Gentlemen of the North/Chapter 3
CHAPTER III
THE STOLEN VOICE
THE return up the river was dreary enough for me. Probos and a family of Indians accompanied us as far as the mouth of the Reed. Leaving them, Flat Mouth and I hurried on, with old Tabashaw and several families pursuing in the vain hope of free rum. At least I would be the master until relieved of my trust, and I was determined that neither the chief nor any of his following should have any liquor until they earned it. If they would drink, they must work. As one of the results of the drinking bout at the Scratching post, there was the burning of a summer Indian's tent.
Chabot had just advanced goods to him to the value of a hundred and fifty skins. That is, he was to pay us in skins according to our valuation of that number of pelts. Now the goods were burned, we would get never a pelt from him. Just above the Reed we met the Northwest Annual Winter Express from the Athabasca, making all speed to overtake the brigade. They stopped only long enough to voice their surprise at having found the post closed and to ask if the Indians were on the war-path.
The fort looked very lonely as we drew ashore and hauled up our canoe. The solitude of the place was intense even when we were surrounded by drunken Indians. Now it was deathly. The procession of drowned buffaloes was thinning out, though still the river rolled a daily grist over the southern horizon. Within twenty-four hours after my return I had sixty-five men and women, brigades of children and nearly a hundred dogs camping about the stockade. All were begging for rum except the dogs. I called for Tabashaw, who came on the jump, and explained to him his people should be leaving for the Pembina Mountains to make their summer hunt.
The crafty old villain loudly replied:
"When Tabashaw speaks, they will go. Tabashaw is chief of the Chippewas. It is for him to send his people on the hunt."
Meaning that it was none of James Franklin's business what the Chippewa men should do.
"I have heard you speak," I carelessly answered. "I am very busy. I must write down each word you say, so the gentlemen of the North can see by the talking paper just what kind of a man you are."
He wriggled uneasily. The accounts I worked on each day were a big mystery to him. That I could preserve in writing a verbatim report of every word spoken in my hearing was no harder for him to believe than was any other of the phenomena of the white man's ways.
"A little rum will smooth the road to the hills," he cunningly reminded.
I bowed over my books and pointed to the door. He withdrew and commenced a violent tirade against me. He was concluding with a spirited call for volunteers to rush in and cut my throat and seize the milk when he glimpsed me at the window, apparently taking down his speech. Without comprehending that the written word could never condemn him until delivered, he flew into a panic and with many an explosive "Hough!" bitterly upbraided his people for not departing at once. Yet I did not feel easy until I saw the entire party with their nine horses and many dogs strung out in a mile-long line.
They left just in time to escape a fine fright. Two Indians came tearing down the river, wild with fear. They had been hunting at Grandes Fourches (Grand Forks, North Dakota) and had found where a man had placed sticks to kneel on in drinking. On the same day they came upon a buffalo bull, and it was wounded. Two positive proofs the Sioux were hiding in that neighbourhood. They packed their hunt into their canoes and wanted me to know they were through with any country above the Pembina fort.
As they brought forty beaver and seven bear, my alarm was tempered with rejoicing. Now that old Tabashaw and his crew were gone I threw in a gallon of mixed wine as a bonus. It came off cold that night with snow. The plains had been clear and dry for several days, but with the storm the buffaloes edged in to find shelter in the timber along the river. By the time we were settled we could hear them crashing about close to the fort and at times scraping against the stockade. The wolves followed them in, looking for an unprotected calf or a sick creature. I've noticed that while wolves can run a herd for short distances the beasts will not stampede because of them. That is why our Indians always suspected the Sioux instead of four-legged wolves when they saw the buffaloes in rapid motion.
The wolves, however, aroused our dogs, and what with the whistling of the storm and the racket made by the brutes one needed to be very tired to sleep.
In the morning we found several inches of snow but with the sun fast melting it. Flat Mouth came to me and gave it as his opinion that the Sioux were above us. Had he been any other Indian, I would have laughed at him. He had fought them many times and was not quick to give the alarm.
