The Great Lone Land by W. F. Butler

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On the night of the 4th November we made our camp long after dark in a
little clump of willows far out in the plain which lies west of the
Touchwood Hills. We had missed the only lake that was known to lie in
this part of the plain, and after journeying far in the darkness halted
at length, determined to go supperless, or next to supperless, to bed,
for pemmican without that cup which nowhere tastes more delicious than in
the wilds of the North-west would prove but sorry comfort, and the supper
without tea would be only a delusion. The fire was made, the frying-pan
taken out, the bag of dried buffalo meat and the block of pemmican got
ready, but we said little in the presence of such a loss as the steaming
kettle and the hot, delicious, fragrant tea. Why not have provided
against this evil hour by bringing on from the last frozen lake some
blocks of ice? Alas! why not? Moodily we sat down round the blazing
willows. Meantime Daniel commenced to unroll the oil cloth cart cover-and
lo, in the ruddy glare of the fire, out rolled three or four large pieces
of thick, heavy ice, sufficient to fill our kettle three times over with
delicious tea. Oh, what a joy it was! and how we relished that cup! for
remember, cynical friend who may be inclined to hold such happiness
cheap and light, that this wild life of ours is a curious leveller of
civilized habits--a cup of water to a thirsty man can be more valuable
than a cup of diamonds, and the value of one article over the other is
only the question of a few hours privation. When the morning of the. 5th
dawned we were covered deep in snow, a storm had burst in the night, and
all around was hidden in a dense sheet of driving snow-flakes; not a
vestige of our horses was to be seen, their tracks were obliterated by
the fast-falling snow, and the surrounding objects close at hand showed
dim and indistinct through the white cloud. After fruitless search,
Daniel returned to camp with the tidings that the horses were nowhere to
be found; so, when breakfast had been finished, all three set out in
separate directions to look again for the missing steeds. Keeping the
snow-storm on my left shoulder, I went along through little clumps of
stunted bushes which frequently deceived me by their resemblance through
the driving snow to horses grouped together. After awhile I bent round
towards the wind and, making a long sweep in that direction, bent again
so as to bring the drift upon my right shoulder. No horses, no tracks,
any where--nothing but a waste of white drifting flake and feathery
snow-spray. At last I turned away from the wind, and soon struck full on
our little camp; neither of the others had returned. I cut down some
willows and made a blaze. After a while I got on to the top of the cart,
and looked out again into the waste. Presently I heard a distant shout;
replying vigorously to it, several indistinct forms came into view; and
Daniel soon emerged from the mist, driving before him the hobbled
wanderers; they had been hidden under the lea of a thicket some distance
off, all clustered together for shelter and warmth. Our only difficulty
was now the absence of my friend the Hudson Bay officer. We waited some
time, and at length, putting the saddle on Blackie, I started out in the
direction he had taken. Soon I heard a faint far-away shout; riding
quickly in the direction from whence it proceeded, I heard the calls
getting louder and louder, and soon came up with a figure heading right
away into the immense plain, going altogether in a direction opposite to
where our camp lay. I shouted, and back came my friend no little pleased
to find his road again, for a snowstorm is no easy thing to steer
through, and at times it will even fall out that not the Indian with all
his craft and instinct for direction will be able to find his way through
its blinding maze. Woe betide the wretched man who at such a time finds
himself alone upon the prairie, without fire or the means of making it;
not even the ship-wrecked-sailor clinging to the floating mast is in a
more pitiable strait. During the greater portion of this day it snowed
hard, but our track was distinctly-marked across the plains, and we held
on all day. I still rode Blackie; the little fellow had to keep his wits
at work to avoid tumbling into the badger holes which the snow soon
rendered invisible. These badger holes in this portion of the plains were
very numerous; it is not always easy to avoid them when the ground is
clear of snow, but riding becomes extremely difficult when once the
winter has set in. The badger burrows straight down for two or three
feet, and if a horse be travelling at any pace his fall is so sudden and
violent that a broken leg is too often the result. Once or twice Blackie
went in nearly to the shoulder, but he invariably scrambled up again all
right-poor fellow, he was reserved for a worse fate, and his long journey
was near its end! A clear cold day followed the day of snow, and for the
first time the thermometer fell below zero.

