Canadian Transport Sourcebook

Chapter IX

Indians

During the Van Horne epoch we were frequently troubled with Mr. Lo, the poor Indian. I don't mean the more Easterly aborigine—that wretched old unsanitary insect repository, who trailed along after us through the woods, picking up the crumbs that fell from the White man's table—but the more picturesque scoundrel who flourished on the plains in those days, Horse Indians—Sarcees, Blackfeet, Bloods, Pagans, Stonies, etc. Not only had we to contend with these in our own country, but also we had a legacy left by "Sitting Bull" Indians who wandered about in little war parties North of the line seeking what they might devour, including any poor little engineers' party that they might happen to come across. I had some rather interesting experiences with these dusky children of nature.

I was running a rapid trial line West from Moose Jaw, when it was reported to me that Mr. Dewdney, the Indian Commissioner, had taken it into his head to transfer a band of Cree Indians, numbering about six hundred, from their reserve at Cypress Hills, where they were perfectly happy and content, to the vicinity of Qu'Appelle, which they hated. This procession was in charge of a couple of mounted policemen. the Indian Chieftain rejoiced in the name of "Pi-a-pot," and when I heard they were passing Eastward a few miles South of me, I sent for the old savage chief, who presented himself next day with a wife or two and some of his court.

The usual interview occurred. After much mis-interpreting I managed to explain to this ancient mendicant what we were doing there, asking him as a personal favour to keep his ragged rabble away from my line and not use my stakes for firewood, etc. After much ceremony, which always used to make me tired, but was often effective, pipes of peace, presents of tobacco, tea, sugar, and beads for the ladies, this noble old wall-eyed warrior shook hands and solemnly promised to do everything I had asked and not to allow his young men and maidens to disturb the little wooden monuments of the future great Transcontinental Railway.

Not many days after this, a red-hot mounted courier arrived in my camp with frantic messages wanting to know where in God's name the main line of the C.P.R. had gone to. Construction engineers and contractors' grading outfits arrived hourly on the ground, but no line!

I then discovered that those wretched ill-conditioned, lying sons of aborigines had calmly pulled up about forty miles of my line to show their contempt for the white brother, and incidentally had taken a bite out of the hand that fed them.

I had, of course, to back up and re-locate all this line and explain to the powers afterwards, offering to shoot all Indians on sight in future if necessary ad save the Government the expense of feeding them. My letter to Dewdney, the Indian Commissioner, produced a decided sensation, and was duly numbered and went through different Departments, thereby giving Civil Service clerks something to do. No end of correspondence ensued. Eventually it arrived at Riviere du Loup, where Sir John Macdonald was staying, with his secretary, Fred White.

I was looked upon by the Indian Department as a desperate murderer and not fit to be trusted to command anything, all of which was solemnly put on file with many annotations, not very favourable to me, and reported to Sir John Macdonald. I knew nothing of this until months afterwards, when I wrote Van Horne that unfortunately "Dewdney's only experience of Indians had been derived from the calm contemplation of that wooden image outside Roos's Cigar Store on Sparks Street, Ottawa."

One remark I remember on the margin of the report by some wiseacre in the Indian Office was this: "The threat to murder the Indians if they destroy any wooden pickets is simply atrocious. It is this spirit amongst the white men which has caused the numerous Indian wars in the United States and it must not be allowed to show itself in Canada."

Oh dear, poor old boy!—how he must have warmed up that office stool! Dewdney used to describe his Indians to the Government as harmless agriculturists. I often wondered why they wore a couple of bandoliers of 144 cartridges during their farming operations.

My friend Pi-a-pot ended his career in the Stony Mountain Penitentiary where he died while serving a term after the Rebellion of 1885.

We came across better types of Indians than this old vagrant. The best type of the noble red man that is left is the plain Horse Indian. I struck some of them, to my horror, once when I was on the Souris Plains. We had just escaped the tail end of a mountain cyclone and all my tents had been blown down and a few of my waggons had been blown into a lake that was nearby. It calmed down in the night and we got straightened up a bit. Next morning as I was indulging in dreams of home and beauty, I was awakened by a subtle perfume which emanated from the pipe at the end of which was a right noble handsome red man, who, squatting on the floor of my tent, was quietly waiting for me to wake up. They are sometimes quite polite, even if they are going to murder you. I sniffed, and soon awoke, sent for a half-breed Sarcee interpreter and ordered the haughty warrior to get outside. Soon afterwards I was informed that this distinguished visitor was no less than "Rising Sun," closely related to "Sitting Bull," who requested an audience with his eminent white brother. This was granted and the usual silly Indian Pow-wow had to be endured. This Chieftain was a tall, statuesque figure, clothed mostly in his right mind with a few simple emblems tattoed on his manly chest, over which a buffalo robe was coyly slung.

