In no cheerful frame of mind I strolled out along the beautiful valley of the Qu’Apelle, which in English means “Who calls?”—and I heard a voice “Hey there, George” calling me—the sweet dulcet voice of Col. Allan Macdonald, the Indian agent at Qu’Appelle.
“Hop in here, old man, and take a drive,” he said.
So I got into his buckboard and innocently asked where he thought his destination might be.
“Oh, just over to the File Hills,” he said. “There’s a report that Nicol, the farm instructor, and his wife have been killed by the Indians and I’m going out to see.”
We passed an Indian on a load of straw en route, and I never realized till then how much better poor Lo looks on a load of straw than he does on the war path. We reached the Superintendent’s house just before dark to find that the report of his death was a little premature, and also ascertained that the File Hill Indians were not in the most beautiful frame of mind. After supper, beds were made for us on the floor, and the Colonel cautioned me to sleep with one eye open and to have my gun ready, which I did by promptly falling sound asleep.
Next morning a band of the Crees appeared in war paint and well-armed. We had a pow-wow in a little shack about 12 feet square, in which there was a large stone chimney. I’ve been to grand opera and five o’clock teas, but I never spent such a delightfully uncomfortable half hour as I did in the ensuing thirty minutes. There were Rosebud, Sparrow Hawk and Star Blanket, brother-in-law of Frank Hunt, an old friend of mine, who must have been an all nighter, for his full name was “The man who has a Star for a Blanket,” and they were all dressed in their war paint and feathers. Their demands were many and urgent, but the sturdy old colonel never blinked an eye. He gave his opinion of them individually and collectively in the most classic of all classical languages. All the while I was gazing up the chimney, and wondering how far I could climb before something or other might happen to me. But nothing did, for the colonel bravely browbeat them so that they skulked out and “we” had a glorious victory.
I’m not going to tell the story of the uprising—that’s too old a story. But I just want to record another adventure—remember these are personal experiences—of a little unpleasantness. At Clarke’s Crossing the General one evening, when there was a stiff breeze blowing, rode out of camp all alone. I rustled up a horse, and without saddle or bridle followed him. Catching up to him, a few miles from camp he hailed me: “Hello, what are you doing here.” I explained I was hunting Indians. He began to admonish the weather. “This beastly wind, you know—why I came out here for a smoke, and I’ll be hanged if I can light my pipe.” “Is that all, General?” I remarked. “That’s no trouble. Just get a little to leeward.” He drew up beside me, I scratched a match, lighted his pipe unconcernedly and he said: “Well, you westerners are a most remarkable people; you can do anything.” And I thanked Providence he didn’t ask me to light his pipe a second time, for it was a thousand to one shot. But it made me his friend for life—and when he was appointed Constable of the Tower of London, he invited me over to see him. Which was not accepted for fear he might want me to strike another match for him.
Middleton and the Queen
General Middleton was a kindly bluff old soldier, and was unmercifully criticized by people who had no knowledge of military affairs. The best answer to those who abused him is that, by request of good old Queen Victoria, he was instructed to spare the lives of his untrained soldier boys, for most of them were mere lads, and of the misguided Indians and Metis, who were her Majesty’s subjects. This is what he told me, and it is another, if another were needed, example of how wise and humane was the Great White Mother across the seas. I think now, if she had been spared she might possibly have subdued rebellious Ireland.