In the meantime, callers came and left their cards, came from everywhere—white men and Indians—but especially Indians. One of the first visitors was Crowfoot, chief of the Blackfoot Nation, who rode in with his fellow-chiefs of the Bloods and Piegans, a Prince of the Plains surrounded by his Court. They were tall, straight, fearless men, well armed, dressed in buffalo-robes or gay blankets, richly beaded moccasins and leggings, brass rings round their neat black braids, feathers in their hair. Martin began the pow-wow by presenting them to the Assistant-Commissioner. Then they squatted in a semi-circle before him and passed around the pipe of peace.
When the Colonel had explained the why and wherefore of the Force and Martin had interpreted, his long hair thrown back, his eyes blazing, the chiefs stood up in turn and gave thanks. They told of the devastating fire-water, of women carried away, of robes and horses stolen, of pillage and butchery endured at the hands of beastly white men. They showed themselves facing starvation through the wanton destruction of the buffalo. But now, they said, those days were past.
"Before you came, we crept in terror of our lives," said The Gopher. "Today we walk erect and are men."
Most eloquent of all was Crowfoot himself.
"Hear me," he began, "for I speak for every man, woman and child of the Blackfoot Nation." Then, baring his arm and with proud gestures, he went on. "I thank the Great White Mother and the One Above who rules us all because they have sent to us the Shagalasha, the red-coats, to save us from the bad white man and from ourselves. The Shagalasha are our friends. When we see them we lower our rifles and show them the open hand. What you have said is good and what you say shall be the law. I have spoken."
Hector, hearing these words interpreted, remembered how they had marched unchallenged through thousands of Indians, looked at his scarlet coat and, with a strange thrill of pride, understood.
Other visitors came to Fort Macleod in those early days—white men—spies sent by the whiskey-traders, curious American horsemen, and a few settlers, who thanked God, as Crowfoot had done, for sending the Police to deliver them from the drunken Indian and the low-down white. Of the settlers, none was so thankful, none became so popular in the course of a few calls, as Joe Welland, who lived on a homestead of sorts some sixty miles to the south, on St. Mary's River.
A keen-faced, clean-shaven, strong-handed man was Welland, tawny-haired, lean, sinewy as a broncho and as hard. He came in one day from what he called his 'ranch,' riding a fast mustang which he handled as easily as an expert dancer handles his partner on a ball-room floor. First he called on the Assistant-Commissioner, hat in hand, showing him the respect which was his due and telling him that the arrival of the Police was something for which he had prayed ever since he first came West. Thence he went to see 'the boys,' who received him cordially and consented to smoke some excellent cigars which, somehow, even in that wilderness, he could offer them. He revealed a quiet, congenial manner and wits which were as sharp as needles.
His antecedents, such as they were, were satisfactory, representing all his respectable neighbours knew of him, which was not much. From them the boys learned: First, that Welland was well educated; second, had been born in North America, none knew exactly where; third, had lived in the country at least ten years; fourth, was of unimpeachable character; fifth, seemed apparently well off; sixth, was one of the 'livest' men in the Canadian North-West; seventh, like most of his fellows, was a squaw-man.
"You'll like Welland," said the honest traders. "He's dead against the whiskey-men. And he'll surely help to make things lively!"