The dogs and I reached the child about the same time, and I flung myself from the horse and clutched my little girl, and then fairly danced for joy that I had her safe in my arms again.
Going on we came to Bear's Hill Creek, and as the day was warm both horse and dogs began to drink. As I sat in the saddle talking to my child, I happened to look down the stream, and there I saw a big wolverine come out to the water's edge to quench its thirst. Close to me was a hound called Bruce. I quietly said "Bruce," and pointed down the creek. The quick-eyed fellow saw the wolverine, bounded away, and was close upon him before the wolverine saw him. Then he made a jump for the brush, but Bruce ran his nose between his enemy's hind legs and fairly turned him over with the impetus of his run. Then the whole pack came up, and I sat on my horse and looked on a terrific fight between the dozen dogs and the one wolverine. It did not seem fair, but the wolverine was a big fellow and a born fighter, and he was fighting for his life. He scratched and bit every one of those dogs, and held his own for some time, but at last a big black dog, a powerful brute, got his massive jaws on both sides of the wolverine's brain and crunched it right in, and the wild fellow was dead. I verily believe that in all the big North-West there will not be a single mourner for him, such is the Ishmaelitish record of these animals.
As we were approaching the lake the next afternoon I noted fresh tracks coming up from the Edmonton and Victoria trail. Anxious to see whose these might be, I urged on my horse, and when I came in sight of the house I saw some horses standing at a smudge, and recognized them as belonging to our people at Victoria. This made me jubilant, and I gave a regular Indian "whoop," and then I heard father say, "There, that is John." As I jumped from my horse father and a young man, by the name of James Connor, ran out of our little home overjoyed to see me. Away down at Victoria word had come of several serious battles between the tribes. Scalps and horses had frequently changed owners, and strange rumors had come in from the plains. These had become connected with our small party, and our people were so intensely anxious about us that father and James had started for Pigeon Lake, and finding the place deserted were now setting nets and drying fish in order to go out on our trail and seek us.
Father embraced me as if I had come from the dead, and James was only a little less demonstrative. They were at their meal when they heard my shout, and here is the bill of fare:
WOODVILLE MISSION, PIGEON LAKE.
DINNER, JULY, 1867.
Boiled Jackfish without salt.
Boiled Rhubarb without sugar.
DESSERT.
Thinking and planning and talking about loved ones, said to be massacred, but of which there is no certainty.
Father brought us news from the outside world, and of the people on the Saskatchewan. He said he was ready to start for Ontario, and was going to take my three sisters with him that they might go to school. He was arranging with Mr. Steinhauer to come as often as he could to Victoria during his absence, and he hoped I would visit them when I could.
The next afternoon I accompanied father and Jim on their return journey. We camped for the night with Francis at the edge of the dense and heavy timber, beyond which point we had not as yet been able to bring our carts. From here, as father said provisions were not plentiful at Victoria, we took a cart with about half a load, and went on in a blinding rain-storm, camping that night in a flood, with no tent and but a small covering for the cart.
