of a lake, we met a huge, gaunt timber wolf. Ah, thought I, if I only had my gun! I set the dogs on him, but he very soon drove them back, and came at me. I remembered seeing some lodge-poles a little way back on the trail, and I retreated to them, and securing one, came on to the attack again. Between the dogs and myself, we drove the wolf on to a little point jutting out into the lake, and he took to the ice. I foolishly followed him out, hoping to get a whack at him with my pole, but suddenly I awoke to the fact that the ice was giving way with me and the water was deep. Down I dropped, and stretched out, and leaned with the most of my weight on the pole, which, covering a good space of ice, fortunately held me up; so crawling and pushing, and anxiously looking through the transparent ice for the bottom, I made for the shore. How thankful I was when I did see the bottom, and presently was ashore once more!
A CLOSE CALLA CLOSE CALL
As I ran off on the trail, I seemed to take a fresh lease of life, for it seemed as if I had nearly lost my grip of it a few minutes since.
I reached Mr. Woolsey's just as he was sitting down to lunch, and he was so glad to see me that he would not hear of my going back that afternoon.
A few Indians had come and gone, and from these Mr. Woolsey had secured some dried meat, which to me was a great treat after so much fish.
We were becoming fast friends, this old bachelor missionary and myself, for while he was anything but a pioneer, and altogether out of place in this wild country, yet he was thoroughly good, and as full of the milk of "human kindness" as men are ever made.
Early the next morning I was away with the rope, and by night Neils and I had overhauled several of our nets and put some fresh ones in their place.
And now winter set in, with no snow, but extreme cold, which soon thickened the ice, and Neils and I gave our spare time to making a couple of toboggans, for we purposed when we did go home, to take loads of fish with us.
As the ice made, the fish went away, and soon our fishing was over for that time. We had put up about three thousand, and lived almost entirely on fish; the livers of some dog-fish we occasionally caught being our only change, except a very few fish-ducks, which were hardly a change. We had also fattened the ten dogs ready for winter work. This was no small item.
Now we made a strong "log cache," and stored our fish in it, putting tent and nets and everything with the fish; and having finished our dog-sleighs, or toboggans, we contemplated starting in the morning for home, though there was as yet no snow. As it was moonlight, I proposed to Neils that we start at once.
So we loaded up, hitched our dogs and set out. What a time we had—bare ground, fallen timber, stumps and hills; and, to make matters worse, while we were making a fire about midnight to cook our last duck, which we had saved for days for this very purpose, the dogs stole it, and our disappointment was bitter. We had cleaned that duck, and had it all ready to cook, and looked forward to picking its bones ourselves. We craved the change in diet, even if it was only from fish to a fishy duck; but just as we had the prize, the contemptible dogs stole it, and though it is now thirty-two years since this happened, I can still very strongly sympathize with Neils and myself.
We thawed and roasted a fish, and started on, and about two o'clock in the morning came upon a solitary lodge right on the road. This proved to be a wood Stoney, Peter Pe-kah-ches. He and his family were starving. There was no snow, and everything being crisp with frost, he could not approach game. Peter was a renowned hunter, but the season was against him, and thus he was starving. We gave him part of our fish, and received the heart-felt blessings of the whole family, who hardly waited to thaw some of the fish until they ate them.
This lightened our hearts and our loads also, and we went on and reached home before daylight.
Mr. O. B.—The murderer—The liquor keg.
In the meantime an old wandering-Jew kind of man, one of those human beings who seem to be trying to hide away from themselves, had turned up, and was domiciled with Mr. Woolsey. He had come across the plains from Fort Garry with a party of white men, who grew tired of him and dumped him at Fort Carlton, where I saw him when I landed from the boats in the summer. He had come on to Edmonton with the Hudson's Bay Company's carts, and there was thrown out by a rule made by the Hudson's Bay Company's Governor, Dallas, that no Hudson's Bay officer should allow any stragglers to stay around the post. The penalty for doing this was a fine upon the officer in charge of ten shillings sterling per day. Someone suggested Mr. Woolsey, and Mr. O. B. (for that was his name) came by first opportunity to Mr. Woolsey.
An Indian was returning to Fort Pitt, and he was persuaded to bring Mr. O. B. to Mr. Woolsey; and when the two were starting, total strangers to each other, and not understanding each other's language, some heartless fellow whispered to Mr. O. B, "Watch that fellow, for he is a murderer." And so he was said to be, having been bribed (so the story went) to kill another man because the briber wanted the other's wife. Whether this was exactly true or not, poor Mr. O. B. had an awful time of watching his companion and guide, and was a very grateful man when he came to our home safe. He was an educated man, and should have been a gentleman in every sense. He also was a victim of the liquor curse. His was another life blasted with this demon from the bottomless pit. In rummaging around our quarters, he found a keg which some time or another had held liquor. I saw him smell this, and then fill it with water and put it in the cellar; then every little while he would go down and shake this keg. One day I heard him say, "It is getting good," so I thought I would make it better, and I took the keg and emptied it, and and filled it with fresh water. Mr. O. B. took great satisfaction in drinking this, though the taste must have become very faint indeed.
