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A letter by George McDougall The following was written the summer after Maskepetoon's death, and was published in John McDougall's book George M. McDougall, Pioneer, Patriot and Missionary in 1888. pg. 138 - 146. To Rev. Dr. Wood, Methodist Mission Rooms, Toronto. I wrote you in August, giving a brief account of a nine weeks' journey in the plains. Since that date we have had no communication with the frontier world, and now expect none until January. Our spring hunt was a success. In a camp of one thousand people, five thousand buffalo were slaughtered; and one hundred and twenty thousand pounds of dried meat secured. All felt that if our crops should be as abundant as in years past, there would be no starvation for some years to come; but there was room for anxiety. Two hundred miles from the Saskatchewan, scarcely any rain has fallen. The oldest in the camp had never witnessed the like before. The rich valleys hitherto encumbered with vegetation are now parched and burnt. Fifty miles south of Victoria we met parties who informed us that our fields were a failure. The seed had dried up in the earth. This was sad news. The season was too far advanced to send to Red River. Benton is much nearer, but between us and that place the merciless Black feet ranges the plains. There was but one course open, and that was to strike for the buffalo country. For months we had lived on flesh and flow, and for eighteen months to come we have no prospect of a change. A council was held, and it was determined that as soon as our animals were rested we should return to the hunt. In the meantime, the Blackfeet made a raid upon Victoria, and some of our people suffered severely. Since the murder of our lamented chief, the Crees have killed nearly one hundred Blackfeet, and in retaliation the enemy has resolved to carry the war into the Cree country. They have sent us word that they have spotted the Company's posts on the Saskatchewan, and in particular Victoria. Pray for us. Our dangers and difficulties at times are almost insurmountable. We deeply feel that nothing but an ardent love for souls, and a strong trust in God's mighty power, not only to save, but to restrain, will carry us through these times. August 16th - Starting for the plains. In old times crossing the river with a large camp was tedious affair, and to the uninitiated trying to the nerves. A leather tent, or, as in my own case, an oil-cloth was spread on the beach, the travelling kit was placed in the centre, then the cloth gathered up and tied at the top, giving the appearance of a huge pudding-bag. The raft is then shoved into the water, and attached by a line to a horse's tail; the traveller then mounts the boat and guides the swimming steed to the opposite shore. In this way and in a very short time, I have crossed large rivers. We have now a good scow, and the novel scenes of yore have passed away. August 18th. - For years pemmican has been the staple dish on our table, yet I must confess, I have very little relish for tallow and pounded meat. My wife says that it is better not to think of bread, while we cannot have it, as the thought might cause impatience. I shall not controvert her opinion, but judging from my feelings this morning, the sight of a four pound loaf would produce in my poor heart the liveliest gratitude. With my horse and gun, I shall leave the brigade to move on, hoping to join them in the evening with something fresh for supper. A little while before sundown I reached a rounded hill that rises about three hundred feet above the level of the plain. From the top of this little mountain the magnificence and profusion of the prairie met the eye. The silence and solitude is overwhelming, and this feeling increases with the conviction that we have only entered into the vestibule of Nature's great temple; for this is but the margin of the plains, and now, the mirage adds to the beauty of the bewildering panorama. In a moment the little lakes appear above the plains, and the distant bluffs of aspen dance in mid-air. From these majestic scenes the untutored Indian paints his future paradise. Alas for him, his religion makes his heart no better; yet, however steeped insensuality or stained with blood, the native loves nature. He will sit for hours on the hill-top, and gaze with placid satisfaction the wild and beautiful. Thank the Lord, we have now both Crees and Stonies who look from nature to nature's God, and with joyful hearts they worship the Creator who is blessed forever. August 20th, Sabbath - Our services are still well attended, and the holy day sacredly kept. This is our sowing time. We shall reap if we faint not. On the plains there is much to divide the attention; the stock must be guarded, and there is a constant dread of an attack from the enemy. After the morning service we were informed that a stranger had entered the camp under suspicious circumstances. The rider had no saddle. A cold rain was falling, but the fugitive was naked. When questioned, his answers were evasive, until a Christian woman took him into her tent, gave him her son's coat, and placed food before him. Kindness prevailed, and he stated that yesterday before dawn he started with his companions, hoping to find game, and while crawling through the brush he saw something black, and thinking it was a bear, fired, when a woman threw up her arms and cried out, "I am killed! I am killed!" She was one of the party ahead of us, who, in company with her sister, had gone into the woods in search of berries. This statement was perfectly true, and the wretched man was feeling from the avenger. August 23rd, Iron Creek. - This beautiful stream derives its name from a strange formation, said to be pure iron. The piece weighs 300 lbs. It is so soft you can cut it with a knife. It rings like steel when struck with a piece of iron. Tradition says that it has lain out on the hill ever since the place was first visited by Na-ne-boo-sho after the flood had retired. For ages the tribes of Blackfeet and Crees have gathered their clans to pay homage to this wonderful manitoo. Three years ago, one of our people put the idol in his cart and brought it to Victoria. This roused the ire of the conjurors. They declared that sickness, war, and decrease of buffalo would follow this sacrilege. Thanks to a kind Providence, these soothsayers have been confounded, for last summer thousands of wild cattle grazed upon the sacred plain.