"The men saw their own tracks and grew afraid," I insisted, to drive him into giving me some reason.
From under his blanket he drew an arrow, short of shaft and long in feathering, with shallow grooves down the shaft—the "lightning marks" or "blood" grooves.
"Sioux," he quietly said.
"Where did you get it?"
He pointed to the river, where buffaloes were occasionally floating by.
"It was sticking into a bull. The bull was not killed by water but was chased into the river."
If I had had a half dozen whites and some sober Chippewas inside the stout stockade, I would have defied half a thousand Sioux to dig me out. But, being alone, my Indians off in the hills, it might come to pass that I should seek safety in flight down the river to save my skull from serving as a drinking-dish. Such a forced retreat on the part of a white man and a Northman would demean him in the estimation of the Indians.
"If there are Sioux at Grandes Fourches or this side, I must know it at once. I shall start up the river within an hour."
"If the Sioux have come, they will cross the river to steal down on the east side," he said.
"Then I will go up the east side and do two jobs at once. There should be some of the Red Sucker band making sugar at Thief River. I must see them. There should be good beaver at Goose River. I want to look that country over."
"You will find Sioux," he warned, turning away.
I did not ask him to go with me. The sun was warm and the snow was melting fast, and by the time I was ready to start it was gone. I planned to go horseback, as the country was level to Park River. The beast showed an ugly streak when I headed him south along the edge of the timber instead of taking after the buffalo, which were now far out on the plain.
There was a danger that the Sioux might be concealed anywhere along the bank, but that was a risk I must take. Flat Mouth was not in sight when I quit the fort, and I was deciding I must make the trip alone when he overtook me. Without a word he took the lead. Late afternoon brought us to the Park, which we crossed on a log bridge built by Mr. Henry the year before.
Thus far we had seen nothing alarming and made our camp a few miles beyond the river. Before sunrise we were mounted and rejoicing that the weather still held clear with the river dropping rapidly. We crossed to the east bank of the Red, wallowing to our horses' bellies in the mud left by high water.
We went through two miles of strong timber, then struck willow and poplar, filled with red deer. We were continually scaring the creatures into flight and I made a mental note of the place for the benefit of our hunters. The willows were bad enough, but nothing compared with the stretch we next en countered. Now it was long grass concealing holes, and marsh ground, which tired our nags greatly. Not until midday did we reach decent footing on an open plain. The deer signs were very thick whenever we struck a little stream.
Plenty of bears was shown by the appearance of the bushes, where they had gathered fruit and berries the season before. That night we camped on Snake River without having discovered any signs of either friendly or hostile Indians.
Flat Mouth lost none of his keen concern. I had been with him enough to know he expected trouble. In the morning we crossed the Snake to follow up its western bank and in a few hours were in sight of the strong woods along Red Lake River.
Now Flat Mouth motioned for me to hold back. Leaving his horse with me, he went on a discovery. A turkey-buzzard was lazily ascending above the tree tops, and it was the presence of this scavenger, leaving his feeding, that had attracted the Pillager Chief's attention. I waited half an hour; then Flat Mouth came into view and beckoned me to approach. I rode ahead, leading his animal, but I could surmise nothing from his face. Therefore, the shock to my nerves was severe when, without a word of warning, he led me to the remains of a bloody tragedy.
An Indian, one of the Red Sucker band, was on the ground, his body feathered with arrows. He had been mutilated beyond all imagining. The Sioux—for there was no mistaking their work—had raised the scalp and removed the skull to use it as a dish. After I recovered my composure Flat Mouth pointed ahead and informed:
"Signs two days old. They followed him from up the river. He came from somewhere near mouth of the Red Lake River. He was carrying a pack of beaver on his back."