William comes back—Another refuge seeker comes to us—Haul our fish home—Hard work.
William had come back from the plains, bringing some provisions—not very much, but sufficient to make us all feel thankful. Mr. Woolsey had sent him to Edmonton to bring some horses he had left there, and when he returned he had another "refuge seeker," this time a young man, the son of one of our ministers in Ontario, Williston by name. He had started to cross the mountains with some others, but reaching the Kootanie Pass, their provisions and pluck both dwindled away. They wandered back along the mountains and came to Edmonton in a famished condition, and Williston, being "dead-broke," heard of Mr. Woolsey, and came down with William. Of course Mr. Woolsey, because of his being the son of a brother minister, took him in.
And now snow came, and Williston and I, each with a dog-train, made several trips to the lake for fish.
These trips were hard work; the man, besides walking and running all the time over the home stretch, had to push and pull and strain, and hold back to get his load up and down the many hills and over the logs, which were legion, and which would have taken more time than we had to clear out of the way.
About this time we made a trip to White-fish Lake for some stuff Mr. Woolsey had in store there. We found Mr. Steinhauer and family well, and hard at work among their people, for things were now getting into shape at this mission, and the Indians were gathering in and looking upon it as a home. Mr. Steinhauer was an ideal missionary—capable and practical and earnest, a guide and leader in all matters to his people. Heart and soul, he was in his work.
Flying trip to Edmonton—No snow—Bare ice—Hard travel—A Blackfoot's prayer.
It was now near Christmas, and Mr. Woolsey planned to spend the holidays at Edmonton.
This was really his station. For years the minutes of yonder eastern Conference read: "Thomas Woolsey, Edmonton House, Rocky Mountains." Though these places were over two hundred miles apart then, the Hudson's Bay Company's officers and men came to Edmonton generally for the New Year, and this was the missionary's opportunity of reaching these outposts through these men.
Our party now was made up of Mr. Woolsey, Mr. O. B., and Williston, William, Neils and myself. Gladstone had left some time since.
Leaving Mr. O. B. to keep the house warm, and William and Neils to saw lumber, the rest of us started for Edmonton, Williston driving the baggage train, and myself the cariole in which Mr. Woolsey rode.
We left long before daylight the Monday morning before Christmas, which came on Thursday that year. We had about four inches of snow to make the road through. This was hardly enough for good sleighing, but where there was prairie or ice, our dogs had good footing and made good time.
Down the slope of country to Smoking Lake, and then along the full length of the lake we went; then straight across country, over logs and round the windings of the dim bridle-path for the Wah-suh-uh-de-now, or "Bay in the Hills" (which would bring us to the Saskatchewan River), to which place we came about daylight, having already made a good thirty-five miles of our journey. Mr. Woolsey had slept and snored most of the way. What cared he for precipitous banks, or tortuous trails, or the long hours of night! With sublime faith in his guide, he lay like a log.
"Little he recked if we let him sleep onIn the sleigh where his driver had wound him."
After coming down the big hill into the valley at a break-neck pace, we came to the almost perpendicular bank of the stream, still seventy-five or eighty feet high, and here I roused Mr. Woolsey, and asked him to climb down, while Williston and I took the dogs off and let the cariole and sled down as easily as we could.
Once down, we got Mr. Woolsey in again, and away we went up the river at a good smart run, my leader taking the way from point to point, and around the rapids and open water at the word. For another five miles we kept on, and stopped for breakfast before sunrise opposite Sucker Creek.
To jerk these dogs out of their collars is the first thing. This gives them a chance to roll and run about, and supple up after the long pull of the morning. Then we make a big fire and cut some brush to put down in front of it; then help Mr. Woolsey out of his cariole, and next boil the kettle, and roast our dried meat and eat. Then after a short prayer, and while the "Amen" is still on our lips, we hitch up the dogs, tie the sleigh, help Mr. Woolsey into the cariole, tuck and wrap him in, and "Marse!" Away jump my dogs once more, and their bells ring out in the clear morning frost, and are echoed up and down the valley as we ascend, for even over the ice the ascension is very perceptible.
On we went, steadily making those long stretches of river which are between Sucker Creek and the Vermilion. As we proceeded, we left the snow, and the ice became glare and very difficult to run on, especially when one had to constantly steady the cariole to keep it from upsetting in the drift ice, or from swinging into the open channel, where the current was too strong for ice to make.
