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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Bloody Circumstances and Twisted Truth
Raymond W. Maher
That very year, 1873, the trader at the Hudson Bay trading post had written in his journal, “The way of life built on the fur trade and the herds of buffalo is slipping away in front of us, like a falling plate you cannot catch as it tumbles to the floor before you.”
I know little of 1873 as the white call seasons of life. I know only of life as I live it as a Nakoda boy. I live as one of dishonor and weakness among my people. I stay mostly hidden. Yet, it is I who knows all that is said and whispered among us. Our own elders are saying that the Spirits are against us, as the winds have said so in this last summer. All can see for themselves that too many south winds were cool and the west wind far too dry. The east wind carried only clouds and the north wind brought early, deep snow in a killing blizzard. My people live with hidden unease. Even I, a mere crippled boy of twelve seasons, know it is so.
It is not just the Spirits that turn against us. So many things beyond our daily lives are changing us. We as the First Nations people hear strange stories from the Métis and white traders. Somehow, where we live is being called “The Northwest Territories,” in the words of the white traders. It is our land it belongs to us the First Nations peoples, the Métis and the fur traders. As we travel south, there are different white people known as buffalo hunters, whiskey traders, and wolvers. The Métis call them Americans.
These Americans come from the Fort Benton area of the United States, called Montana. The British soldiers once stationed at Hudson Bay trading posts have evaporated like steam off the cooking pot. They would not trade whiskey with us. It is murmured that the whiskey traders are bad men who care only for their own profit. The same is said of the buffalo hunters and wolvers who slaughter the buffalo and waste its meat, our food and source of life.
Stories circulate among our tribe that whiskey is the main trade item with the Blackfoot at Fort Whoop-Up. The whiskey is called, in American words, “Whoop-Up Bug Juice.” Among us, it is also called firewater and rot-gut. This whiskey is both powerful and untrustworthy when drunk. It can make a wise man happy and yet capable of the most foolish and dangerous actions.
Chief Crowfoot of the Blackfoot, our ally, has fought many battles for his people and he says of whiskey, “It is an enemy we cannot defeat!” His words are part of the truth of our people. He also says, “The whiskey brought among us by the traders is fast killing us off, for we are powerless before this evil. We are unable to resist the temptation to drink when brought in contact with the white man’s water. Our horses, buffalo robes and other articles of trade go for whiskey.”
There is a trail that cannot be seen that divides the great prairie into north and south. In the south, which is called in white words “the United States,” there are not just white fur traders, but more and more white settlers. There, the fur trading posts have changed into army posts. Fur traders have become buffalo hunters. Our relatives there, the Lakota and Dakota, speak of whites as gold seekers, miners, homesteaders, ranchers, and railroaders. What do all these words mean? We are not sure. We have not seen such things in the north which is called in white words, “Canada.”
Our medicine man, my father, has seen a return of the buffalo in his dreams and smoke. Our Chief, Little Soldier, listens more to his cousin, Owl Eyes, a Métis, than our medicine man. Owl Eyes has travelled to Montreal and spent time there. He speaks white man’s words like his father, the trader at the post. He also speaks our language, Nakoda, as his mother taught him. Owl Eyes claims the buffalo herds are becoming no more. He speaks tales that many in our tribe question, for he speaks of things we cannot begin to understand. He tells of the south, the United States, as wanting buffalo hides without end.
He says that there is a place called Leavenworth, Kansas which is a trading center for just buffalo hides. There, they use buffalo hides for making drive belts for industrial machines of the east. No one, not even Little Soldier, knows anything about industrial machines. Owl Eyes claims the whites kill the buffalo for money. Armed with a powerful long rifle, a man can kill as many as 250 buffalo a day. He will be paid as much as $3.00 per hide and twenty-five cents is the price received for a buffalo tongue. Once hides and tongues are taken from the buffalo carcasses, the meat is left to rot. Who would simply waste the meat? Not even animals would do that. Buffalo Hunters are followed by Wolvers who poison the buffalo meat left to rot. Wolves and coyotes eat the deadly meat and die. The wolvers skin their dead bodies for their pelts. It is a cowardly way to hunt! It is very hard to believe such things are now happening.
