The Massacre.

The congregation was kneeling, and I knelt with the others. A moment later there came the rattle of musketry from the door and looking out from beneath my arm I saw Wandering Spirit enter.

He moved cat-like on his moccasined feet to the centre of the church and dropped on his right knee there, his Winchester clutched in his right hand, the butt resting on the floor. His lynx-skin war bonnet, from which depended on five large eagle plumes, crowned his head; his eyes burned and his hideously painted face was set in lines of deadly menace.

Never shall I forget the feelings his whole appearance and action excited in me as I watched in stupified amazement while he half-knelt, glaring up at the altar and the white-robed priests in sacrilegious mockery.

He was a demon, a wild animal, savage, ruthless, thirsting for blood. I doubted then that we should any of us ever again see the outside of the chapel.

Prayers ended, the priests warned the Indians against committing any excesses and we were allowed to leave the church. Those of the Roman Catholic faith dipped their fingers in the font at the door and crossed themselves as they passed out. I returned to the shop and the other whites were soon after taken by the Indians back to the agency. King Bird, Big Bear's second son, accompanied me.

"N'Chawainis," he asked, "with whom do you side, Riel or the Police?"

"Cousin," I replied, "the half-breed war is far from us. Let them fight it out between themselves, here we are all friends."

It did not answer to be too candid on this second of April morning. He asked for the loan of the Hudson's Bay Company's flag for the dance he said they intended to hold later in the day and I allowed him to have it.

Quinn, cool and self-possessed, his Scotch cap on the back of his head. Came in and we spoke together for a few minutes. Leaving, he said to me: "Well, Cameron, if we live through this we'll have something to remember for the rest of our days."

Wandering Spirit appeared at the door. "Go to the instructors where the other whites are," he rapped out. I hastened to obey. The Indians were sacking the Mounted Police barracks and as I was passing it.

Yellow Bear came out and stopped me. Earlier in the day he had asked for a hat, but after thinking a moment had replaced it on the shelf, saying he would get it later. It was now ten o'clock. "I want to get that hat," he said.

King Bird danced up to me, the Hudson's Bay flag over his shoulders. We had always been good friends. "N'gowichin! (I'm cold!)" he said. He shook, but not from cold; the day was warm and pleasant. It was from suppressed excitement. He came closer and added meaningly, in a whisper: "Don't stop around here!"

I turned to Yellow Bear. "You can have the hat," I said. "Come with me." He balked; he did not wish to miss his share of the police plunder. "Won't you bring it to me?" he asked.

"Wandering Spirit has just ordered me here," I answered. "If he saw me going back he might shoot me." "Yes? I will go with you then," said the Indian.

The shop was not much more than a hundred paces distant. Half way we were stopped by Wandering Spirit.

He was running, carrying his Winchester up the trail. "I told you to stay with the other whites!" he exploded, his rifle poised suggestively in front of him as he stood for an instant regarding me darkly out of his evil eyes.

Yellow Bear interposed quickly. "He's going with me to get a hat. The sun's hot and I have none."

Whatever may have been the question engaging the mind of the fiery leader it had, for the moment at least, been resolved. Flinging at me a last significant admonition to "Hurry back," accompanied by another disconcerting stare, he ran on.

Thinking over the situation since, I have reached the conclusion that the only thing that saved me at this pregnant juncture was Yellow Bear's instant grasp of my peril.

Wandering Spirit had all morning endeavoured to keep me constantly with the other whites and he was now clearly exasperated by his failure to do so, and as a result, was ready at once to begin the massacre as he proved to be ten minutes later.

I do not think he foresaw the climax coming quite so soon as it did and he therefore expected me to be back with the other victims in time to share their common fate, for there is no room whatever for doubt that he had then no thought that I should escape a bullet.

As I passed the Hudson's Bay house I saw Big Bear talking with Mrs. Simpson in the kitchen. Yellow Bear got his hat and I was locking the shop again when Miserable Man appeared with an order from the Indian agent. I glanced across and saw Quinn standing on the hill I had just quitted, faced by Wandering Spirit.