He simply remarked through the interpreter that I had no business in that country and would probably spoil his Fall shooting, and he would much prefer me to get along and go somewhere else where the game was not so plentiful.

I invited the handsome old humbug to breakfast and then having stuffed him full, told him to fill his pipe and listen to the words of wisdom which were about to fall from the lips of probably the greatest white chieftain in this hemisphere. I was certain he did not know what that meant. I then proceeded to tell this uninvited potentate what I thought of him generally, though the interpreter embroidered the text, with many grins; I said I was intimately related to the great white mother, who possessed more red-coated soldiers than his old dog had fleas and who would not hesitate to blow him off the map if he was not good. With these assurances of my everlasting, undying love for him and all his tribe, I wished him good-bye, saying I never wanted to see his ugly face again.

>Having presented him with much flour, tobacco, tea and sugar as a peace-offering, I was much gratified to see him depart with a haughty stride, mount his cayuse and ride slowly away. I was congratulated by the smiling half-breeds upon the diplomatic manner in which I had got rid of the noble chieftain, but—alas for all human calculations—when one comes to dealing with the wandering nomad of the plains. The next morning at dawn I awoke to find this gentlemanly savage once more squatting by my bedside.

This time I was excessively peeved, but discretion triumphed and sending for my interpreter I first denounced him as the greatest unwashed, hand-painted, lying imposter on the American continent, including Texas and Mexico, telling him he had broken our sacred contract by daring to show his forbidding countenance again. I also remarked, with, I hope, judicial dignity, befitting one so closely related to the Royal family, that the great white mother would be greatly distressed at the wayward manners of her red-skinned children and would probably disinherit the whole bunch, etc.

This speech, being interpreted to him with any amount of half-breed embroidery, seemed to have a soothing effect at first, but after thinking it over carefully, with many grunts he told the interpreter that he, too, came of a proud and haughty race and was not nearly such a rotter as I had depicted. He did not want any favours from me, and what was more, would not accept them, in fact he did not admire my style anyway and much preferred his own.

All he sought was permission to bring the ladies of his harem into camp that they might gaze upon the classic features of the Caucasian ere we departed.

This being granted, that same afternoon a loud jingling of spurs, mixed with suppressed giggling announced the arrival of the female element in "Rising Sun's" entourage.

For feminine curiosity, they could give their fairer sisters cards and spades and then beat them at their own game. They poked their noses into everything, chattered continuously and asked all sorts of fool questions. I suppose that many of the younger damsels had never gazed upon the fair features of a white man before. They were particularly interested in the culinary department, and after being fed, hung about the cooks' tents examining every detail.

A particularly beautiful bean-pot struck the fancy of one old fat chaperone, who came over to my quarters accompanied by her sixteen year old daughter, who was attired in one single garment, generally advertised by the Department Stores as "white wear." After manifesting much anxiety and making many violent gesticulations, the old horror had her daughter in one hand and the bean-pot in the other, and so I gave my consent to anything for a quiet life, and at sundown they departed, bean-pot and all.

Imagine my—well, consternation—upon returning to my tent later to discover that the wretched old russet-coloured chaperone had missed her count and had forgotten the dusky daughter, who, seated upon the ground, appeared to be perfectly satisfied with the proceedings. My young interpreter, in broken English punctuated with many grins, informed me that marriage contracts in that particular tribe were often entered into through the medium of some such wedding present and in my case even a measly bean-pot would be considered quite legal.

Here was I hooked up for life a dark damsel whom I had never seen before, whose language I did not understand and to whose family I had not even been introduced, and what was more embarrassing, the Chief Engineer was expected any day. What a predicament for a modest, innocent, unassuming church member to find himself in. There was my wild, unkempt, picturesque bridelet, the untaught daughter of a savage race of warriors, coyly enjoying every moment of my consternation, while I could only explain the awkward situation to her through an interpreter.

This gentleman was immediately despatched to the Indian camp and came back with a brother of the maiden, who was then returned to the paternal "Tepee" with my compliments and regrets.

