“Why? is that wisdom you speak, old friend?” exclaimed Peter. “See, God did care for you, though you did not even ask Him, or you wouldn’t be alive this day. He has cared for you all your life long. You have already told me many things which showed it, and I doubt not if you were to tell me everything that has happened to you since you can remember up to the present day, many, many more would be found to prove it. Was it God’s love which sent me to you when you were on the point of death, or was it His hatred? Was it God’s love which softened the hearts of the Sioux towards us? Come, go on with your history. I doubt not that the very next thing that you have to tell me will prove what I say.”
“Well, friend Redskin, what you say may be true, and I don’t wish to differ with you,” answered the hunter, still apparently unmoved. “As I was saying, Tom and I expected nothing but starvation. It was coming, too, I have an idea; for my part I had got so bad that I did not know where we were or what had happened. The hut was dark, for I had closed up the hole we came in and out at with snow and bundles of dry grass, or we should very quickly have been frozen to death.
“The last thing I recollect was feeling cold—very cold. Suddenly a stream of light burst in on my eyes, and, that waking me up, I saw several Indians, in full war-dress, standing looking at Tom and me. I felt as if I did not care whether they scalped me or not: I was pretty well past all feeling. One of them, however, poured something down my throat, and then down Tom’s throat: it did not seem stronger than water though it revived me. I then saw that their looks were kind, and that they meant us no harm. The truth was that our forlorn condition touched their hearts: it is my opinion, friend Peter, that nearly all men’s hearts can be moved, if touched at the right time. These men were Sioux—very savage, I’ll allow—but just then they were returning home from a great meeting, where, by means of a white man, certain matters were settled to their satisfaction, and they felt, therefore, well disposed towards us. Who the white man was I don’t know, except that he was not a trader, and was a friend of the Indians. The Sioux gave us food, and lighted our fire, and camped there for two days, till we were able to move on, and then took us along with them. We lived with them all the winter, and soon got into their ways. When we proposed moving on, they would, on no account, hear of it, telling us that the distance was far greater than we supposed, and that there were cruel, treacherous white men between us and the sea, who were always making war on their people to drive them off their lands, and that they would certainly kill us. The long and the short of it is that Tom and I gave up our intention of proceeding, and, having wives offered to us much to our taste, we concluded to stay where we were. Every day we got more accustomed to the habits of our new friends; and we agreed also, that our friends in England would not know us, or own us, if we went back. We were tolerably happy; our wives bore us children; and, to make a long story short, we have lived on with the same tribe ever since. Tom has grown stout and cannot join in the hunt, but his sons do, and supply him with food. If Tom had been with the rest, he would not have left the neighbourhood of the ground where I fell without searching for me. It is through he and I being together that I can still speak English, and recollect things about home and our early days. We have been friends ever since we were boys, and never have we had a dispute. Four of my children died in infancy, and I have a son and a daughter. The only thing that tries me is leaving Tom and them, for their mother is dead; and yet I should like to go and hear more of the strange things you have told me about, and see some of my countrymen again before I die. They won’t mourn long for the old man: it is the lot of many to fall down and die in the wilds, as I should have died if you had not found me. Tom, maybe, will miss me; but of late years, since he gave up hunting, we have often been separate, and he’ll only feel as if I had been on a longer hunt than usual.”
“And your children?” said Peter. “They’ll feel much like Tom, I suppose,” answered the white hunter. “You know, friend Redskin, that Injun children are not apt to care much for their old parents. Maybe I will send for them, or go for them, if I remain with the pale-faces.”
The Indian was silent for some time. He then observed gravely, “Maybe, old friend, that the merciful God, who has protected you throughout your life, may have ordered this event also for your benefit; yet why do I say ‘maybe.’ He orders all things for the best: this much I have learned respecting Him—the wisest man can know no more.”
Were not the Indians of North America indued with a large amount of patience they could not get through the long journeys they often perform, nor live the life of trappers and hunters, nor execute the curious carved work which they produce. Patience is a virtue they possess in a wonderful degree. Day after day Peter travelled on, slowly, yet patiently, with his charge, at length reaching the banks of the Assiniboine River, a large and rapid stream which empties itself into the Red River, at about the centre of the Selkirk settlement. The banks, often picturesque, were, in most places, well clothed with a variety of trees, while the land on either side, although still in a state of nature, showed its fertility by the rich grasses and clover which covered it. The old hunter gazed with surprise. “Why, friend Peter, here thousands and thousands of people might live in plenty, with countless numbers of cattle and sheep!” he exclaimed. “I knew not that such a country existed in tiny part of this region.”
“We are now on the territory of the English, a people who treat the red man as they should—as fellow men, and with justice,” answered the Indian. “It may be God’s will that, ere many years are over, all this vast land, east and west, may be peopled by them, still leaving ample room for the red men, who, no longer heathen hunters, may settle down in Christian communities as cultivators of the soil, or keepers of flocks and herds.”
Still more surprised was the old hunter when, a few days after this, they came upon several well cultivated fields, and saw beyond them a widely-scattered village of neat cottages, and the spire of a church rising amid them towards the blue sky. “What! are those the houses of English settlers?” asked the old man; “it will do my heart good to see some of my own countrymen again.”
“You will see few of your countrymen here, father; the inhabitants are settlers, truly, but nearly all my people. There is, however, here a good minister, and a school-master, white men, who will welcome you gladly. Their hearts are full of Christian love, or they would not come to live out here, far removed from relatives and friends, labouring for the souls’ welfare of my poor countrymen.”
The old man shook his head, “No, no; I have no desire to see a parson. I remember well the long sermons—the last I ever heard was when I was at school—the parson used to give, and I used to declare that when I was a man I would keep clear of them, on this account.”