I slipped once badly, and gave myself a wrench, the effects of which I felt at times for many a long year.
After stopping for lunch on an island, we pushed on, and, climbing the hill at the mouth of Sturgeon River, found the country bare of snow, and after going two or three miles in this way, I concluded to camp, and strike back for the river in the morning.
If we could have gone on, we would have reached Edmonton the next day before noon.
Mr. Woolsey was astonished at our progress. We had come full eighty miles, although the latter part of our road was very difficult to travel, the glare but uneven river ice being very hard on both dogs and men.
We camped on a dry bluff. What a revelation this country is to me! This is now the 22nd of December, and the weather, while crisp and cold, beautifully fine—no snow—and we having to use exceedingly great caution in order not to set the prairie on fire.
That night Mr. Woolsey, while rubbing some pain-killer into my sprained leg, told me about his life at Edmonton; how one day a Blackfoot came into his room, and was very friendly, and told him that he (the Blackfoot) was a very religious man; also that he loved to talk to the Great Spirit himself, would do so right then, thus giving Mr. Woolsey the benefit of his prayer. Mr. Woolsey sent for an interpreter, and the Blackfoot went on very much like the Pharisee of old. He was not as other men—the Cree, or Stoney, or even ordinary white men—he was a good man; his heart was good; he was thankful to meet this "good white man." He hoped their meeting would be blessed of the Great Spirit, and now that he had seen and spoken to this "good white man," he trusted that the Good Spirit would help him against his enemies, and aid him in his war expeditions, and thus he would bring home many horses and scalps. Above all things, the last was his strong desire.
Mr. Woolsey also told me of a slight misunderstanding he had with a priest. Mr. Woolsey did not understand French, and the priest did not understand English. The cause of their trouble was about asking a blessing and returning thanks at the Hudson's Bay Company's mess table. The priest was a thorough monopolist. The officer in charge would say, "Mr. Woolsey, please ask a blessing," or "Mr. Woolsey, please return thanks;" but the priest would immediately begin a Latin grace or thanksgiving, and thus Mr. Woolsey was cut off before he could begin. At last his English blood could not stand it any longer, and one day he stopped the priest after the others had gone out of the room, and said to him in broken Cree: "You no good; you speak one, that good; you speak two, that no good." This, though spoken in the soft Cree, was emphasized in a strong English manner, and the little priest, becoming alarmed, ran for the gentleman in charge, who explained matters, and also sided with Mr. Woolsey, and this monopoly was broken up.
No; from my two years' intimate acquaintance with Mr. Woolsey, he was not the man to stand any mere pretensions of superiority.
The next morning we struck straight across country for the river, and kept the ice thence on to Edmonton, which, because of the windings of the stream, we did not reach until evening. We found the fort full, trappers and traders having returned from their long summer's journeyings; but we also found provisions scant, and Mr. Christie, the gentleman in charge, anxious as to the future. The buffalo were far out; the fisheries were not very successful.
Here we met with clerks and post-masters from the inland and distant posts, and we and they but added to the responsibilities of the head officer, having so many more mouths to feed. Then there were all the dogs, and these were simply legion, as most of the winter transport and travel of those days was done with dogs, and their food supply was a serious question.
I have often wondered since then why it was in a country with so much natural hay, where oats grew often at the rate of one hundred bushels to the acre, and where horses were cheap, that this dog business lasted as long as it did; but I suppose everything has its day, and even the dog had his.
I fully believe that if there was one dog in the small compass of the fort at Edmonton, there were 150. When the bell rang for the men to go to work or come for their rations, the dogs would howl, and one would imagine bedlam let loose. Then the fights, which were taking place at all hours, day or night, became monotonous.
The sole topic of conversation would be dogs. The speed and strength and endurance of a dog-train occupied the thoughts of most men, either sleeping or waking.
Next to the dogs came the dog-runners. These were famous because of their ability to manage a train of dogs, and the wind and endurance and pluck they manifested in travel.
Races were common—five miles, twenty miles, sixty miles, 150 miles, etc., and many of the feats performed by these dogs and dog-drivers would be thought impossible to-day.
We were received very kindly by all parties, and I very soon felt at home with such men as R. Hardisty and Mr. MacDonald, and in the family of Mr. Flett, where I received great hospitality, and from being a total stranger was soon made to feel thoroughly intimate.
Midnight mass—Little Mary—Foot-races—Dog-races, etc.—Reach my twentieth birthday—End of this book.
