Red Cloud, the Solitary Sioux: A Story of the Great Prairie

by Sir William Francis Butler

Red Cloud and I took one direction, the scout set off in another. The day was calm and fine; scarcely a breath of wind stirred over the prairie, and the rays of the sun fell brightly upon the snowy surface, through which the yellow grass still showed in many places. Dressed in a light leather shirt, and Indian leggings and moccasins to match, I stepped briskly along, following in the footsteps of the Sioux. In and out of aspen thickets, over open patches of prairie land, along the tops of small ridges quite bare of snow, the Indian held his way with rapid stride. At length we emerged upon the edge of a deep coulee. In the bottom of this ravine a few pools of frozen water were visible. The sides of the ravine were steep, but in the bottom the ground was level; some stunted bushes grew at intervals along it. As we stood on the sharp edge of the prairie looking down this depression, the eye of the Indian suddenly caught sight of a moving object some distance away to his right. It was an animal that had plunged over the edge and quickly disappeared in the valley. Before many seconds had elapsed a second object crossed over the ridge and dived into the coulee. The Indian exclaimed, “Lie down, it is a carcajou; he is hunting a deer. The deer will follow the coulee, and will pass right beneath where we stand; we should get them both.” We lay flat upon the prairie edge with rifles ready. Presently along the bottom of the gorge appeared a large jumping moose. He was evidently sorely pressed by his pursuer, who, only about fifty yards behind, came along at that slouching gallop peculiar to his species. Red Cloud whispered to me, “Fire as the deer passes. Aim in front, and low, for it is down hill. I’ll take the carcajou.” My heart beat fast; the distance was under seventy yards, but the pace was good. A shot rang out. “Missed,” cried the Sioux as the deer went bounding by. Quick as thought I pulled again, this time aiming well in front and very low. The deer staggered—fell—rose again to his feet, and then plunged over upon his side, dead. Meantime the wolverine was coming along at a tremendous pace. All at once a shot rang out in front; then another. His pace was too rapid to be checked in an instant; but the reports from the ridge to his left caused him to swerve from the bottom of the coulee, and to ascend the bank nearly opposite the spot where we lay. As he went up the steep bank he presented a beautiful mark to the Indian’s rifle. For an instant the weapon followed the upward course of the animal, then it poured forth its unerring fire. The carcajou staggered in his gallop, and slipped back a short way down the steep hill side; then he recovered himself, and began again to ascend. But now a second report rang out, and, shot quite dead, the beast rolled down the shingly side, and lay still, within a few yards of the deer he had followed to the death.

My first shot had not allowed sufficiently for the depth of the coulee; the bullet had just gone over the deer’s back, but the second had passed clean through the animal’s ribs.

And now to carry the game home to camp. It was no easy matter; the Sioux, however, proved himself, as usual, fully equal to the difficulty.

In a very short time he had skinned both the animals. The flesh of the wolverine was useless, but the skin was a very fine one.

When the skin of the deer was removed, it was placed upon the snow, with the side that had been next the body of the animal turned downwards upon the ground. Then the venison was packed upon the hairy side, and the ends of the skin wrapped over it to prevent the pieces falling off; then to the two fore-legs of the skin the Sioux fastened the string of leather called “shagganappi,” which he always carried with him, and passing the band of the line round his shoulders, he drew the load of meat easily over the snow. We followed the coulee for some distance, until coming to a spot where the bank was less abrupt, we were able to draw the load to the level of the prairie; then trudging along over snow and grass, we arrived at the lodge ere yet the winter’s sun had touched the horizon.

It was still later when the scout returned. He had much to say about his day’s work. Soon after setting out in the morning he had struck the trail of a moose, and had followed it for a long distance. The moose had travelled far, and ere the day was half done the scout found himself a long way from camp. Still he persisted in keeping the trail. At last he beheld a sight that made him think of other things besides his game. From a ridge over which the trail led, he espied some Indian lodges pitched on the edge of the woods. The hunter instantly became the brave; he approached the neighbourhood of the tents with the utmost caution. He waited long enough until he discovered the tribe to which the Indians belonged; then he returned with all speed to tell his tidings to his comrades. The band, he said, belonged to the Cree tribe; they were trapping and hunting in the vicinity of the elbow of the South Saskatchewan, and had now been here for some days. This was bad news for us. We had hoped that our winter hut at the Forks would remain unknown to any Indians; and now this band of Crees were close upon us. Unless a fall of snow would quickly come, our homeward trail to the hut must be struck by some Cree brave in the next few days, and once struck it was sure to be followed. The Crees were not hostile, but that was a fact upon which we could not long count. Besides, the news of the existence of a hut at that point would soon spread among the tribe, and other Indians would hear of it before the winter was over. Mischief might easily come from it. We must endeavour to hide our trail by some stratagem.

For hours that evening the Sioux sat silently before the tent fire, buried in deep thought. A snow-storm would have put an end to all his difficulties; but the night looked fine and clear, the stars were shining over the prairie, the yellow lustre of the sunset still hung in the western sky.

It was possible to branch away at right angles from our present line, and to continue that course until the weather changed, and then to resume the old direction and make straight for the hut; but that would entail much extra marching upon the horses already thin and weak, and would probably lead to the loss of some of them. Under all circumstances the best course to adopt seemed to be to remain camped in the neighbourhood until a change of weather would obliterate the trail. Accordingly next morning a move was made a few miles further away from the Crees, and camp was again pitched in a spot not likely to catch the eye of any roving Indian.

The next night brought a change in the weather; the wind began to rise, clouds came drifting up from the north-east, and ere midnight came the snow was falling over the plain. We were ready for it; the horses had all been driven in at nightfall; the sleds got ready for the march. By the light of the fire the tent was struck and packed, and long ere morning began to break upon the driving scene of snow and storm our little cavalcade was far away on its march to the hut. All day the storm blew, the snow fell; and all day too, Red Cloud led the march through blinding drift, and small chance was there of keenest eyes ever finding our trail. The wind blew the surface of the snow before it, quickly filling every cavity, and piling up the fine drift in dazzling heaps. We carried on all day, and camp was only made long after nightfall, when many a mile of snow-clad wilderness lay between us and the Crees.

Another day’s march brought us within sight of the pine-bluff at the Forks, and that night the tired horses were turned adrift in the sheltered meadow by the river, and we lay down to rest in the hut at the Pascopee.