Day dawned upon us on the 6th November camped in a little thicket of
poplars some seventy miles from the South Saskatchewan; the thermometer
stood 30 below zero, and as I drew the girths tight on poor Blackie's
ribs that morning, I felt happy in the thought that I had slept for the
first time under the stars with 35 degrees of frost lying on the blanket
outside. Another long day's ride, and the last great treeless plain was
crossed and evening found us camped near the Minitchinass, or Solitary
Hill, some sixteen miles south-east of the South Saskatchewan. The grass
again grew long and thick, the clumps of willow, poplar, and birch had
reappeared, and the soil, when we scraped the snow away to make our
sleeping place, turned up black and rich-looking under the blows of the
axe. About midday on the 7th November, in a driving storm of snow, we
suddenly emerged upon a high plateau. Before us, at a little distance, a
great gap or valley seemed to open suddenly out, and farther off the
white sides of hills and dark tree-tops rose into view. Riding to the
edge of this steep valley I beheld a magnificent river flowing between
great banks of ice and snow 300 feet below the level on which we stood.
Upon each side masses of ice stretched out far into the river, but in
the centre, between these banks of ice, ran a swift, black-looking
current the sight of which for a moment filled us with dismay. We had
counted upon the Saskatchewan being firmly locked in ice, and here was
the river rolling along between its icy banks forbidding all passage.
Descending to the low valley of the river, we halted for dinner,
determined to try some method by which to cross this formidable barrier.
An examination of the river and its banks soon revealed the difficulties
before us. The ice, as it approached the open portion, was unsafe,
rendering it impossible to get within reach of the running water.` An
interval of some ten yards separated the sound ice from the current,
while nearly 100 yards of solid ice lay between the true bank of the
river and the dangerous portion; thus our first labour was to make a
solid footing for ourselves from which to launch any raft or make-shift
boat which we might construct. After a great deal of trouble and labour,
we got the waggon-box roughly fashioned into a raft, covered over with
one of our large oil-cloths, and Lashed together with buffalo leather.
This most primitive looking craft we carried down over the ice to where
the dangerous portion commenced; then Daniel,-wielding the axe with
powerful dexterity, began to hew away at the ice until space enough was
opened out to float our raft upon. Into this-we slipped the-waggon-box,
and into the waggon-box we put the half-breed Daniel. It floated
admirably, and on went the axe-man, hewing, as before, with might and
main. It was cold, wet work, and, in spite of every thing, the water
began to ooze through the oil-cloth into the waggon-box. We had to haul
it up, empty it, and launch again; thus for some hours we kept on, cold,
wet, and miserable, until night forced us to desist and make our camp on
the tree-lined shore. So we hauled in the wagon and retired, baffled, but
not beaten, to begin again next morning. There were many reasons to make
this delay feel vexatious and disappointing; we had travelled a distance
of 560 miles in twelve days; travelled only to find ourselves stopped by
this partially frozen river at a point twenty miles distant from Carlton,
the first great station on my journey. Our stock of provisions, too, was
not such as would admit of much delay; pemmican and dried meat we had
none, and flour, tea, and grease were all that remained to us. However,
Daniel declared that he knew a most excellent method of making a
combination of flour and fat which Would allay all disappointment-and I
must conscientiously admit that a more hunger-satiating mixture than he
produced out of the frying-pan it had never before been my lot to taste.
A little of it went such a long way, that it would be impossible to find
a parallel for it in portability; in fact, it went such a long way, that
the person who dined off it found himself, by common reciprocity of
feeling, bound to go a long way in return before he again partook of it;
but Daniel was not of that opinion, for he ate the greater portion of our
united shares, and slept peacefully when it was all gone. I would
particularly recommend this mixture to the consideration of the guardians
of the poor throughout the United Kingdom, as I know of nothing which
would so readily conduce to the satisfaction of the hungry element in'
our society. Had such a combination been known to Bumble. and his Board,
the hunger of Twist would even have been satisfied by a single helping;
but, perhaps, it might be injudicious to introduce into the sister island
any condiment so antidotal in its nature to the removal of the Celt
across the Atlantic--that "consummation so devoutly wished for" by the
"leading journal."

