Just before the winter was breaking up, my brother David and myself made a trip to Lac la Biche to try if we could procure some seed wheat. The Roman Catholic priest was the only person who had any to dispose of, and we traded a few bushels from him, giving him pemmican pound for pound. Very dear wheat that, costing us, independent of freight, at least ten cents per pound, besides a two hundred mile tramp to get it. But we needed it, and it was good grain. The reader will notice that here was wheat grown eight hundred miles west of the Red River, and one hundred miles north of the North Saskatchewan!
The spring was now upon us, the Indians were coming in in large numbers, and the time was at hand for our going back to Pigeon Lake in accordance with our promise to the Crees and Stonies. Therefore our small party, consisting of my wife and young child, an elderly widow and her boy of some seven or eight years, and Mark and myself, bade the rest of the Mission party good-bye, and crossing the Saskatchewan just before the ice broke up, turned our faces westward on the southern trail. As food was limited, and our means of transport by no means large, we hunted on our way as much as possible, saving what dried provisions we had for future use. Ducks and rabbits formed the principal part of our fare. In due time we were at the end of the cart-road, and then packing the rest of the way we came to the new Mission, and found some Indians there already waiting for us.
Among these were old Joseph and Paul Chian, the latter a French half-breed, but a staunch Protestant. The readers of "SADDLE, SLED AND SNOWSHOE" will remember Joseph as a consistent Sabbatarian and a really plucky fellow. Paul but now comes on the scene of our narrative. He was a true man, and having embraced Christianity and espoused Protestantism, was invaluable to me. These and others heartily welcomed us, and our daily meetings were seasons of blessing.
Camp after camp came in, mountain and wood Stonies and Crees—pagans and Christians—ours was a truly cosmopolitan gathering. Gambling and conjuring, heathen feasts and our own singing and preaching and praying were interchanging exercises of day and night. When I was not holding meetings or attending councils I was hunting or fishing, or trying to garden; but as to the latter, our means were limited and seeds few.
Among the wood Crees who came to us for the first time was one called Samson. He was old Paul's son-in-law, and he and I became fast friends from the first. There was an instinctive understanding between us.
By the middle of May our nomadic congregation was scattering to the four winds. We had done what we could in sowing the seeds of truth and righteousness, as we understood it, though we were but babes ourselves in this great matter. All we could do was to leave our disappearing congregation to the Lord.
In the meantime, as provisions were low, we concluded to pitch away on a hunting expedition, some six or seven lodges accompanying us on the trip. In our party were old Paul and Samson. As ours was what might be called a wood-hunt, it would not be practicable to go in large parties, for the reason that the food supply would be a difficulty. Drying some fish to start with, we left the lake and struck eastward across Battle River, below where our present Mission is situated. Though we were constantly on guard, day and night, yet we did not apprehend that the enemy were near, knowing that the buffalo were far out on the plains and that this was not the usual season for war parties.
Our living for the first week or two was very precarious. We had with us my first cow, one I had traded from old Joseph. As there was no one left at the lake, we had to take her along with us; but as she gave no milk she was only a care and burden to the party. Rabbits, ducks, geese, owls, hawks, bear, beaver, badger, porcupine, skunk—there was certain variety in our bill of fare, but there was no certain quantity of it. Sometimes we were filled, and oftentimes we were empty, not knowing when or how we should get our next meal. Our mode of transport was on horseback or on foot. As yet there were no cart or waggon roads in or out of the Pigeon Lake country. Old Paul, who was an invalid and could move only with difficulty because of some spinal trouble, but who knew that part of the country as other men knew their quarter-sections, sat on his horse and led the way. Part of our able-bodied hunters scouted along the line of march, while the others struck out on either hand in search of game. Our whole camp, as to food supply, was communistic—we shared alike.
Weather permitting and provisions allowing it, we generally held two services in the day. In the early morn, while the dew was on the grass, we sang our hymns and knelt together in prayer. And in the evening in camp, when the hunters had come in and our horses were picketed or driven close and hobbled, again we met. I would read a few verses and comment on them, and with hymn and prayer we closed the day. And old Paul, life-long warrior and scout and hunter, what delightful sites he chose for our camp! Security, utility and beauty were sure to harmonize in his selection. Beside rippling stream or glistening lakelet, with growing grass and budding flowers and leafy foliage, with Mother Nature's breath full and fragrant of early summer, how like hallowed sanctuaries those camping spots were! Verily God blessed us as we journeyed, and souls were born again.
Samson and I were inseparable in those days. I wanted to be the friend of all, but I could not help being his friend. We became brothers in the regular native style, and cemented a bond which continues unto this day.