Yet, word from the various First Nations peoples of the south has been of war and shed blood. There, they watch the continual settlement of their territories and the wasteful slaughter of their food supply and must fight fiercely to protect themselves. Hatred by the army and settlers towards them is often extreme.
Here in the north, French, Scottish and English fur traders have come from companies in eastern Canada building good relationships with us. We vastly out-numbered them. Through the long years they been here, there have been many marriages between the whites and First Nations peoples. Owl Eyes claims there are many, even thousands of Métis like himself.
Owl Eyes has warned Little Soldier that we too will feel more and more the pain of the slaughter of buffalo herds in the south. The trader at the fort claims it is 1873 - the whites do so many strange things. 1873 is nothing to us, the Nakoda. We measure each year the same - not by number but by the seasons: spring, summer, fall, and winter. Our summer and fall were bleak. We were able to kill only a few buffalo - far too few to make pemmican enough to sustain us through the winter.
We often camp for the winter in the area some call Cypress Hills, but we moved north hoping for more game to offset our low supplies of food. By the ways of our people, I should have died this winter. I was born of Wind Song, sister of Little Soldier. I am son of the medicine man Wolverine. With deformed legs at birth I should been left to die, but Little Soldier, as Chief, spared my life. I think he hoped somehow I would be good medicine for the tribe. I have not been good medicine and many blame me for all the bad that happens among us.
When food is low, the weakest are given the least food, so often the old and weak die. Our winter was such a hard winter. By spring, thirty of our tribe had died of starvation. Because I cannot walk, only crawl around in a limited way, the tiny bit of food I received was enough for me. My days are about tending fires in several tepees in winter and scraping hides and helping make pemmican in summer and fall. I am called Echo, for I have a gift from the Spirits of memory for whatever is said in my presence. I keep alive the stories that are passed down in our people. I can retell exactly what visiting Chiefs have said. Owl Eyes has taught me the ability to understand many of the white man’s words, both English and French. I am often made a witness to trading deals between members of our tribe, for I can echo what each person said at the time if there is a dispute later.
After our disastrous winter, it is now middle spring and we have moved south to the Cypress Hills to find more grass for our horses and more game to replenish our bellies. We have a few buffalo hides for trade along with a number of beaver pelts. The white people call the river “Milk.” A strange name for a river, I think. We have camped near the Milk River in this valley before, but not when there was a trading post on each side of the river. The two posts are very small.
One of the posts is run by American trader Abe, and the other by another American trader, Moses. Both forts have little to trade but whiskey. The one called Moses dislikes us because we have few buffalo robes for trade. Even when we were joined by Chief Kinyen and his people, this Moses scoffed at our 50 lodges as a few annoying flies on the hill. He has no respect for us, whom he calls “poor Assiniboine Indians.” He does not really care or want to know that we are the Stony Indians and call ourselves in our words Nakato or Nakoda. We are the allies of the Blackfoot and kin of the Lakota and Dakota of the south. Trader Abe treats our Chief, Little Soldier and Chief Kinyen with respect. Moses, the bad one, shows them no honor at all.
From the beginning of our stay here in this valley, there have been bad feelings toward Moses and his workers at his post. He scoffed at our few buffalo hides for trade and refused to look at our beaver pelts. He said we would have to take them to Fort Benton for trade. He said they were a waste of his time. A worker at the post sneered openly at Chief Little Soldier and warrior Bighead picked him up and threw him in the Milk River. This man named Veit shows great hatred towards us in his eyes at all times. Bighead and several other warriors fired some shots into the top of the post and Moses and Viet have been more respectful of our Chiefs and our presence in the valley. Our time here in the valley has enabled us to hunt game and feed our horses on the rich grass here.