I found that the Roman Catholics had a church built in the fort, and Mr. MacDonald and I went to the celebration of midnight mass on Christmas eve. Our conduct was respectful and reverent. Indeed, graceless as I may have been, I always from early boyhood have respected the religious services of others. Often in the conjurer's camp, and at thirst and sun dances, I have preserved most perfect decorum and attention, and that night at Edmonton my friend and self behaved; but because someone saw MacDonald pass me a peppermint, it was noised abroad that we were mocking the passing of the wafer. Quite afurorewas caused by this, and the Catholics came to the Chief Factor to demand our expulsion from the fort, but he very justly refused to interfere, and the storm passed away without hurting us. But I was amused and delighted with my friend, Mr. Woolsey. Said he to me, while drawing himself up and squaring off, "I never yet struck a man, but if I did, it would be a mighty blow."
Mr. Woolsey held service on Christmas morning, which was largely attended.
In the afternoon, Mr. Hardisty and myself went for a drive on the river with our dog-trains. Mr. Hardisty took the little daughter of the Chief Factor with him, and we drove up the river, but when turning to come home, his dogs took a sweep out into the river and left him, and the course the dogs took was dangerous. There was a long stretch of open current. There sat the child perfectly unconscious of her danger. Hardisty was winded, and he shouted to me to catch his dogs. I saw that if I drove mine after his it would make matters worse, for his dogs would run the faster; so I left mine and ran after his, and here the constant training of the season did me good service. I had both wind and speed, but the time seemed dreadful. The dogs were nearing the current, and if the cariole should swing or upset, the child was doomed. If ever I ran, it was then, if ever I was thankful to be able to run, it was then. Little Mary was a favorite of mine, and her peril filled me with keen anguish; but I have always been thankful that my whole being responded as it did. Steadily I came up, and presently, before the dogs knew it, I was on the back of the sleigh; then, gripping the ground lashing, I let myself drag as a brake, and with a mighty "Chuh!" which made the leader jump quickly to the left, then a loud stern "Marse!" straight out from the danger the strong train drew us.
STRAIGHT OUT FROM THE DANGER THE STRONG TRAIN DREW USSTRAIGHT OUT FROM THE DANGER THE STRONG TRAIN DREW US
After we came home, I felt weak and exhausted because of the nervous strain; but the reward of having been instrumental in saving the little darling's life was sweet to me.
The next day we had dog-races, and foot-races and football, and the fun was fast and furious. This social and pleasant intercourse with my fellowmen was especially agreeable to me after the isolation of the last few months. Then my new-found friends were exceedingly kind, and I was heartily glad Mr. Woolsey had brought me with him to Edmonton. The second day after Christmas was my birthday. I was then twenty years of age, and thus have reached the limit given to this book.
As the reader will have noticed, I began life on the frontier, and here, after twenty years, am to be found on the still farther frontier. Then it was lake-shore and forest, now it is highland and prairie.
Trusting the reader will have been interested sufficiently in this simple narrative to follow the author on into the more stirring recital of experiences on the plains during the "sixties,"
I remain,Yours truly,JOHN McDOUGALL.
* * * * * * * *
BOOKS ON THE WEST
By the Well-Known Frontiersman and Writer
JOHN McDOUGALL
The author, John McDougall, was born on the frontier in 1842 and has had a lifetime on the frontier full of strange experiences and adventures such as fall to the lot of few men.
These books give in graphic style an account of the early days of the Canadian North-West.
FOREST, LAKE and PRAIRIE
Twenty years of Frontier Life in Western Canada, 1842-62. Cloth. With 27 full page original illustrations. $1.00 net.
SADDLE, SLED and SNOWSHOE
Pioneering on the Saskatchewan in the Sixties. Cloth. Fully illustrated. $1.00 net.
PATHFINDING ON PLAIN and PRAIRIE
Stirring scenes of Life in the Canadian North-West. Cloth. With 12 full page illustrations. $1.00 net.
IN THE DAYS OF THE RED RIVER REBELLION.
Life and Adventure in the Far West of Canada. 1858-1872. Cloth. With 5 illustrations and 2 portraits. $1.00 net.
ON WESTERN TRAILS in the EARLY SEVENTIES
Frontier Pioneer Life in the Canadian North-West. $1.25 net.
WA-PEE-MOOSTOOCH or WHITE BUFFALO
A tale of life in Canada's Great West during the early years of the last century. (Fiction.) Cloth. With 5 illustrations. $1.25 net.
Mr. Reginald Beatty, formerly of the Hudson's Bay Company, writes:
"I do not know when I have read a book with more pleasure than your Wa-Pee-Moostooch. It is so true in every particular to the real life of the old Indian as we knew them."
Mr. Herbert Stirling, Bright Bank, Alberta, writes:
"I read your grand work on Western aboriginal life with intense interest, your work having a charm of its own in that a white man does not appear in the story."
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