I turn to an old scrapbook and from a piece of foolscap pasted in the back copy the faded lines, the last writing of my brave friend. It is worn and soiled, for I carried it in my waistcoat pocket for many weeks. It is undated, but to me nothing done on that fateful 2nd of April needs a mark.

It reads: "Dear Cameron, Please give Miserable Man one blanket. T. T. Q."

Miserable Man was, I think, the most brutal-looking Indian I have ever seen. His face was deeply pitted by smallpox, and the yellow ochre with which it was coated made it appear even more repulsive than usual.

"I have no blankets," I said. He did not reply but stood regarding me doubtfully, an ominous cast in his rat-like eyes.

"What are you looking at him for?" demanded Yellow Bear. "Don't you hear him say he has no blankets? They've even taken the blankets off his own bed."

Miserable Man was as great a coward as was his huge ill bulk. His belligerent mask dropped from him at once. "Well, can't I have something instead?" he enquired humbly. I said he might.

He selected a small shawl, a "carrot" of tobacco and a balance in tea. I dumped the tea into the shawl (our customers did not expect to receive their purchases wrapped) and he was tying up the parcel when a shot, sounding as if just outside the building, brought my heart for an instant into my mouth. Two more followed in quick succession.

At the first report, the eyes of Miserable Man opened wide. At the third, he snatched his bundle from the counter and dashed out of the shop. I followed with Yellow Bear, locking the door behind me and putting the heavy brass key in my pocket. Two months later, on the day of my escape from the Indians, I left that key in a discarded pair of trousers hanging in a poplar bluff near Frenchman's Butte. It was the sole substantial relic to escape the destruction of what had been the Hudson's Bay Company's trading post at Frog Lake.

On the hill before the police barracks which I had just quitted only ten minutes before, lay the form of a man. It was the lifeless body of poor Quinn.

Dust and smoke filled the air; whoops and shrieks and the clatter of galloping hoofs blended in a weird and ghastly symphony. High overall swelled the deadly war chant of the Plains Crees, bursting from a hundred sinewy throats. I heard the peculiarly ringing voice of Wandering Spirit calling on his followers to shoot the other whites and burst after burst sounded the death knell of other of my friends. Walking Horse, staring out of the Company's house, muttered savagely, but half-scared: "Atim-eenawuk! (Dog-men)"

Big Bear rushed out of the kitchen doorway and toward his followers, shouting at the top of his tremendous voice: "Tesqua! Tesqua! (Stop! Stop!)"

As well might he have shouted at the wind. The smouldering fire of inherent savagery had burst into flame and he was powerless to quench it; the spring of blood of the old chief's dream had broken forth and spurted through his futile fingers!

My first thought was to seize an axe, lock myself in the house and brain the first Indian to force the door. But though I ran to the nearby woodpile for the axe usually kept there, I found none; the conspirators had even made away with this possible weapon.

An Indian raced up to me, holding his gun before him. "If you speak twice you are a dead man," he cried, and he ran on. I have since thought his exclamation was meant as a friendly warning.

I saw a half-breed Louis Goulet run past, followed by two Indians, one his brother-in-law, protecting him from the other, his pursuer, his face like paper.

I turned to Yellow Bear. "What shall I do?" I asked. He seized my wrist, his hand shaking as with the palsy, his eyes starting from their sockets. "Come this way!" he muttered, dragging me toward the scene of horror. But at the corner of the house, he stopped, glanced across and turned back.

Big Bear's band had moved during the night and now were camped with the Wood Crees a mile away. A group of Indian women, among them the elderly half-breed wife of "Missa Jim" - James K. Simpson, supervisor of the Hudson's Bay Frog Lake district - were gathered at the far end of the buildings composing the post.

"No!" said Yellow Bear. "Those women are starting for the camp. Go with them. Don't leave them. They can't fire from the other ridge for fear of hitting the women."

Yellow Bear feared openly to befriend me - he would not accompany me but I did as I was advised, although I had slight hope of reaching the Indian camp.