At Abe’s post is one who speaks several Indian languages and he has spent time with us each day to gain more Nakoda words with which to speak. His name is Alexis, a Métis. Today, when he was among us, he said it was the thirtieth of May 1873. Alexis told us that George’s horse had strayed off from the trading post. George is second boss after Abe at the post. Two of our tribe found the horse after Alexis left and my father Wolverine returned the horse to the trading post. Second boss George sent back a big keg of whiskey to our tribe for returning his horse.
My father Wolverine is a man of great sorrow. Once he, the medicine man, was greatly respected even honored like the great wolverine animal. It began with my birth a deformed baby. I am his shame. He would have had such a baby as me abandoned at birth and left to die. My mother could not forsake me. She begged her brother, Little Soldier, to overrule her husband and allow her to keep her crippled baby, which he did as Chief. My father despises my weakness. He is certain I have poisoned his ability to appease the Spirits and bring good medicine - that is, good hunting, and plenty of food for the tribe. Whiskey helps him hear and see the Great Spirit and he takes whiskey and goes off to find a way to win honor from the Spirits once more. He is convinced that I am a weak and useless one. One who can bring our people no honor in life or in death!
Whiskey in camp this day brought laughter, arguments, fights, mating and many of our men passed out dead drunk. My father left camp to find honor in the power of whiskey, while those in camp mostly found dishonor with words and actions they will not remember tomorrow.
Tonight I stayed at the edge of the camp. Two braves, who keep near Abe’s trading post, brought back tales of white visitors coming there this evening. A group of wolvers is near and their two leaders came to the posts seeking news of stolen horses. These wolvers are hunting horses stolen seven or eight moons ago in United States. The leaders, Tom and John, are said to be rough, loud men who see first nation people as stinking, spraying skunks. These men are to stay the night visiting and drinking at both posts. The rest of the wolvers will come in the morning to join them.
It was sunrise before our camp became quiet. Peace and sleep only came when the whiskey was all gone and many of our men were passed out drunk. I was awakened in mid-morning by shots and yelling with loud voices and laughter from the trading posts. There, at Moses’ post, was a large group of whites with twelve wolvers added to six traders from each post, plus a handful of Métis freighters. All morning the whites were drinking together in a loud way that echoed around the valley.
About noon, George from Abe’s post was drunk and cursing in French and English that his horse was missing again. He was blaming us, certain we had run out of whiskey and had taken his horse in the hopes of getting more whiskey if we returned his horse like we did the day before. Not only was he cursing and shouting, he brought the wolvers with him to the coulee between Moses’ post and our camp. Most in our camp were not aware of all this. None of our people reacted, as so many were either still in a drunken sleep or just awaking to the loud shouting.
As last night, I was at the edge of the camp watching, as George came staggering into our camp. He grabbed two of our horses and began to lead them out of our camp. Alexis was yelling to George that his horse had turned up. Was he too drunk to hear? Bighead, one our warriors not in a drunken sleep, stopped George from taking our horses and after a shouting match George stumbled back to the coulee where the wolvers were waiting. After a cackle of loud drunken voices, I watched in alarm as George and the wolvers started firing their repeating rifles into our camp. Our women began screaming and running with children for cover beyond the camp. A number of women and children were shot down as they ran for cover.
Our camp is a spring camp - a temporary one. It is on an open flat directly in front of the bush covered coulee. A few of our warriors shot with their muskets and bows and arrows. Not one of the wolvers was wounded or killed. There is great dishonor in battle when none of the enemy dies. At such times our dead will not be able to rest in peace in the land of the dead. It was a pitiful, one-sided battle that was over in a few awful minutes.
