Indian Country

The Indians were up in arms, under Louis Reil, as I have already written about. There was a flood in the Qu'Appelle Valley that spring. Mr. Carss lived in this valley. He called his place Carssdale and he had settled there a year or two before the Rebellion. Well, a great crowd of Indians came from the north and at almost dark and camped on the north bank of the Valley; the valley was filled with floodwaters from bank to bank, clear to the top of the hills. The Indians had not anticipated this, so camped on the north plain just at the top of the valley hills. Mr. Carss waited until dark, then sent a rider in to the barracks at Regina, where the Mounted Police were stationed - for help. There were no telephones through the country districts then anywhere. That was in the spring of 1885. Mr. Carss was afraid the Indians would cross the floodwaters in the night and attack them there on the farm and they would be utterly helpless. However, when morning came and brought daylight, the Indians were gone. Mr. Carss said he believed the Indians had found out a rider had been sent for help to the Mounted Police and had taken to the wind.

This was the time Uncle Tom, George, whom I afterward married, and who, when he enlisted in the transport was only seventeen years of age. Too bad no one ever kept a record of their experiences during the time they were engaged in the transport. There were quite a number in this group, I know. Mr. Condie, Ed Cooney and I am not sure about Tom and Ben Coonie. There were Arthur and Willie Jamieson, Ed Carss, the two McNeice boys, the two Brodie boys and many others.

The Rebellion did not last very many months. Reil was captured and hanged in Regina. The Indians, of course, were conquered and perfectly quiet. They occasionally had their sundances when they made their braves. This, so I have been told, the candidates had two holes cut in their chests or breasts, a thong run under the skin or flesh, brought up and fastened by strings or straps of leather which were fastened to some contraption above the candidate. Then while the Indians beat their tom-toms and swarms of Indians and squaws danced and sang to the weird music of the tom-toms, the candidate was compelled to dance until the thong, which was run through the flesh on their breasts, pulled through or out. If they stood the ordeal without a moan or sign of suffering, the Indian was pronounced a brave. If he showed any sign of suffering during the ordeal, he was pronounced a squaw-man, and had to spend his life as such among the women of his tribe, and even there he was looked down upon as long as he lived.

There are many interesting things to be told about the Indians. While I am on the subject, I shall write of a few with whom I had personal acquaintance. One time when I was fourteen, I was visiting my sister, Ada, who was married to Fred Cochrane. One bright, sunny, cold day in the winter a band of some half dozen young Indians came riding along. They came in to the house to get warm. They just walked in, without knocking, as Indians always did. We gave them something to eat, which was customary, and they were very grateful for the food and warmth. Uncle Fred could speak quite a bit of their language, and he began joking with them. White Sky was among the band; he was a fine looking young brave.

Uncle Fred asked White Sky how he would like me for his squaw; the usual questions were, "How many ponies for this squaw?" White Sky saw the joke. Uncle Fred eulogized on my good points, the main one being my red hair, which was hanging down my back and which White Sky pronounced, "Good, good." He replied laughingly to Fred, "Many, many ponies." However, the deal was not closed. White Sky knew it was a joke; so did I.

Then, one time shortly before I was married, an old Indian came in to get warm and, of course, he was "buck-a-tee" which meant hungry, and he asked for tea, which all the Indians loved. We gave him something to eat and a cup of tea. Mother was sewing on her sewing machine, and the old Indian was thrilled with the work and the way the sewing machine operated. It must have been the first time he saw a sewing machine, and no doubt he had plenty to relate to his friends when he got back home to his camp.

Long after this, I was laid up with an injured knee. An old Indian woman came into the house and hurried to my bed and, between what little of their language I knew, and the motions she made with her hands, that someone she knew had a sore leg. They killed an animal, scraped the skin, and bound the scrapings around their sore leg, and then they got better and could walk.

I expect George, my husband, had been telling them about his squaw had a sore leg and couldn't walk; so she thought she would come to see me and tell me what would cure me.

George used to trade horses a lot with the Indians. He knew so many of them in that way. They were his friends and I was told that when he was buried that many of them came to his funeral and that a number came to the church for the service in the Methodist Church in Lumsden.