I had gone but a short way when I met the Indian I had seen chasing Goulet. He was riding the half-breed's white horse, his rifle across its withers. A fence on my right made it impossible for me to avoid him. I drew back against it involuntarily, anticipating the worst.

He raced up to within six feet, then jerked his horse to a sudden stop. He eyed me narrowly for a moment. "Go on! Go on!" he cried then. "I don't want to shoot you."

I walked on but turned on hearing a cry from Mrs. Simpson, a dozen paces behind me and heading the women. Tears streamed down her face and she trembled violently as she gazed off to the right toward the firing. "Oh," she wailed. "The priest has fallen!"

I thought she was about to collapse and stepped back and caught her arm. Turning, she jerked her arm away and cried wildly in Cree "Run, white man!" "Do you think they'll kill me?" I asked. "Run, white man!" was her only answer.

I lived with the Simpsons and, knowing me as she did, I think she was certain I would die and wished me to be where she would not see me when this happened. I walked on, my eyes held determinedly on the ground before me, expecting every moment a bullet and not wanting to see when or whence it came.

To run, I saw, would be only inviting pursuit. It would be hard for me to describe my feelings during those awful moments of suspense. I had no hope that I should escape and I think I prayed that it should end quickly. I was, I believe, resigned. I know I felt at the time that it would be a shame to live when so many of my friends were being foully done to death a few paces away.

I did not even glance anymore at the spot where the tragedy was passing. It seemed to me that if I did I would be impelled to rush over and fall with my luckless companions. To die without a chance to defend oneself therein lay the supreme horror! To be shot down like a dog - if only I had a gun!

The moments passed. I still lived and I took heart at last and raised my eyes. Goulet passed on my left, still guarded by his brother-in-law with his rifle. He did not speak and I could hardly blame him; it might be dangerous for him at the moment to recognize a white acquaintance. Years later he asked me if I remembered seeing him pass on his way to the camp.

Other armed Indians were running on the ridge nearby; two passed quite close to me. But the firing had died down and at length, I reached the camp unharmed. I was told to enter the lodge of a Wood Cree. The women occupying it, all weeping, made tea and handed me a cup. I felt sick and faint.

Soon I heard Wandering Spirit's voice. He was stalking up and down through the camp, his wild, penetrating voice carrying to every corner, to every lodge, as he proclaimed: "Kapwatamut nipahow! (I killed the Sioux Speaker!)

I met him before the interpreter's house. `Kapwatamut,' I said, 'you have a hard lead, but today you will do as I say. Go to the camp.' "Why should I go there?' he wanted to know." 'Keeam,' I said, 'never mind.'

"This is my place,' he said. 'Big Bear has not asked me to leave and here I stay.' "I raised my rifle. 'I tell you - Go!' I shouted, and I shot him dead!"

Three Indians entered the lodge and sat down on my left. They looked at me curiously. I knew them well but I did not speak. They had watches belonging to the murdered men and one - Papamakeesik - murderer of Pere Fafard - held out that he had appropriated and asked me the time. It was 11 o'clock. I sat there, groaning inwardly, thinking over the horror of it all, expecting each moment a summons to appear before Wandering Spirit and explain how it came about that I was still alive.

The suspense became unbearable. I could no longer rest with my fate undecided; I must go out! I told these Indians. They were friendly enough to suggest that I disguise myself in a blanket, but I said no. I might be recognized and shot on suspicion of trying to escape.

I walked across the camp and into the brush on the opposite side. William Gladieu, the Wood Cree who had befriended me in the morning, followed with his gun. He placed his arm about my shoulder. "My brother," he exclaimed, "you are not to be killed. Before that happens they will have to walk over my dead body."

He took me to the tent of Oneepohayo, head chief of the Wood Crees. Here a council was assembled. Yellow Bear, Little Bear, Gladieu and others, including the chief himself, spoke of kindnesses received at my hands - trifles as they seemed at the time, but which were to stand me in good stead now. They agreed that I should live and left to announce their decision to Wandering Spirit.