Mounting his horse, he again took the lead, and we passed through the woods to the bank of the Red Lake and found ourselves opposite the mouth of the Clearwater. This stream, very rapid where it empties into the Red Lake, was famous for sturgeon. A short distance above the mouth was the ruins of the winter post built several years before by Jean Baptiste Cadotte. His father, of the same name, went to Michilimackinac fifty years back. Flat Mouth told me it was Cadotte senior who prevailed on the Lake Superior Chippewas not to join in Pontiac's conspiracy against the western garrisons. I had visited the ruins the year before and had no desire to go there again, as the woodticks would devour us. I intimated as much when Flat Mouth started up the bush-grown path. He gave a low hiss for silence and pointed to some almost imperceptible marks on the edge of the bank while his lips formed the word—
"Sioux!"
Now I was after Sioux, but I was not a bit anxious to come upon them unexpectedly or while they were in any considerable number. Then again the sight I had just witnessed rather weakened my fighting spirit. My companion seemed to read my thoughts, for he whispered:
"Hurt."
I plucked up spirit. If the Sioux were hurt, I wasn't much frightened. I nodded, and we dismounted and led our horses along the narrow path.
It was only a short distance to the old Cadotte place, and once more I acted the hostler while the Indian went ahead. This time I was alone only a few minutes, and this time his gestures on returning to me were those of exultation. I hurried forward and beheld another dead Indian. The Red Sucker Indian had struck like a rattlesnake before being killed, and he had bagged a noble victim. For the dead man must have been a great war chief. This was indicated by his feathered head dress and the beautiful redstone pipe by his side. A buckskin bag, which had held his medicine and mysteries, had been torn to pieces by wolves. The beasts had mauled the body until it was only a bundle of bloody bones and torn leather. By some freak the head-dress had not been disturbed. Altogether, the remnants of the dead man's dignity were in a sad condition.
"They were in a big hurry," explained Flat Mouth. "Some time they will come to get the bones. The Red Sucker was taken by surprise while carrying the pack. He had just time to throw his axe and crack the Sioux's head when the others got him. It was a good trade."
"If they are in a hurry, we can hurry," I urged. "I must know whether they have left this country or are hanging around for more scalps."
"Only a few came up here. Lost their war-chief and ran back to their war-camp near Grandes Fourches. May find them quick if we follow."
Which meant we might find them before we were prepared for the meeting.
The sight of the war-chief revived my fighting courage. Thus far the Chippewa Nation had no reason for hanging its head. Flat Mouth scalped the chief and followed the trail downstream till we struck the main river. There the signs prompted him to cross over to the mouth of the Cottonwood. We struck into a beaten path made by deer and for a bit lost the trail. When Flat Mouth picked it up he showed surprise. Instead of making off southwest to Grandes Fourches, it led us back north, forcing us to recross the Red Lake River, then swerving to the northeast toward Thief River, which empties into the main river below the Clearwater. In short, we were travelling in a rough circle.
Flat Mouth reasoned it out, saying:
"The Sioux were very much afraid when their war-chief was killed. They started to run back to their camp and ride their ponies for home. Then they remembered the beaver pack. If the Chippewa was taking it down the river, he would be in a canoe. They know the maple grows thick along the Thief. Good beaver as well as sugar country. They think the dead Indian came from there. They forget they are afraid at the loss of their chief. They want to take more skulls. So they start to find the dead man's family."
There was no need for hurrying, as either the Sioux had found their victims or hadn't. As it was near sundown, I suggested that we camp. He agreed and, still holding his gun, began picking up dry twigs with one hand, working in nearer the woods very slowly.
"You've got enough wood," I called out, making to dismount and much surprised that he should think of lighting a fire.
He startled me by dropping a handful of twigs and by raising his gun and firing among the trees.
His shot evoked a chorus of fiendish yells and a volley of arrows and the snick of a lead ball against a tree. Almost immediately six Sioux warriors, hideous in their paint and howling like demons, burst from cover. Flat Mouth moved back, keeping his face to them, coolly reloading. On sighting me, a white man, they came to a halt, undecided for a few seconds as to what course to pursue. While they were weighing the matter I let drive with the right barrel and scuffed off the top of a man's head; the gun was loaded for buffalo bulls.