Fortified by Daniel's delicacy, we set to work early next morning at
raft-making and ice-cutting; but we made the attempt to cross at a
portion of the river where the open water was narrower and the bordering
ice sounded more firm to the testing blows of the axe. One part of the
river had now closed in, but the ice over it was unsafe. We succeeded in'
getting the craft into the running water and, having strung together all
the available line and rope we possessed, prepared for the venture. It
was found that the waggon-boat would only carry one passenger, and
accordingly I took my place in it, and with a make-shift paddle put out
into the quick-running stream. The current had great power over the
ill-shaped craft, and it was no easy-matter to keep her head at all
against stream.

I had not got five yards out when the whole thing commenced to fill
rapidly with water, and I had just time to get back again to ice before
she was quite full. We hauled her out once more, and found the oil-cloth
had been cut by the jagged ice, so there was nothing for it but to remove
it altogether and put on another. This was done, and soon our waggon-box
was once again afloat. This time I reached in safety the farther side;
but there a difficulty arose which we had not foreseen. Along this
farther edge of ice the current ran with great force, and as the leather
line which was attached to the back of the boat sank deeper and deeper
into the water, the drag upon it caused the boat to drift quicker and
quicker downstream; thus, when I touched the opposite ice, I found the
drift was so rapid that my axe failed to catch a hold in the yielding
edge, which broke away at every stroke. After several ineffectual
attempts to stay the rush of the boat, and as I was being borne rapidly
into a mass of rushing water and huge blocks of ice, I saw it was all up,
and shouted to the others to rope in the line; but this was no easy
matter, because the rope had got foul of the running ice, and was caught
underneath. At last, by careful handling, it was freed, and I stood once
more on the spot from whence I had started, having crossed the River
Saskatchevan to no purpose. Daniel now essayed the task, and reached the
opposite shore, taking the precaution to work up the nearer side before
crossing; once over, his vigorous use of the axe told on the ice, and he
succeeded in fixing the boat against the edge. Then lhe quickly clove his
way into the frozen mass, and, by repeated blows, finally reached a spot
from which he got on shore.

This success of our long labour and exertion was announced to the
solitude by three ringing cheers, which we gave from our side; for, be
it remembered, that it was now our intention to use the waggon-boat to
convey across all our baggage, towing the boat from one side to the other
by means of our line; after which, we would force the horses to swim the
river, and then cross ourselves in the boat. But all our plans were
defeated by an unlooked-for accident; the line lay deep in the water, as
before, and to raise it required no small amount of force. We hauled and
hauled, until snap went the long rope somewhere underneath the water, and
all was over. With no little difficulty Daniel got the boat across again
to our side, and we all went back to camp wet, tired, and dispirited by
so much labour and so many misfortunes. It froze hard that night, and in
the morning the great river had its waters altogether hidden opposite our
camp by a covering of ice. Would it bear? that was the question. We went
on it early, testing with axe and sharp-pointed poles. In places it was
very thin, but in other parts it rang hard and solid to the blows. The
dangerous spot was in the very centre of the river, where the water had
shown through in round holes on the previous day, but we hoped to avoid
these bad places by taking a slanting course across the channel. After
walking backwards and forwards several times, we determined to try a
light horse. He was led out with a long piece of rope attached to his
neck. In the centre of the stream the ice seemed to bend slightly as he
passed over, but no break occurred, and in safety we reached the opposite
side. Now came Blackie's turn. Somehow or other I felt uncomfortable
about it and remarked that the horse ought to have his shoes removed
before the attempt was made. My companion, however, demurred, and his
experience in these matters had extended over so many years, that I was
foolishly induced to allow him to proceed as he thought fit, even against
my better judgment. Blackie was taken out, led as before, tied by a long
line. I followed close behind him, to drive him if necessary. He did not
need much driving, but took the ice quite readily. We had got to the
centre of the river, when the surface suddenly bent downwards, and, to my
horror, the poor horse plunged deep into black, quick-running water! He
was not three yards in front of me when the ice broke. I recoiled
involuntarily from the black, seething chasm; the horse, though he
plunged suddenly down, never let his head under water, but kept swimming
manfully round and round the narrow hole, trying all he could to get
upon the ice. All his efforts were useless; a cruel wall of sharp ice
struck his knees as he tried to lift them on the surface, and the
current, running with immense velocity, repeatedly carried him back
underneath. As soon as the horse had broken through, the man who held
the rope let it go, and the leather line flew back about poor Blackie's
head. I got up almost to the edge of the hole, and stretching out took
hold of the line again; but that could do no good nor give him any
assistance in his struggles. I shall never forget the way the poor brute
looked at me--even now, as I write these lines, the whole scene comes
back in memory with all the vividness of a picture, and I feel again the
horrible sensation of being utterly unable, though almost within touching
distance, to give him help in his dire extremity and if ever dumb animal
spoke with unutterable eloquence, that horse called to me in his agony he
turned to me as to one from whom he had a right to expect assistance. I
could not stand the scene any longer. "Is there no help for him?" I cried
to the other men. "None whatever," was the reply; "the ice is dangerous
-all around."