One bitter cold day in Lumsden, an old Indian and his squaw came in to the house to get warm. I had been rendering some lard, and the bits of fat lard that I had discarded were in a pan on the back of the stove. They immediately fell on it and ate it up. The old Indian had a bad cough. He had a fairly good overcoat on, but the poor old squaw had only an old cotton blanket to keep her warm. They had come with a load of wood all the way from the Paye-pot Reserve (25 miles). They would sell this load of wood for five dollars to someone in town, probably one of the storekeepers in town. Then they would buy a few groceries and drive back to their reservation, a distance of twenty-five miles or more from Lumsden. It is said if once you befriend an Indian, he is always your friend, but if you cheat them or ill-use them, they never forget or forgive. Years before, after we sold our farm and were living in Lumsden, a friend, Mrs. Bond, came to visit us. She came from Strathroy, Ont. We, George and I, drove over with her to the Paye-pot Reserve to let her see how the Western Indians lived.

They all were living in tents. Some of these tents were so nice and clean and tidy. Many of the young people had attended the Indian School at Regina and had been taught the white woman’s way of keeping house. They evidently profited by their training; others back to their old way of living.

While we were wandering around, going from tent to tent, having a word with one and another of the Indians and squaws, we noticed an old squaw, by appearance, standing in the doorway of one of the tents, her hand shading her eyes. We stopped and talked to her. She spoke very good English and told us her very pathetic story.

She was born in Oregon, U.S.A., and had gone to school there. When she was quite young, she married a young Englishman by the name of Young. They had a little girl whom they named Helen. Shortly after Helen was born, Mr. Young left there, leaving his wife and little girl behind, promising to return for them. He never returned. She had a letter from him only once. This letter she kept in the bottom of a big bag, a grain bag, way down under all her handwork in a little tin box. On top of the box she kept all her beaded work and what few treasures she owned. She brought the letter out and had me read it. It was written on a sheet of hotel paper, a Winnipeg Hotel, written in the handwriting of an educated man and expressed love for his wife and little daughter, Helen, and stated he was trying to find work and make a home for her and their little one.

I asked her if she still thought he would return. She said, "Oh, yes, he will come back. My husband, he do no wrong." What faith and trust! She called to little Helen. She was very proud of her little girl. We praised the child, who really was a pretty little thing, but like all Indian children, very shy. We never saw Mrs. Young again, but as Helen grew up, she would come up to Lumsden with others from the reserve. She would come to see me and would do some work for me.

She scrubbed my floors several times and I paid her for her work. One day I asked her if she would come and stay with us and help me with my work and I would pay her and teach her to speak English. She refused, saying she wanted to stay with her people. Her mother had died, still firm in her belief that her husband would return and take care of their little girl. But we knew better. Many white men were guilty of the same dastardly trick as her husband. She may not have been legally married to her adored husband.

We heard through some of the Indians with whom George, my husband, had dealings that Helen had a baby to one of the young Indians. Now, the Indians looked down very much on Helen for this, but seemed to think it no offense on the part of the father of her child. I think nearly all in their camp looked down on Helen after she got in this trouble.

We went down to their Reserve one day and I asked for Helen. She came reluctantly. Her face colored up when she saw me. She felt very much ashamed. I asked her if I might see her baby. I do not remember whether it was a boy or girl, but it was a lovely baby, about ten months old. Poor Helen, I think of her many times and can't help wondering if God has ever punished her guilty father for the sorrow he caused her mother who loved and trusted him so implicitly, or he ever gave her a thought. I never saw Helen again.

Then, there was a lot of trouble with an Indian, or Breed, called "Almighty Voice." I have forgotten what crime he had committed. He evidently had been arrested but had escaped from jail or prison. A cordon of Mounted Police was detached to bring him in, dead or alive. They searched for him for several days but he was always beyond their grasp. Finally, they got word somewhere that he was seen entering a bluff and believed to be hiding there.

The police surrounded the bluff, demanding and calling to him to come out and give himself up; but he didn't appear. They fired several shots in the hope that he would surrender. I believe they kept their watch all one night and to no avail.

Almighty Voice was reported to be heavily armed and a dangerous man. However, when daylight came, the Mounted Police who were after him decided to rush the bluff, half expecting to find him dead. They rushed the bluff and to their consternation, found he was not there! He again had escaped them sometime in the night. He was captured shortly afterward. I remember one of the Regina papers had quite a write-up about the bravery and heroism of the Mounted Police; how they had kept their watch all night and how courageous they were to rush the bluff, believing Almighty Voice to be there. And how the fact that he was not there did not detract from their heroic attempt to arrest him or capture him. Funny, I cannot recall what crime he had committed or where or how he was captured; but the Mounties always got their man."