In the early days of the C.P.R. surveys, through forests, across plains and over mountains, the Aborigine was always a factor to be reckoned with and sometimes a serious one. The harmless Eastern brand of Indians had been reduced to a tribe of mendicants. When they were not too lazy to breathe, an occasional muskrat or mink skin gave them a precarious existence, and when the white man came along, the crumbs that fell from his table were not despised by his red brothers, who would often camp alongside of him and laboriously move with him. With their well-known instincts of true gallantry they would kindly permit the squaws and a small retinue of dogs, never absent, to carry heavy loads of their belongings, while the haughty Chieftain strode along in the van with nothing heavier to carry than an old musket.

Of course, this class of Aborigine, principally of the Cree tribe, "cut no ice." He was simply regarded as an indolent, improvident, dirty, unreliable, lying son of the forest. all Cooper's fairy tales fade into oblivion when you encounter the real child of nature, so different from the tall, lordly savage portrayed by the novelist, marching along, arrayed in a bunch of feathers and a coat of red paint, with his lovely consort by his side, whose simple toilet, inexpensive, but effective, consists of a string of beads, a coiffure made up with the aid of bacon grease, buckskin leggings and embroidered mocassins. Alas! how all is can hanged.

On the Western plains, of course, different tribes are encountered, and Horse Indians are invariably superior to the other decaying specimens. Many a fine, tall, straight, upstanding, unreliable savage have I encountered, clothed simply in his right mind and mounted upon the self-supporting little wall-eyed cayuse. The "Stonies" inhabited the Rocky Mountain ranges and seldom if ever came East of Swift Current Creek; then there were "Sarcees," "Blackfeet," "Bloods," "Pagans" and many other hardy varieties.

According to the Missionaries' and traders' stories, many fights have taken place between the rival tribes. I remember well some years ago, when camped at Swift Current Creek, where I had just finished the location of the C.P.R. main line, discovering three or four bodies of Cree Indians recently murdered and scalped by some hostile tribe. A particularly perfect skull struck my fancy, and as I was returning East next day I annexed it for a souvenir. When the cook had cleaned and sand-papered this head-piece, I scribbled the following verse upon the dome of thought and put it under the seat of my buckboard:

"Long have I roamed these dreary plains,

I've used up horses, men and brains;

And, oft from virtue's path I've strayed

To find a fifty-two foot grade.

But now, thank God, I'll take a rest,

Content, I've done my level best;

To this green Earth I'll say farewell

And run a Railway line through Hell."

That night there was an alarm of "Indians Coming," and upon turning out we found a bunch of Crees crawling through the long grass into camp, all thoroughly scared by "Blood" and "Stonies" who they said were chasing them. They asked for our protection, which was afforded, and the whole cavalcade, men, women and children, moved down next day with my party. We saw nothing of the hostile tribes.

Being anxious to get down to the end of the track as soon as possible (about 250 miles), I took one man and several spare horses and jogged along ahead of my transport, making between sixty and seventy miles a day. The second day out I met a stranger, a typical down-East Yankee trader, a long-haired, lantern-jawed specimen, driving and express waggon, piled up with all sorts of merchandise to trade with the dusky savages. He was driving two ponies and leading four others.

He stopped me and fired a volley of questions at me at once. He enquired particularly about the Indians, wanted to know if I had seen any, whereabouts he would meet them, if they were bad, etc. I told him that they began to get real bad at Swift Current and that they had killed several Crees at that point to my certain knowledge.

This was the spot he was heading for.

He then wanted my opinion as to what the probabilities were in his particular case. I told him that according to their usual destructive habits they would probably first of all annex his ponies, then divide the spoils on the waggon amongst them and most likely take a few pot-shots at him as they rode off. He seemed to be reflecting deeply, and a change of mind appeared imminent, but a thought struck him, and with his unmistakable New England accent, he drawled, "Wa'al stranger, you come by there safe, how is it they didn't do nothing to you?" "Oh," said I, putting on a real cunning look and at the same time reaching down under the seat and hooking my finger into the grinning skull of the late lamented: "Here is the last son of a dog that interfered with me." He tipped his old felt hat back, scratched his shaggy red mane reflectively and said, "I guess I could dew most as well with that stuff back to Moose Jaw," then turning slowly round, he trotted along behind me Eastward bound.