Then I rushed back to the shore and up to the camp where my rifle lay,
then back again to the fatal spot where the poor beast still struggled
against his fate. As I raised the rifle he looked at me so imploringly
that my hand shook and trembled. Another instant, and the deadly bullet
crashed through his head, and, with one look never to be forgotten, he
went down under the cold, unpitying ice!

It may have been very foolish, perhaps, for poor Blackie was only a.
horse, but for all that I went back to camp, and, sitting down in the
snow, cried like a child. With my own hand I had taken my poor friend's
life; but if there should exist somewhere in the regions of space that
happy Indian paradise where horses are never hungry and never tired,
Blackie, at least, will forgive the hand that sent him there, if he can
but see the heart that long regretted him.

Leaving Daniel in charge of the remaining horses, we crossed on foot the
fatal river, and with a single horse set out for Carlton. From the high
north bank I took one last look back at the South Saskatchewan-it lay in
its broad deep valley glittering in one great band of purest 'snow; but I
loathed the sight of it, while the small round open hole, dwarfed to a
speck by distance, marked the spot where my poor horse had found his
grave, after having carried me so faithfully through the long lonely
wilds. We had travelled about six miles when a figure appeared in sight,
coming towards us upon the same track. The new-comer proved to be a Cree
Indian travelling to Fort Pelly. He bore the name of the Starving Bull.
Starving Bull and his boy at once turned back With us towards Carlton. In
a little while a party of horsemen hove in sight: they had come out from
the fort to visit the South Branch, and amongst them was the Hudson Bay
officer in charge of the station. Our first question had reference to the
plague. Like a fire, it had burned itself out. There was no case then in
the fort, but out of the little garrison of some sixty souls no fewer
than thirty-two had perished! Four only had recovered of the thirty-six
who had taken the terrible infection.

We halted for dinner by the edge of the Duck Lake; midway between the
North and South Branches of the Saskatchewan. It was a rich, beautiful
country, although the snow lay some inches deep. Clumps of trees dotted
the undulating surface, and lakelets glittering in the bright sunshine
spread out in sheets of dazzling whiteness. The Starving Bull set himself
busily to work preparing our dinner. What it would have been under
ordinary circumstances, I cannot state; but, unfortunately for its
success on the present occasion, its preparation was attended with
unusual drawbacks. Starving Bull had succeeded in killing a skunk during
his journey. This performance, while highly creditable to his energy as a
hunter, was by no means conducive to his success, as a cook. Bitterly did
that skunk revente himself upon us who had borne no part in his
destruction. Pemmican is at no time a delicacy; but pemmican flavoured
with skunk was more than I could attempt. However, Starving Bull proved
himself worthy of his name, and the frying-pan was-soon scraped clean
under his hungry manipulations.

Another hour's ride brought us to a high bank, at the base of which lay
the North Saskatchewan. In the low ground adjoining the river stood
Carlton House, a large square enclosure, the wooden walls of which were
more than twenty feet in height. Within these palisades some dozen or
more houses stood crowded together. Close by, to the right, many
snow-covered mounds with a few rough wooden crosses above them marked the
spot where, only four weeks before, the last Victim of the epidemic had
been laid. On the very spot where I stood looking at this sceiqe, a
Blackfoot Indian, three years earlier, had stolen out from a thicket,
fired at, and grievously wounded the Hudson Bay officer belonging to the
fort, and now close to the same spot a small cross marked that officer's
last resting-place. Strange fate! he had escaped the Blackfoot's bullet
only to be the first to succumb to the deadly epidemic. I cannot say that
Carlton was at all a lively place of sojourn. Its natural gloom was
considerably deepened by the events of the last few months, and the whole
place seemed to have received the stamp of death upon it. To add to the
general depression, provisions were by no means abundant, the few Indians
that had come in from the plains brought the same tidings of unsuccessful
chase--for the buffalo were "far out" on the great prairie, and that
phrase "far out," applied to buffalo, means starvation in the North-west.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

The Saskatchewan--Start from Carlton--Wild Mares--Lose our Way--A long
Ride-Battle River--Mistawassis the Cree--A Dance.

