The Arctic Prairies Part 7

CHAPTER XI

THE SECOND BUFFALO HUNT

Though so trifling, the success of our first Buffalo hunt gave us quite a social lift. The chiefs were equally surprised with the whites, and when we prepared for a second expedition, Kiya sent word that though he could not act as guide, I should ride his own trained hunter, a horse that could run a trail like a hound, and was without guile.

I am, always suspicious of a horse (or man) without guile.

I wondered what was the particular weakness of this exceptionally trained, n.o.ble, and guileless creature. I have only one prejudice in horseflesh--I do not like a white one. So, of course, when the hunter arrived he was, white as marble, from mane to tail and hoofs; his very eyes were of a cheap china colour, suggestive of cataractine blindness. The only relief was a morbid tinge of faded shrimp pink in his nostrils and ears. But he proved better than he looked. He certainly did run tracks by nose like a hound, provided I let him choose the track. He was a lively walker and easy trotter, and would stay where the bridle was dropped, So I came to the conclusion that Kiya was not playing a joke on me, but really had lent me his best hunter, whose sepulchral whiteness I could see would be of great advantage in snow time when chiefly one is supposed to hunt.

Not only Kiya, but Pierre Squirrel, the head chief, seemed to harbour a more kindly spirit. He now suddenly acquired a smattering of English and a fair knowledge of French. He even agreed to lead us through his own hunting grounds to the big Buffalo range, stipulating that we be back by July 1, as that was Treaty Day, when all the tribe a.s.sembled to receive their treaty money, and his presence as head chief was absolutely necessary.

We were advised to start from Fort Smith, as the trail thence was through a dryer country; so on the morning of June 24, at 6.50, we left the Fort on our second Buffalo hunt.

Major A. M. Jarvis, Mr. E. A. Preble, Corporal Selig, Chief Pierre Squirrel, and myself, all mounted, plus two pack-horses, prepared for a week's campaign. Riding ahead in his yellow caftan and black burnoose was Pierre Squirrel on his spirited charger, looking most picturesque. But remembering that his yellow caftan was a mosquito net, his black burnoose a Hudson's Bay coat, and his charger an ornery Indian Cayuse, robbed the picture of most of its poetry.

We marched westerly 7 miles through fine, dry, jack-pine wood, then, 3 miles through mixed poplar, pine, and spruce, And came to the Slave River opposite Point Gravois. Thence we went a mile or so into similar woods, and after another stretch of muskegs. We camped for lunch at 11.45, having covered 12 miles.

At two we set out, and reached Salt River at three, but did not cross there. It is a magnificent stream, 200 feet wide, with hard banks and fine timber on each side; but its waters are brackish.

We travelled north-westerly, or northerly, along the east banks for an hour, but at length away from it on a wide prairie, a mile or more across here, but evidently extending much farther behind interruptions of willow clumps. Probably these prairies join, with those we saw on the Beaulieu trip. They are wet now, though a horse can go anywhere, and the gra.s.s is good. We camped about six on a dry place back from the river. At night I was much interested to hear at intervals the familiar Kick-kick-kick-kick of the Yellow Rail in the adjoining swamps. This must be its northmost range; we did not actually see it.

Here I caught a garter-snake. Preble says it is the same form as that at Edmonton. Our guide was as much surprised to see me take it in my hands, as he was to see me let it go unharmed.

Next morning, after a short hour's travel, we came again to Salt River and proceeded to cross. Evidently Squirrel had selected the wrong place, for the sticky mud seemed bottomless, and we came near losing two of the horses.

After two hours we all got across and went on, but most of the horses had shown up poorly, as spiritless creatures, not yet recovered from the effects of a hard winter.

Our road now lay over the high upland of the Salt Mountain, among its dry and beautiful woods. The trip would have been glorious but for the awful things that I am not allowed to mention outside of Chapter IX.

Pierre proved a pleasant and intelligent companion; he did his best, but more than once shook his head and said: "Chevaux no good."