One springtime while we were on Uncle Tom's farm, I was cooking dinner when all at once the room seemed to grow suddenly dark. There were only two medium sized windows in the room, one north and one south. All at once the south window darkened. I looked up and here was the form of a big man squatted outside trying to see into the house. There still was some frost on the windowpane, and he couldn't see very well into the house. Then he got up and the next thing I knew, in walked a big Indian and his squaw!! They saw me frying eggs and said, "Good, good, wa! wa!" Wa-wa was their word for eggs. George invited them to sit at the table and eat with us, but no, they squatted on the floor and I fed them wa-was to their heart's content. When the plate of eggs got down to one, she would shove the plate with the one remaining egg over to him, he would shove it back to her, and so on, until she finally persuaded him to eat it.

After dinner, George had quite a talk with him, or rather with them. The squaw hadn't much to say, but took his wild tale in for Gospel; swallowed it hook, line and sinker. They both did. The squaw shaking, or rather wagging her head from side to side and clicking her tongue. The old Indian giving mumbled grunts every once in a while.

George had the marks of a gunshot on his left arm, right from his wrist to above his elbow. He got this shot wound one time he and Tom had been bringing in a load of hay and George had his loaded gun along. When they came home, he proceeded to get down off the load, and as he did so, he took the gun by the muzzle and pulled it towards him. It went off and the shot skidded with full force up his arm. It certainly left a bad scar and he never did get all the buckshot out. He showed this scar to the old Indian and his squaw and went to great lengths to make it very clear that it was a wound he received during the Rebellion. They expressed great sorrow. He was quite a yarner; had a great gift in that direction.

After Uncle Tom had lived in Regina for a couple of years, they moved to Lumsden and opened up a store there. He and John Dawson. They had a general store, kept a bit of everything and, among their supplies, plenty of flavorings for cakes and so forth.

Now, it was against the law to sell liquor or alcohol to Indians. One noon, however, when the men had gone to lunch, Edna Stewart was looking after the store. She was quite a young girl and evidently did not know these flavorings contained alcohol. A bunch of Indians, who were camped nearby, came in the store and asked for these flavorings. Innocent Edna sold them every bottle of flavorings in the store. The Indians were jubilant! They took their departure and, when Tom and Nelson Burrows returned from lunch, Edna proudly reported her big sale. The men were horrified! If the authorities found out, or if the Indians got noisy and created any disturbance, it might go hard with Tom or Nelson. However, no harm came of it. A bunch of us went over to where they had been camped and was that ground where their tents had been staked ever covered with empty flavoring bottles. Many more than they had bought from Edna. They must have made a cache somewhere else.

Deadbody was the chief at Paye-pot. It was said he was the only chief who remained loyal during the Rebellion but he was deemed an old reprobate just the same. People said he would steal every chance he got; something unusual for an Indian to do. But no doubt there are bad Indians as well as good Indians.

Mother, my brother Reuben and I went to visit old Deadbody and his family when they were camped near where we were living. Mother took some cookies along for their papooses. They were cute little things, shy as rabbits, black eyed and really pretty,

Old Deadbody and his squaws were seated on the floor in the tent, their papooses hiding behind their mothers. Deadbody had, I think, three squaws. We only stayed a few minutes. Mother persuaded the papooses to take the cookies she brought and we left.

After we went to Lumsden to live, our dog, Lion, could detect an Indian's footsteps a block away, and would he bark at them. Usually, they would cross to the other side of the street to avoid passing where the dog was. This dog didn't stay with us very long in Lumsden. He left of his own accord and went to live with the Shelton’s, who had a little girl named Bessie.

Previous to this, Uncle Joe had this dog for a while; he lived down in a little valley north of our farm and at the time had a man and his wife working for him. They had a little child about a year and a half old. One day, the child was lost. They searched for a long time for the baby before they found him, and when they did find him, here was the dog stretched out full length on the ground wide awake, and the baby lying fast asleep with his dear little head resting on the dog's side. He was a wonderful dog. Part Newfoundland, part collie. He came to our place as a stray when Irma was a baby. He was very fond of Irma, but as she grew to be a bit bigger, around school age, he grew lonesome for a tiny child and left us, and made Shelton's place his home.

One more thing in which the Indians figure has come to my mind, so I'll make note of it here in writing about the old Indian and his wife who came to town with their load of wood and came in to our house to get warm. As I said before, the old squaw had only a thin old cotton blanket around her to keep the cold out while the old Indian had a big overcoat. At that, I do not suppose he was very warm either. He had a bad cough.

I felt sorry for the old squaw and brought a fur neckpiece that I had had for years but was still real good, and put it around the old squaw's neck. She immediately took it off, saying, "No, no, him," and put it around the Indian's neck. She kept saying, "Him, bad cough," pointing to his chest, "and me warm, me good." Such pure unselfishness! Just as the two who were eating eggs at our place, each trying to have the other one have the last egg. I have seen many white husbands eat the last egg or piece of meat without their wife having a ghost of a chance to indulge in the tasty morsel.