Battle River, August 23rd. The future inhabitants of these rich lands will find no lack of water power. This river, which rises in the pine forest near the foot of the mountains, and runs parallel with the Saskatchewan for more than 400 miles, is from its source to its confluence one continuous water power. The same may be said of the numerous tributaries of the larger rivers. All supply water at an elevation that will meet any demands for milling purposes. 26th - Hard times. All order has fled. Men, women and children are seen running in every direction in search of berries, roots - anything that will satisfy the cravings of hunger. For days they have had scarcely any food, and the great camp which so recently passed over this trail felt nothing for us; but how true, "Man's extremity is God's opportunity." Earnestly have we prayed for help, and now it comes. One of our hunters signals from a hill that buffalo are in sight. Hurrah! Hurrah! In a moment all the sufferings of the past are forgotten. The runner mounts his horse and dashes off in the direction indicated. From a rising ground we witness the charge. In less than ten minutes ten fat beeves are on the ground. Exclamations of joy are shouted by the women. These buffalo will be baked, boiled and roasted for supper.
September 1st. - The great camps, the Edmonton, the Victoria, and the Blackfeet, numbering more than 10,000 souls, are all within a short ride of each other. The plain Crees, driven in by the Blackfeet, have fled to us for protection. The Edmonton people have had a skirmish with the enemy, and blood was shed. Last evening the Blackfeet sent us word that they would fight us to-day at noon, and 300 men are anxiously waiting for them. I have ventured to say that they will not come. A long experience amongst red men has satisfied me that when they threaten they seldom strike. The Blackfeet are also aware that there are two missionaries in the camp, and their superstition will prevent them from coming. With feelings not easily expressed, I sat upon a knoll and reflected upon sounding circumstances. Our tents are pitched upon one of the most magnificent plains in America. Unnumbered herds of cattle are fattened on free pasturage. Hundreds of lakes offer drink to man and beast. Here we have a perfect realization of a hunter's dream, and what are the facts? sin has poisoned all. In these camps we see the untrained development of the vilest passions, hating and being hated. There is no peace for the wretched people. Their degradation cannot be written. One hardly knows how to apologies for the mis-statements of intelligent tourists, who have travelled these plains. They must have written as they ran. Their descriptions of the noble, virtuous, honest native, are all from the pure ideal point of view. Let them come down to real work, and study the language and life of the people, and live amongst them, as your missionaries have to do, and they will be able to appreciate the wonderful change wrought on many of them by the teachings of the Gospel. Delivered from the slavery of demon worship, the Indian is the happiest of men. Once truly converted to God, he presents a noble specimen of what the Gospel can effect. While under the influence of heathenism, his mind is filled with a strange mysterious dread. His religion teaches that an evil "Genius" that never slumbers, follows him from the cradle to the grave. Omens, presaging sorrow, are daily presented to his dark imagination. A significant word from a conjurer, the flight of a bird, or a dream, are all interpreted to foretoken death or sickness. The pagan believes that his "Genius" instructs him in the hours of sleep, and the consequence is frequently awful. A Plains Cree, with whom I am acquainted, dreamed that his Puh-wah-gun, demanded three human victims, and he actually murdered three of his own tribe. A young heathen, whose father lives at our mission, fancied that his demon demanded three sacrifices, and last summer he shot a young half-breed, with whom he was on the most friendly terms. A short time ago I conversed with this young man. He frankly acknowledged his determination to complete the number, alleging as a reason, that if he was not faithful to the instructions given, a fearful retribution would follow. But I must stop, for were it necessary I could unveil some of the mysteries of paganism, and tell of deeds of darkness that would make the heart sick. War, murder, gambling, polygamy, and demon-worship are all producing their natural effects; and if civil law and Gospel light are not speedily brought to the rescue of these tribes, they will perish from the earth. Making plain provisions in the hunters' camp, with all its wild surroundings, the man of leisure my pass his time very pleasantly; but there is another class, who find more of fact than fiction in killing wild cattle - to this party belongs the missionary. A long winter stares him in the face. There is no market where he can go for supplies. Offer a man gold for flour in the Saskatchwan and he would laugh at you. $60 per barrel has been tendered to the Hudson Bay Company, and the money has been refused; and no wonder, for every pound of that precious luxury has been dragged over the 1,800 miles from St. Paul, and that in Red River carts. But the good time is coming. The royal standard is now supplanting the bunting of the Hudson Bay Company. Brother Dominionites! our majestic rivers invite your steamboats; our natural road extending from the Winnipeg to the Rocky Mountains, wide as the limitless prairie, is waiting for your land transport. This wild, uncouth younger brother of the confederation family only waits the chance for development, and the youth will become, what geographically and naturally he really is, the heart and soul of the country. But I must go back of the camp, and the first thing is to kill the animal, cut it up, and bring the meat to your tent. Then the process of curing and drying takes place. Then follows pounding and making pemmican. True, you can have help, but my experience of buffalo eaters goes to prove that however numerous the servants, the master is the greater vassal. Then you must shoe your own horse, mend your own carts, and what is more trying, keep a day and night guard upon your animals, for horses are constantly disappearing very mysteriously. There are some of the toils of the hunter. The missionary has additional ones. Night and morning he collects the people for prayer; he must visit the sick; his tent must be a refuge for the aged and for the afflicted. The avenger of blood is awaiting his time; the missionary must be the mediator. Not long since one of our young men, influenced by jealousy, shot at his companion, but providentially missed him. The next morning I saw the offended man cleaning up his six-shooter, and he confessed to me that he was watching his chance. In the evening, by the help of some friends, we brought the two together, and effected a lasting peace. Then there are the Sabbath services; these are highly appreciated by our people. In some suitable place the Union Jack is hoisted on a pole; a crier goes round the camp, and invites all to united in the worship of the one true God, and often we have felt while addressing the Stonies, the Crees, and the half breeds, "That labor is rest, and pain is sweet, If Thou, my God, art here." Geo. McDougall.
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