We covered 15 miles before night, and all day we got glimpses of some animal on our track, 300 yards behind in the woods. It might easily have been a Wolf, but at night he sneaked into camp a forlorn and starving Indian dog. Next day we reached the long looked-for Little Buffalo River. Several times of late Pierre had commented on the slowness of our horses and enlarged on the awful Muskega that covered the country west of the Little Buffalo. Now he spoke out frankly and said we had been 21 days coming 40 miles when the road was good; we were now coming to very bad roads and had to go as far again. These horses could not do it, and get him back to Fort Smith for July 1--and back at any price he must be.

He was willing to take the whole outfit half a day farther westward, or, if we preferred it, he would go afoot or on horseback with the pick of the men and horses for a hasty dash forward; but to take the whole outfit on to the Buffalo country and get back on time was not possible.

This was a bad shake. We held a council of war, and the things that were said of that Indian should have riled him if he understood.

He preserved his calm demeanour; probably this was one of the convenient times when all his English forsook him. We were simply raging: to be half-way to our goal, with abundance of provisions, fine weather, good health and everything promising well, and then to be balked because our guide wanted to go back. I felt as savage as the others, but on calmer reflection pointed out that Pierre told us before starting that he must be back for Treaty Day, and even now he was ready to do his best.

Then in a calm of the storm (which he continued to ignore) Pierre turned to me and said: "Why don't you go back and try the canoe route? You can go down the Great River to Grand Detour, then portage 8 miles over to the Buffalo, go down this to the Nyarling, then up the Nyarling into the heart of the Buffalo country; 21 days will do it, and it will be easy, for there is plenty of water and no rapids," and he drew a fairly exact map which showed that he knew the country thoroughly.

There was nothing to be gained by going half a day farther.

To break up our party did not fit in at all with our plans, so, after another brief stormy debate in which the guide took no part, we turned without crossing the Little Buffalo, and silently, savagely, began the homeward journey; as also did the little Indian dog.

Next morning we crossed the Salt River at a lower place where was a fine, hard bottom. That afternoon we travelled for 6 miles through a beautiful and level country, covered with a forest of large poplars, not very thick; it will some day be an ideal cattle-range, for it had rank gra.s.s everywhere, and was varied by occasional belts of jack-pine. In one of these Preble found a nest with six eggs that proved to be those of the Bohemian Chatterer. These he secured, with photograph of the nest and old bird. It was the best find of the journey.

The eggs proved of different incubation--at least a week's difference--showing that the cool nights necessitated immediate setting.

We camped at Salt River mouth, and next afternoon were back at Fort Smith, having been out five days and seen nothing, though there were tracks of Moose and Bear in abundance.

Here our guide said good-bye to us, and so did the Indian dog.

CHAPTER XII

BEZKYA AND THE PILLS

During this journey I had successfully treated two of the men for slight ailments, and Squirrel had made mental note of the fact.

A result of it was that in the morning an old, old, black-looking Indian came hobbling on a stick to my tent and, in husky Chipewyan, roughly translated by Billy, told me that he had pains in his head and his shoulder and his body, and his arms and his legs and his feet, and he couldn't hunt, couldn't fish, couldn't walk, couldn't eat, couldn't lie, couldn't sleep, and he wanted me to tackle the case. I hadn't the least idea of what ailed the old chap, but conveyed no hint of my darkness. I put on my very medical look and said: "Exactly so. Now you take these pills and you will find a wonderful difference in the morning." I had some rather fierce rhubarb pills; one was a dose but, recognising the necessity for eclat, I gave him two.

He gladly gulped them down in water. The Indian takes kindly to pills, it's so easy to swallow them, so obviously productive of results, and otherwise satisfactory. Then, the old man hobbled off to his lodge.

A few hours later he was back again, looking older and shakier than ever, his wet red eyes looking like plague spots in his ashy brown visage or like volcanic eruptions in a desert of dead lava, and in husky, clicking accents he told Billy to tell the Okimow that the pills were no good--not strong enough for him.