Evidently love reigns in the hearts of Indians just as it does in the hearts of white people.

One Christmas Eve, while I was busy with my Christmas preparations in the kitchen, a big Indian came in, and as usual, was hungry. I gave him something to eat, which he enjoyed. He went out and presently another Indian came in. He, too, was hungry; so I fed him. He went out, and another Indian came in; and he, too, was hungry. This went on until I had fed six Indians. The last one could speak English fairly well so I asked him, "How come, so many coming in one after another?" He replied, 'Well, one Indian comes in, and he gets something to eat, and gets warm, he goes out and tells another 'Good squaw in there' so another comes in. You feed us all." Then he informed me that three fourths of the Indians on the reserve were Christians. They are a very picturesque figure when dressed in their colorful blankets, beaded moccasins and their feathered headdress, but the majority of them in Saskatchewan wore someone's old discarded suits.

In the early days, after we first moved to the prairies to live, almost all wore blankets and they used to gather buffalo bones by the cartload and haul them to Regina and sell them to some company which then would ship the bones to a sugar refinery somewhere in the southern States. The bones were used to clear and refine sugar.

When we first moved to the prairies, these buffalo bones lay in profusion over the prairie. I once heard an old man say that around Lethbridge and Medicine Hat, when he first went there, one could walk over an acre in many places and never step off buffalo bones. Hunters, he said, came from the States by the hundreds and shot buffalo just for their hides and, maybe if they were hungry, they would cut a steak from the buffalo rump and leave the rest to rot. They killed them by the hundreds; more for the sport of killing than anything else.

One could see dozens and dozens of "buffalo wallows;" places where the old daddy buffalo had pawed up large places in the sod when they were in a fighting mood. The hills along the valleys showed worn trails tiered around the hills, where they walked one after another. These memos are nearly gone now.

When we were over at the Reservation one time wandering around, seeing what we could see, we ran across a young Indian woman, wheeling her baby in a little crude wagon made out of a soapbox. The baby was drinking sour, curdled milk out of a dirty bottle with a long rubber tube and dirty nipple. The child seemed perfectly well and happy. She ran across us, rather than we ran across her. Huntley, my third boy, was only a few months old and we had him in a hammock, swinging between two small trees. The Indian woman stopped and looked at my baby; guess she thought he didn't measure up to her standard of a baby. I said to her in a joke, "Trade babies," explaining by motions as well as words what I meant. "No," she said, "my baby will make his own living. Your baby too pale face." Evidently her opinion of a white man’s ability to provide for his daily needs was very low.

Our next door neighbors in Lumsden criticized us very much for allowing Indians in our house; but I will truthfully say in many respects the Indians we knew were superior to the neighbors who criticized us. Of course, they were not educated in the ways of society; but they were honest and hurt no one.

It always seems sad to me to think how the white man took their country, put them on reservations, dealt unfairly with them in many, ways, and have done so little to raise their standard of living. Many say, "Oh, you can't do anything to elevate an Indian' They just want to go back to their wild life." I say, not always; some do, but many do not. Anyway, we white people have done very little to help them.

Traders in the early days cheated them in many ways. The Indian is very fond of bright, pretty things, such as beads, pretty buttons and trinkets of almost any description. These, the traders would pawn off on the poor Indians for hides, furs and beautiful handiwork done by the Indian women. Often, too, taken in marriage for their own convenience. Young Indian girls rearing or bringing into the world children. Then when the white man grew tired of his family, just moving on and leaving his wife and children to fend for themselves; probably forgetting all about them. I wonder, did they always forget the wrong they had done. It seems to me, there must have been moments when their conscience bothered them.

The Indian ages very quickly; their women work hard, gathering and cutting all the necessary firewood. Cleaning and cooking all the animals their men bring home. Taking care of the children; making all the clothes worn by the whole family, and, in fact, doing all the menial work to be done. If I remember correctly, the Indians we knew belonged to the Sioux or Cree tribes.

I once heard a Dr. McClane (or McCloud) who was a missionary among the

Blood and Blackfoot Indians in British Columbia give a talk on their life, habits and their religious rites. He said these tribes were warlike and fierce, but that when he went among them, they already had a play similar in every way to our Passion Play, although no missionary that he had heard of had ever worked among them before. He was informed the Indians had had this play and enacted it in full detail years before the white man had come among them. I do not know or remember whether they enacted the actual crucifixion or not, but I wouldn't be surprised if they did. They are a very stoic race, and bear their pain and suffering with great fortitude.

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