Two things strike the new-comer at Carlton. First, he sees evidences on
every side of a rich and fertile country; and, secondly, he sees by many
signs that war is the normal condition of the wild men who have pitched
their tents in the land of the Saskatchewan that land from which we have
taken the Indian prefix Kis, without much improvement of length or
euphony. It is a name but little known to the ear of the outside world,
but destined one day or other to fill its place in the long list of lands
whose surface yields back to man, in manifold, the toil of his brain and
hand. Its boundaries are of the simplest description, and it is as well
to begin with them. It has on the north a huge forest, on the west a huge
mountain, on the south an immense desert, on the east an immense marsh.
From the forest to the desert there lies a distance varying from 40 to
150 miles, and from the marsh to the mountain, 800 miles of land lie
spread in every varying phase of undulating fertility. This is the
Fertile Belt, the land of the Saskatchewan, the winter home of the
buffalo, the war country of the Crees and Blackfeet, the future home of
millions yet unborn. Few men have looked on this land-but the thoughts of
many in the New World tend towards it, and crave for description and fact
which in many instances can only be given to them at second-hand.

Like all things in this world, the Saskatchcwan has its poles of opinion;
there are those who paint it a paradise, and those who picture it a hell.
It is unfit for habitation, it is to be the garden-spot of America--it is
too cold, it is too dry--it is too beautiful; and, in reality, what is
it? I answer in a few words. It is rich; it is fertile; it is fair to the
eye. Man lives long in it, and the children of his body are cast in manly
mould. The cold of winter is intense, the strongest heat of summer is not
excessive. The autumn days are bright and-beautiful; the snow is seldom
deep, the frosts are early to come and late to go. All crops flourish,
though primitive and rude are the means by which they are tilled; timber
is in places plentiful, in other places scarce; grass grows high, thick,
and rich. Horses winter out, and are round-carcased, and fat in spring.
The lake-shores are deep in hay; lakelets every where. Rivers close in
mid-November and open in mid-April. The lakes teem with fish; and such
fish! fit for the table of a prince, but disdained at the feast of the
Indian. The river-heads lie all in a forest region; and it is midsummer
when their water has reached its highest level. Through the land the red
man stalks; war, his unceasing toil--horse-raiding, the pastime of his
life. How long has the Indian thus warred?-since he has been known to the
white man, and long before.

In 1776 the earliest English voyager in these regions speaks of war
between the Assineboines and their trouble some western neighbours, the
Snake and Blackfeet Indians. But war was older than the era of the
earliest white man, older probably than the Indian himself; for, from
what ever branch of the human race this stock is sprung, the lesson of
warfare was in all cases the same to him. To say he fights is, after all,
but to say he is a man; for whether it be in Polynesia or in Paris, in
the Saskatchewan or in Sweden, in Bundelond or in Bulgaria, fighting is
just the one universal "touch of nature which makes the whole world
kin."

"My good brothers," said a missionary friend of mine, some little while
ago, to an assemblage of Crees, "My good brothers--why do you carry on
this unceasing war with the Blackfeet and Peaginoos, with Sircies and
Bloods? It is not good, it is not right; the great Manitou does not like
his children to kill each other, but he wishes them to live in peace and
brotherhood."

To which the Cree chief made answer--"My friend, what you say is good;
but look, you are white man and Christian, we are red men and worship
the Manitou; but what is the news we hear from the traders and the
black-robes? Is it not always the news of war? The Kitchi Mokamans (i.e.
the Americans) are on the war-path against their brethren of the South,
the English are fighting some tribes far away over the big lake; the
French, and all the other tribes are fighting too! My brother, it is
news of war, always news of war! and we--we go on the war-path in small
numbers. We stop when we kill a few of our enemies and take a few scalps;
but your nations go to war in countless thousands, and we hear of more of
your braves killed in one battle than all our tribe numbers together. So,
my brother, do not say to us that it is wrong to go on the war-path, for
what is right for the white man cannot be wrong in his red brother. I
have done!"

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