"Well," I said, "he shall surely have results this time." I gave him three big ones in a cup of hot tea. All the Indians love tea, and it seems to help them. Under its cheering power the old man's tongue was loosened. He talked more clearly, and Billy, whose knowledge of Chipewyan is fragmentary at best, suddenly said: "I'm afraid I made, a mistake. Bezkya says the pills are too strong.

Can't you give him something to stop them?

"Goodness," I thought; "here's a predicament," but I didn't know what to do. I remembered a western adage, "When you don't know a thing to do, don't do a thing." I only said: "Tell Bezkya to go home, go to bed, and stay there till to-morrow, then come here again."

Away went the Indian to his lodge. I felt rather uneasy that day and night, and the next morning looked with some eagerness for the return of Bezkya. But he did not come and I began to grow unhappy.

I wanted some evidence that I had not done him an injury. I wished to see him, but professional etiquette forbade me betraying myself by calling on him. Noon came and no Bezkya; late afternoon, and then I sallied forth, not to seek him, but to pa.s.s near his lodge, as though I were going to the Hudson's Bay store. And there, to my horror, about the lodge I saw a group of squaws, with shawls over their heads, whispering, together. As I went by, all turned as one of them pointed at me, and again they whispered.

"Oh, heavens!" I thought; "I've killed the old man." But still I would not go in. That night I did not sleep for worrying about it. Next morning I was on the point of sending Billy to learn the state of affairs, when who should come staggering up but old Bezkya.

He was on two crutches now, his complexion was a dirty gray, and his feeble knees were shaking, but he told Billy--yes, unmistakably this time--to tell the Okimow that that was great medicine I had given him, and he wanted a dose just like it for his wife.

CHAPTER XIII

FORT SMITH AND THE SOCIAL QUEEN

Several times during our river journey I heard reference to an extraordinary woman in the lower country, one who gave herself great airs, put on style, who was so stuck up, indeed, that she had "two pots, one for tea, one for coffee." Such incredible pomposity and arrogance naturally invited sarcastic comment from all the world, and I was told I should doubtless see this remarkable person at Fort Smith.

After the return from Buffalo hunt No. 2, and pending arrangements for hunt No. 3, 1 saw more of Fort Smith than I wished for, but endeavoured to turn the time to account by copying out interesting chapters from the rough semi-illegible, perishable ma.n.u.script accounts of northern life called "old-timers." The results of this library research work appear under the chapter heads to which they belong.

At each of these northern posts there were interesting experiences in store for me, as one who had read all the books of northern travel and dreamed for half a lifetime of the north; and that was--almost daily meeting with famous men. I suppose it would be similar if one of these men were to go to London or Washington and have some one tell him: that gentle old man there is Lord Roberts, or that meek, shy, retiring person is Speaker Cannon; this on the first bench is Lloyd-George, or that with the piercing eyes is Aldrich, the uncrowned King of America. So it was a frequent and delightful experience to meet with men whose names have figured in books of travel for a generation. This was Roderick MacFarlane, who founded Fort Anderson, discovered the MacFarlane Rabbit, etc.; here was John Schott, who guided Caspar Whitney; that was Hanbury's head man; here was Murdo McKay, who travelled with Warburton Pike in the Barrens and starved with him on Peace River; and so with many more.

Very few of these men had any idea of the interest attaching to their observations. Their notion of values centres chiefly on things remote from their daily life. It was very surprising to see how completely one may be outside of the country he lives in. Thus I once met a man who had lived sixteen years in northern Ontario, had had his chickens stolen every year by Foxes, and never in his life had seen a Fox. I know many men who live in Wolf country, and hear them at least every week, but have never seen one in twenty years' experience. Quite recently I saw a score of folk who had lived in the porcupiniest part of the Adirondacks for many summers and yet never saw a Porcupine, and did not know what it was when I brought one into their camp. So it was not surprising to me to find that although living in a country that swarmed with Moose, in a village which consumes at least a hundred Moose per annum, there were at Fort Smith several of the Hudson's Bay men that had lived on Moose meat all their lives and yet had never seen a live Moose.

It sounds like a New Yorker saying he had never seen a stray cat.

But I was simply dumfounded by a final development in the same line.