With a shriek of rage, fully believing our guns were empty, the remaining five sprang forward. I fired the left barrel, potting another warrior. Had they pressed the attack they would have had us for the killing, but according to their ignorant notions a gun that shoots twice can shoot indefinitely. With yelps of fear they faced about and raced for cover. By this time Flat Mouth had reloaded. He sprang on his horse to get a better view of the bush-grown ground at the edge of the timber and scored his second kill. Then he threw back his head and raised the Pillager Chippewa yell of triumph. And for good measure, being proud of my race, proud of my two shots, and somewhat young withal, I added my voice to his.
I told him he could have my scalps and claim the double kill if he wished to. This, I knew, would stand him such a coup as no Chippewa had counted within the knowledge of their oldest men. I waited until he had finished his ghastly work and selected a beaded buckskin bag which contained some coloured stones and bits of coloured feathers. This, Flat Mouth said, was Cheyenne work and must have belonged to a big chief. The bearer of it had killed his man, ash shown by the feather in his hair, but he was no chief.
"The bag held the chief's medicine. It belonged to the dead chief on the Clearwater. One of the Sioux was taking it home, leaving his own in its place. It must be strong medicine to belong to a chief."
And Flat Mouth eyed it with awe.
"It wasn't strong enough to protect him," I reminded, slipping the trophy into my pocket.
"No man knows how strong his medicine is until he fights," was the reply.
Flushed with success, Flat Mouth wanted to chase the Sioux, depending upon my gun to slay another brace. I refused. The Sioux had lost heavily on the expedition. Five men—and one a big chief—killed, and only a Chippewa skull to show for it. Whoever carried the pipe on that raid lost caste once they sighted their village and began throwing themselves to the ground to prepare their people for bad news.
Many a finger on the left hand would lose a joint when the relatives and friends of the dead went into mourning. Then again the Sioux afoot could easily evade us. Once they reached their ponies they would lose no time in retreating. They would believe other whites were near.
Most potent of all was the medicine of my gun, shooting twice without reloading. It would be talked about from the upper waters of the Missouri down to the Mississippi. This miracle alone should keep them from the river for the whole season. We had done our work well. We had located beaver and maple-sugar country—the real maple, not the ash-leaf which grew near our post.
So we found a suitable spot on the river and camped. Flat Mouth tied his hunting-knife to a sapling and speared a sturgeon. I stumbled on to a small herd of buffalo which were in much better flesh than those on the west side of the river. I shot a calf to get the hindquarters for steak. While I was acting the cook the Pillager investigated up the river.
He had been unable to locate the dead man's family, but he had found the camp. That the Sioux had not found the camp—or, at any event, had not come upon the family—was evident by Flat Mouth's failure to find any victims. My companion believed the men and women and children at the camp had taken alarm and fled far back into the marsh country. I afterward learned that this was true.
Flat Mouth regretted exceedingly the absence of his friends from the post, for seldom would the Red River Chippewas have such a glorious collection of hair to dance. I was pleased they were gone, for it saved the cost of a prolonged drinking bout.
Of course I gave Flat Mouth a generous allowance, and he spent the evening in arranging his hair and painting his face and pounding on a drum and chanting songs. After building a song that narrated each move in the fight, and, being thoroughly primed, he let out a terrific yell and danced the scalps.
In the morning Flat Mouth's luck was still with him, as he managed to kill two beaver opposite the fort. I turned gardener. Thanks to the foresight of Mr. Henry on entering the country, we were able to raise many vegetables.
Our harvest was aside from what the Indian women and children stole. This kind of thievery became such a nuisance that we were compelled to inclose the whole potato field with a high stockade. Otherwise it would have been necessary to post a guard by day and night.
I had just traded the two beaver killed by Flat Mouth and was on my way to plan my garden campaign when six Crees and two Assiniboins came in. All told, they had a dozen beaver and a quantity of wild fowl.
