Chapter Ten.
The Honest Indian; or, Venison for Pemmican.
Years ago the missionaries living in the northern part of what were then known as the Hudson Bay territories, were often so remote from civilisation, that they were obliged to depend principally on fish and game for their livelihood. Hence, in times of scarcity, they welcomed the arrival of a hunter who came in with plenty of game.
One cold wintry day, a man of this description made his appearance at our mission home. He was a fine stalwart Indian, and, in the quiet way of his people, came into our kitchen without knocking. Unstrapping from his back a fine haunch of venison, he threw it down upon the table. As our supplies of food were very limited at the time—for we were averaging hardly more than two good meals a day—I was glad to see this welcome addition; and so, after I had cordially greeted him, I said:
“What shall I give you for this venison?”
“I want nothing for it, as it belongs to you,” was his answer.
“You must be mistaken,” I replied, “as I never saw you before, and have had no dealings with you.”
“Oh, but it does belong to you, and I want nothing more for it,” he insisted.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but you must let me pay you for it. We are very glad to get it, as there is little food in the house; but we have a rule here, that we pay the Indians for everything we get from them.”
The reason we had come to this determination, was because we had found by rather dear experience,—as we presume other missionaries on similar fields have,—that the natives have an idea the missionary is rich, or that he is backed up by wealthy churches; and, with unlimited resources at his disposal, is able to make large gifts in return for lesser ones received. A few rabbits, or a brace of ducks would be given with great politeness to the missionary or his wife. Then the donor, often accompanied by his wife and several children, would remain to dinner, and, in all probability, eat the greater part of the gift. Of course they must be asked to supper—and they had glorious appetites. As they still lingered on until time for retiring arrived, the missionary was at length obliged to hint, that he thought they would better go and see if their wigwam was where they left it in the morning. This would generally bring things to a crisis, and the man would say: “Ever since we came we have only been waiting to get the present you are going to give us for the one we gave you.”
While they were contented to sell at a reasonable rate the various things which they could supply for our needs, yet, if a present were accepted, they expected something many times its value. Had this been allowed to continue, we would have been speedily left destitute of everything in the house. Therefore, not many weeks before the arrival of this strange Indian with the venison, as a precautionary measure we had made a rule that no more presents were to be received from the Indians; but that for everything brought which we needed, such as meat, fish, or moccasins, there was to be a fair tariff price mutually agreed upon. Yet in spite of all this, here was a stalwart Indian insisting, that I should receive a haunch of venison without payment. Judging from some past experiences, I was fearful that if I accepted it as a present, it would about bankrupt me. So I again said to him:
“You must let me pay you for this.”
“No, no,” he energetically replied. “I take no pay. It belongs to you.”
“How do you make that out?” I inquired, more perplexed than ever.
Then he proceeded to give me his explanation, which deeply interested me, and which will also I am sure interest my readers.
First, he began by asking me a few questions:
“Did you make a trip with your guide and dog drivers to Burntwood River last winter?”
“Yes, I did,” was my answer.
“And were your dog-sleds not heavily loaded?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“And was there not a heavy fall of snow followed by a blizzard, which as you had no trail through the deep snow, made it very difficult travelling?”
“Quite true,” I replied, for all had happened just as he was describing it. “And did you not at a certain place make a cache of some of your pemmican and other heavy things, so as to lighten your loads, that your dogs might make better time?”
“Yes,” I answered, for well did I remember that long journey, and the fearful storm which made travelling through the trackless forest almost impossible.
I had gone on a journey of several hundreds of miles to carry the Gospel to some Indians who were still in the darkness of paganism. I travelled with sixteen dogs and four Indian companions, and there was not the least vestige of a road. This is the one great drawback; and any party of hunters, traders, or missionaries, wishing to travel with any rapidity, must send one of their number on ahead of the dog trains to mark out the path with his great snow shoes as he strides along. The skill and endurance with which this work is performed, is marvellous and almost incredible to those who have not witnessed it. Often the country for days together is tamely monotonous, without any striking feature in the landscape, and without the least sign of human footsteps. Clouds may gather and cover the whole heavens with a sombre grey mantle, so that the white man gets bewildered and does not know south from north, or east from west. Yet the Indian guide pushes on without hesitancy, and with unerring accuracy.