The Plains Crees were in council outside and the war chief made a speech in which he told his supporters that I was not to be killed and that they were to take note of the fact.

The delegation brought him to the lodge of the Wood Cree chief and Oneepohayo said: "This is the young man whose life we are determined to save. He has been our friend and given us help when we needed it."

The war chief got to his feet and held out his hand to me. "Uh-huh. He has done me favours, too," he said. I doubt if anyone can realize how sweet life really is until he comes near to losing it. Mine, I began to think, might still be endurable - worth an effort to save. Though everything within me revolted I took the proffered hand, that hand that had sped the bullet that sent two of my companions to a sudden and shocking end, for beside the agent he had shot one of the priests. "Walkabout during the day," he said, "but don't go out at night. Some young man might kill you and we wouldn't know who it was, and don't try to escape."

At Cold Lake, 40 miles to the north, H. R. Halpin was in charge of a Hudson's Bay outpost. A party of four was leaving to bring him to Frog Lake. I took advantage of their amiable mood to put in a word for him. "Promise you'll spare his life, too," I urged. They debated the matter and made the promise.

"So that he won't be surprised, I'll give you a note for him," I said, and on the back of an envelope I wrote in pencil: "Halpin, The Crees have murdered every white man here except myself. They are going out for you and have promised not to harm you. At your peril, offer no resistance." Beverley Robertson, the lawyer who defended the Indians, had this note at the time of the trials, but I do not know what became of it later.

Toward evening James K. Simpson arrived from Fort Pitt. He was an old officer of the Hudson's Bay Company, with headquarters at Frog Lake and an old friend of Big Bear. As he drove into camp the Indians stopped his horses, unharnessed and appropriated them. Although a white man, he was not in great danger, for his half-breed wife had two sons, members of the Wood Cree bands.

"Big Bear," said Mr. Simpson before the whole camp, "I have known you for 25 years and I never thought I should live to see a thing like this!"

There was a deep feeling in the old chief's voice as he answered sorrowfully: "It is not my work. They have tried for a long time to take away my good name and they have done it at last. If you had been here this might never have happened."

Mr. Simpson was allowed his own tent, while I was lodged with one of his stepsons, Louis Patenaude. I was deadly weary and with the boastful jests of the murderers in my ears, lay down early and slept that night as soundly as ever I did in my life. It was a blessed relief to he able to forget in sleep the appalling events of the day. These were the first hours of my memorable two months with hostile Indians.

I may here appropriately mention the fact that no servant of the Hudson's Bay Company was killed by the Indians during the whole of this stormy period. Their treatment by the Company had always been considerate and humane. If an Indian was sick he went to the nearest post and was supplied with food and medicine until he became well. When ready to go on a hunt he was outfitted with provisions, traps and ammunition, for which he paid in furs on his return. The Company made him advances in goods on account of his annuity and waited almost a year for payment, trusting entirely to his honesty for settlement of the debt. After a trade he always got a small present. When hungry he was never denied a meal.

It was this policy of liberality that created the bond of friendship that existed between the red man and the Company for more than two hundred years and of which they were not forgetful even in their moment of savage vengeance.

Yet the fact that I was an employee of the Hudson's Bay. Company would not alone have saved me in that awful hour, and I cannot conclude this story of the massacre without recording here the deep sense of gratitude I shall always feel for life preserved under circumstances I can never cease to regard as anything but miraculous.

I have not mentioned Henry Quinn, the agent's nephew and a son of William Quinn, of St. Paul, Minnesota. He was warned by the friendly Mondion some 15 minutes before the massacre and escaped to Fort Pitt.

Henry Quinn, a young man and a blacksmith, had been brought out from St. Paul by his uncle earlier that winter to do work for the Indian Department. I saw him a dozen years later when he came into my office in St. Paul, Minnesota, where I was then editing Field and Stream.

From the rather pleasant youth I had known in 1885, the interval had transformed him into a heavy, obese individual, anything but prepossessing in appearance. I learned that he ultimately had died on a Sioux Indian reserve in South Dakota.