I traded and gave them a dram, but while they drank they kept their bows and arrows in their hands and seemed suspicious of something. At first I thought they were afraid of the Sioux pouncing down upon us. To quiet their fears I told them of Flat Mouth's coup. They put no stock in my story till the chief came dancing in and held the scalps up before them.
Now this should have brought them great joy, for according to their beliefs nothing is so wholesome as a Sioux warrior dead. Yet the sight of the scalps seemed to alarm them instead of bringing them any pleasure. Their attitude was sullen as they heard Flat Mouth recite his coups. Finally he made his exit, still dancing and singing the song he had composed.
"What is the matter with my friends? It is time you finished your milk and went to the hills where the Chippewas are hunting," I rebuked.
"The Chippewas have stolen our medicine. We will not go among them," informed White Buffalo, leader of the Crees.
His companions followed the speaker's example of staring after the Pillager, their bows and arrows ready for instant use.
"What do you mean by drinking in my house while you hold strung bows in your hands?" I demanded. "Have you passed war-tobacco against my children, the Chippewas?"
"We have passed no tobacco," grunted White Buffalo. "Do not be afraid, white man, that we shall make a fight. We can not fight. The Chippewas have stolen our medicine."
No matter how ridiculous I might think this allegation to be, I knew it was the most serious matter on earth to them. If they sincerely believed the Chippewas had stolen their medicine, then good-bye to the hunting on the lower Red River. The accusation might easily create a situation more grave than any spasmodic attack by the Sioux.
"What medicine have they stolen?" I solemnly asked.
White Buffalo pointed after Flat Mouth and gloomily replied:
"It was our stolen medicine that let the Pillager chief count coup against the Sioux. No Chippewa can take four scalps with only Chippewa medicine to help him."
This would have impressed a newcomer as being the silly superstition of an Indian. And yet, unless happily cleared up it might mean the ruin of the North West Company's fur trade on both the Assiniboin and Red. The story would spread like a malignant disease.
It was fortunate that the Chippewas were in the hills. Flat Mouth was too deeply engrossed with preparing his scalps as permanent trophies to bother us. Realizing the uselessness of attempting to force an explanation, or of belittling the accusation, I waited. At last White Buffalo continued:
"The Sioux followed the Voice and it led them to Flat Mouth. The Voice made the Sioux blind and they did not know Flat Mouth was cracking their skulls."
"The Voice?" I repeated, seizing upon this, the first clue to the Cree's meaning.
"The River That Calls has lost its Voice," informed White Buffalo with a little shiver.
Now Rivière Qu'Appelle, as the French knew it, or Catabuysepu, as the Crees named it, was regarded with much awe and fear by the Indians of the Northwest. It being the main fork of the Assiniboin, my travels up that river had made me some what familiar with it. It derives its quaint name from an Indian belief that a mighty spirit haunts it, flying along its course and crying aloud in what sounds like a human voice. I had never observed that the Calling spoke differently than any other river. But someone had tagged the superstition to it, and some manito lived there.
What I couldn't understand was my visitors' reason for believing the Chippewas had stolen this spirit, or Voice. While the belief persisted, however, it was a very grave matter and very detrimental to our interests.
"When did the Voice go away?" I asked.
"So many sleeps," mumbled White Buffalo, holding up his fingers to indicate a week. "It was the Voice that helped Flat Mouth take his scalps."
"Perhaps the Voice is tired and is resting," I suggested. "It may be asleep, waiting for the mud-water to leave the river." The last was the true solution, I believed. Freshet water had eliminated the little, musical tinkling sounds of the shallows, and perhaps had interfered with the air currents and their murmurings among the trees.
"On the Pembina, above this fort, we have heard the Voice," was the rejoinder.
"You heard a summer bird singing."
Ignoring me as if I had never spoken, White Buffalo continued:
"We have heard the Voice on the Red River. It sounded like women weeping. The Voice wants to go back home. The Chippewas cannot keep it."