While endeavouring to push on as rapidly as possible, we were assailed by a fierce storm. The snowfall was so great, that, with our heavy loads, speedy progress was an utter impossibility. We found, that we must either lighten our loads, or be content to lose much valuable time on the way. After talking it over with my Indians, we decided on the former course, and so, a “cache” was made. A number of the heavier articles were tied up in large blankets, some saplings bent down by the stalwart men, and the bundles fastened in their tops. When let go, the young trees sprang up, and thus held their loads so far above the ground that they were safe from the prowling wolves or wolverines. This plan is very much safer than that of using large trees, as up the latter many of the wild animals can climb, and short work would be made of the “cache.”
With lightened sleds—although some of the things left behind were sadly missed—we hurried on, and after a few days reached our destination. We found the majority of the Indians glad to see us, and anxious for instruction in the ways of the great Book. They had become dissatisfied with the ways of their fathers, and had lost all faith in their conjurers, so they listened with great attention to what we had to tell of the Gospel of the Son of God.
While we were thus engaged in our missionary duties, blizzards were raging through that cold northland; so that when we began the long home journey, we discovered but few traces of the trail, which our snow shoes and dog-trains had made not very long before. However, my guide was very clever, and my splendid dogs most sagacious, so we travelled home most of the way on the same route, even though the original path was deeply buried by the snow.
The place where our cache had been made was duly reached; and glad enough were we to obtain the additional supplies it contained, for we had been on short allowance for some time. The strong arms of my Indians soon bent down the saplings, untied the bundles and consigned them to the different dog-sleds. To my surprise, I observed, that at one of the bundles—the heaviest article in which had been a piece of pemmican weighing perhaps fifty or sixty pounds—my men were talking and gesticulating most earnestly. In answer to my inquiries, they said, that that bundle had been taken down during our absence, and a piece of pemmican had been cut off and taken away.
“Nonsense!” I replied. “You are surely mistaken. It looks to me just as it was when we put it up. And then there was not the vestige of a track here when we returned.”
However, in spite of my protestations, my men were confident that some pemmican had been taken by a stranger, and that the blizzard had covered up the tracks. With a little more discussion the matter was dropped, and after a good meal we proceeded on our way.
Months later, along came this strange Indian with the venison and his story, which we will now let him finish:
“I was out hunting in those forests through which you passed: for they are my hunting grounds. I found the trail of a moose, and for a long time I followed it up, but did not succeed in getting a shot. I had poor success on that hunting trip. Shooting nothing for some days, I became very hungry. While pushing along through the woods, I came across your trail and saw your cache. So when I saw it was the missionary’s cache, the friend of the Indian, I was glad, and I said to myself. If he were here, and knew that I was hungry, he would say: ‘Help yourself:’—and that was just what I did. I pulled down a sapling, and opening the bundle, cut off a piece of pemmican—just enough to make me feel comfortable under my belt until I could reach my wigwam, far away. Then I tied up the bundle, fastened it in the treetop, and let it swing up again. And now I have brought you this venison, to pay for that pemmican which I took.”
Honest man! He had carried the haunch of venison on his back, a distance of about sixty miles.
Of course I was delighted, and while complimenting him for his honesty, inquired how he knew that it was my party that had made the cache, rather than a party of Indian hunters.
Without any hesitancy he replied: “Oh I saw your snow shoe tracks in the snow.”
“Impossible!” I answered; “for the snow shoes used by the whole party were made by Sandy, my Indian boy, and were all of one pattern.”
“That no matter,” he answered, while his eyes twinkled with amusement. “Snow shoes all right, but I saw your tracks all the time. When Indian walk, he walk with toes in; when white man walk, he walk with toes out. So I saw where the missionary make tracks all the time.”
We all voted him a clever, as well as an honest Indian, and rejoiced that under the faithful teachings of another missionary, this red Indian of the forest, had been so grounded in the lessons of the sermon on the mount.