On my deformed legs, I stood at the edge of camp in shock and anguish. Those able to run tried to get out of the camp. I stood as if I was rooted like a tree in the ground. I could not move. Finally, I crawled for our tepee to see if my mother was there. My father, Wolverine, was gone from camp seeking the council of the Spirits in whiskey. My mother was in the tepee relieved to see me. She was gathering what she could carry before fleeing. I insisted she flee and that I would follow. She went and we agreed to meet at the cave in the left hill north of the valley.
Mother had scarcely left when wolvers came to ransack our camp. I could hear them shooting our wounded, searching each lodge and them burning it to the ground. I could hear the sick laughter of the wolvers as they captured any women they came upon, taking them prisoners. A wolver called Ed ripped open our tepee. He leered at me, calling me a crippled toad. He pulled me up by my hair to spit in my face. As I struggled, hanging by my hair, I plunged my knife into his belly. He dropped me and pulled the knife from his belly. Blood poured forth as he cursed me and groaned on the ground. Yet he managed to pull his pistol and shoot me twice. From the two shots I died quickly. My body died but my Spirit was alive in the land of the dead. I watched from the land of the dead as Ed’s shots brought the wolvers to the tepee. Seeing I was dead, they picked up their own and carried him out, but he died before they reached the coulee.
Outraged at the death of one of their own, they returned in hatred to complete the destruction of our camp. They started at our tepee and cut off my head and put it on a stick. It did not matter. Our dead could rest in peace because, as my father Wolverine would come to learn, I was the one to bring honor to our tribe. I alone brought the death of an enemy. Sometimes the Spirits use the weakest one to bring honor for all.
From the land of the dead I saw the next morning the traders from the posts and some of the wolvers head for Fort Benton. The rest of the wolvers carried on their pursuit of their stolen horses which they never found. Before leaving the valley, the traders burnt their forts and the wolvers buried their one dead body. They left the dead Nakoda on the ground except for several severed Nakoda heads like mine on sticks. My father and others of my people found help among the Métis at Chapel Coulee. Here in the land of the dead I at last have honor and I roam freely in every wind that blows across the Cypress Hills.
Historical Postscript: In August of1873, reports came to Ottawa of the June 1st Cypress Hills Massacre, a version of the event from Manitoba sources. It was reported that American wolvers stopped at American fur trading posts on the north fork of the Milk River. There were two small bands of Assiniboine Indians camped in the valley near the two fur trading posts. While the Indians were camped there, it was believed a horse was stolen and after much drinking the wolvers set out to take revenge. It was a one-sided battle where the wolvers shot down fleeing men, women, and children, leaving 16 to 22 dead. It was told that the Indian Little Soldier thought to be the horse thief was killed and decapitated. It was said his head was displayed on a tall stick. It was claimed that one wolver was killed. It was also reported these drunken whites called themselves the Spitzee Cavalry.
The Canadian government acted by organizing and sending 275 men to ride west from Manitoba to establish the Queen’s law in the Northwest Territories. Canadian Prime Minister John A. McDonald named them the North-West Mounted Police. They arrived in the territory in July of 1874 and split into two groups. One group went across the south of the Territories to find Fort Whoop-Up and destroy the whiskey trade. The other group went north to Fort Edmonton by way of the forts along the North Saskatchewan River.
One of the first duties of the Canadian North-West Mounted Police was to investigate the events of the Cypress Hills Massacre. Their investigations led, in the spring of 1875, to the arrest by American authorities of eight of the Massacre’s participants. At the extradition hearings in Helena, Montana conflicting evidence failed to get the men extradited to Canada for trial for murder.
Three of the participants were later captured on Canadian soil and a murder trial was held in Winnipeg in June of 1876. Again, because of conflicting evidence and lack of evidence of premeditation, no convictions were obtained. One of the truths of this sad story is that George Hammond’s horse was not stolen June 1, 1873. Alexis Labombarde shouted this, but no one seemed to want to hear him, as the drunk Hammond and the drunken wolvers were intent on teaching the innocent Nakoda a lesson of deadly punishment, on the erroneous assumption the Nakoda had stolen George’s horse.
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