The Crees worshipped the Voice because it was big medicine. It was powerful enough to permit Flat Mouth to kill four Sioux warriors. White Buffalo believed that as thoroughly as he believed he liked rum. Yet a stronger Chippewa medicine held it prisoner. It wept and moaned and wanted to go back to the River That Calls and couldn't, and the Crees intended to rescue it by force of their bows and arrows. So I solemnly promised:
"Within a moon I will see that the Voice is back on the Catabuysepu." I believed that inside a month the river would be back to normal conditions. "Let the Chippewa magic be ever so strong, there is no medicine as strong as the white man's. But there must be no fighting with the Chippewas. If any blows are struck, the Voice will refuse to return."
My bold assurance seemed to put a little heart in them, although White Buffalo was curious to know why it took a moon for my strong medicine to work.
"My medicine can work as quick as that," I said, snapping my fingers. "But it will take a little time to learn if the Crees have done some evil thing and have driven the Voice away."
All protested their innocence. One of the Assiniboins smacked his lips over the dregs of his rum and informed me—
"No summer trade will go to the Scratching."
I attached no importance to this remark, thinking the wily fellow was fishing for more rum. I pricked up my ears when he added:
"They will trade no new milk this summer for skins."
"No rum at the X. Y. post?" I incredulously asked.
The Indian, in a voice of deep disgust, repeated—
"No rum."
If this news were true, I would have no rivalry during the summer. To handle the trade without liquor was to fly without wings. I was glad that Red Dearness had gone away with out requesting me to sell him a few kegs. Had he asked the favour, I should have granted it—not as a courtesy, but as a protection against a possible time when the N. W. might need a similar favour. And yet, even if Dearness, because of sickness or haste to be gone, had neglected to tap our stock, why had not the clerk Angus come up for a few kegs?
"What were you doing at the X. Y. post?" I sternly demanded, remembering that they had no business to take their hunt there.
"We took our goods there, as we were afraid of the Chippewas here, who had stolen our medicine," defended White Buffalo.
"If you could have traded for rum, you wouldn't be here now?"
They readily admitted this to be true.
"You have heard my promise about the Voice," I said. "You are not to be afraid of my Indians. You are to tell all your people, all the X. Y. summer Indians, that there is plenty of strong milk here."
"We will bring our hunt here—all of it," he promised.
This new promise of trade pleased me immensely and I gave each of the men another dram and left them. I was anxious to have Flat Mouth's opinion on the stolen medicine.
"You have heard the Voice talking on the River That Calls?" I asked.
"Everyone hears it who goes there."
"Have you heard that it has left the river?"
"It has left the river," he assured.
"Where is it?" I bluntly demanded.
"A strange spirit flies through the sky along the Pembina River above the fort. It makes a loud noise."
"A strange spirit? What foolish talk is this? How can you say that unless you have seen it?" I reproached.
"I have seen it," he astounded me by replying. "It floated on the water through the darkness and sang its medicine song."
"What did it look like?"
"Like a big white swan."
His hesitation before answering satisfied me this was a bit of imagination.
"The Pillager chief heard a loon cry and said it was a spirit," I scoffed.
"The loon has the voice of an evil spirit. Ugly, like the snarling of two foxes fighting."
By implication I was to understand that the strange spirit on the Pembina had a very sweet voice. This in itself was no clue for a white man to follow, for the senseless thudding of a war-drum is soothing and beautiful to the Indian ear. I was glad old Tabashaw and his people were back in the hills. Once they heard they held this mighty medicine Voice a captive, they would stop hunting and depend upon their prisoner to charm rum out of my strong room.
That night, after I had turned in, there came a pounding on the stockade gate. I ran out. It was White Buffalo who answered my angry challenge.
"Listen up the river, the Pembina," he requested in a trembling voice.
I turned my ear to the west. At first I heard nothing; then it came down the river to me. It was faint and far off, containing a wailing sweetness much like the soft passing of a bow over a violin. It was like nothing so much as a human voice without suggestion of spoken words. Rather a humming, moaning sound.