Monday morning found us early away, after public prayer with the camp, to follow up the river to its source. Thomas, our guide for the trip to the lake, was one of those men who are instinctively religious. He had listened to the first missionary with profound interest, and presently, finding in this new faith that which satisfied his hungry soul, embraced it with all his heart. Thus we found him in his camp when first we met, and thus I have always found the faithful fellow, during thirty-two years of intimate knowledge and acquaintance with him.
We saw the lake, and stood on the spot where some of Handle's neophytes were slaughtered by their enemies. This bloody act had nipped in the bud the attempt of Benjamin Sinclair, under Mr. Rundle, to establish a mission on the shore of Pigeon Lake, only some ten miles from the scene of the massacre, and drove Ben and his party over two hundred miles farther into the northern country. We were three days of steady travelling on this side trip, and reached our camp late the evening of the third day.
Two more services with this interesting people, and bidding them good-bye, we started for home by a different route from that by which we had come. Going down Battle River, we passed outside the Beaver Hills, skirted Beaver Lake, and passing through great herds of buffalo without firing a shot—because we had provisions given us by the Indians—we found ourselves, at dusk Saturday night, about thirty-five miles from Victoria. Continuing our journey until after midnight, we unsaddled, and waited for the Sabbath morning light to go on into the mission.
Early in the morning, as we were now about ten miles from home, we came upon a solitary lodge, and found there, with his family, "Old Stephen," another of the early converts of our missionaries. I had often heard Mr. Woolsey speak of the old man, but had never met him before. As he stood in the door of his tent, leaning on his staff, with his long white hair floating in the breeze, he looked a patriarch indeed. We alighted from our horses, and after singing a hymn father led in prayer. Old Stephen was profoundly affected at meeting with father. He welcomed him to the plains and the big Saskatchewan country, and prayed that his coming might result in great good.
As we were mounting our horses to leave him, the old man said: "Yes, with you it is different; you have God's Word, can read it, and understand it. I cannot read, nor do I understand very much, but I am told that God said, 'Keep the praying day holy,' and, therefore, wherever the evening of the day before the praying day finds me, I camp until the light of the day after the praying day comes," and fully appreciating the old man's consistency, we also could not help but feel rebuked, though we were in time for morning service at the mission, and home again once more.
CHAPTER VIII.
Provisions diminishing—A buffalo hunt organized—Oxen and Red River carts—Our "buffalo runners"—Meet with Maskepetoon—Maskepetoon shakes hands with his son's murderer—An Indian's strange vow—Instance of Indian watchfulness—"Who-Talks-Past-All-Things"—Come upon the buffalo—An exciting charge—Ki-you-ken-os races the buffalo—Peter's exciting adventure—Buffalo dainties—Return home—War parties—Indian curiosity—Starving Young Bull's "dedication feast"—Missionary labors.
Dried meat and pemmican, with fowl and fish now and then, make very good food, but when you have no vegetables or flour to give variety, you are apt to become tired of them. Our garden on the new land had done very well, but it was a mere bite for the many mouths it had to fill. Our own party was large, and then every little while starving Indians and passing travellers would call, and these must be fed. There was no Hudson's Bay post nearer than Edmonton and no stores. The new mission, already in its first season, had become the house of refuge for quite a number, both red and white.
As near as I can remember, it was about the first of October that we organized our party for the plains. To do this there was a lot of work to be done in preparation—horses to hunt up, carts to mend, old axles to replace with new ones, harness to fix. We had one waggon. The rest of our vehicles were of the old Red River pattern, wood through and through, that screamed as it rolled. Some of these wanted new felloes, and others new spokes; another had a broken shaft. Then when all was ready we had the river to cross, and our only means of ferriage was a small skiff. This involved many trips, and when all the carts and our one waggon were over, then came the work of swimming our stock across. With the horses we had but little difficulty, but the oxen were loath to take the water, and we had to lead them over one by one. Then when all were across and hitched up, we had the big hill to pull up; for while the north bank of the Saskatchewan at this point has a naturally easy approach, the south bank is almost perpendicular. Even to-day, notwithstanding considerable grading, it is a bad hill, but at the time I write of we had to double up our teams to take a light cart to the summit.