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Fear and starvation stalked amongst the wigwams of the Saulteaux on the lonely shores of Sandy Lake.

Upon a spruce bed in one of the birch-bark lodges lay the young squaw Sap-was-te, raving in delirium; possessed, said Pe-ce-quan the Medicine Man, by evil spirits; liable at any moment to turn “Weendigo,” or cannibal, and endanger the lives of every member of the band.

Few young squaws in the band had been so well liked as Sap-was-te whose comely looks, flashing white teeth and ready smile had endeared her to young and old. Eagerly she had been sought after by the young bucks, upon all of whom she smiled; yet, not until the previous spring had she given herself to the son of old Pe-ce-quan the conjurer.

Early in the autumn, just as the leaves were falling from the trees and the tang of approaching winter could be felt in the evening breeze, the Red Sucker band of Saulteaux had left the Company’s trading post at Island Lake, nearly two hundred miles to the eastward of Norway House, and slowly paddled their bark canoes to their winter hunting grounds at Sandy Lake.

There they had erected their lodges amongst the deep spruce woods which fringed the shore. Sap-was-te had been singularly quiet for one who was usually so merry and the music of her laughter had ceased to enliven the evenings around the camp-fires. Hardly had they reached their winter quarters when the young squaw was taken ill.

At first they had thought that she would soon recover. Now, however, she was delirious and strange talk and queer words came tumbling from her lips. At times again she fought with peculiar strength and ferocity, causing Pe-ce-quan, the seventy-year-old Medicine Man, to shake his head and ponder deeply with eyes fixed upon the glowing embers in the center of the lodge. For days he had howled and shouted, waved his medicine-rattle and pounded his tom-tom close to the girl’s body in hopes that the noise would drive the evil spirits out, but all to no avail.

Pe-ce-quan, like all the Indians of this almost unknown land, was steeped in the superstitions of the Red Men. Still a pagan he worshiped his powargan, or medicine bag, the spirits in the woods and waterfalls around him, and appeased the evil manitous with offerings of tobacco and colored cloth, obtained by bartering furs with the Company’s traders.

It was obvious that Sap-was-te had, in some way, offended the spirits and that unless something was done to propitiate them without delay the girl would surely become a “Weendigo,” or cannibal, and devour whoever crossed her path. The spirits must be appeased, and that quickly, to enable the terror-stricken hunters to venture into the woods in search of moose and game. For instead of hunting a living they had simply crouched over their lodge fires, frightened and afraid to leave the camp although starvation stared them in the face, and merciless winter was fast approaching.

After consulting the Chief, Mista-inninew, old Pe-ce-quan called a council of the headmen of the village and it was decided to invoke the aid of the spirits so, retiring to a glade deep in the primeval forest, the old Medicine Man commenced to build his chi-si-kan or conjuring lodge.

For the rest of the day he remained alone and aloof from all, engaged in the awesome rites connected with the medicine lodge, for Pe-ce-quan was a member of that mysterious and powerful Mi-di-wi-win society which, at one time, exercised tremendous influence throughout the Ojibway tribe, of which the Saulteaux were a branch.

When dawn broke above the swaying tree-tops Pe-ce-quan and the Chief took over the lodge occupied by the sick girl and the occupants were forced to scatter. Some time later small holes appeared on either side of the bark covering through which a stout cord dangled, swaying in the wind.

Entering wigwam after wigwam the old Chief finally selected two young Indians, known to the traders as Angus Rae and Norman Fiddler, from the fear-stricken occupants. Protest, they knew, was useless; they must do as they were bid or risk the sure vengeance of the powerful conjurer.

Their orders were short and simple. Each was to take his place on opposite sides of Sap-was-te’s lodge, hold the dangling cord and, when the drum beat, to pull with all his might.

Soon the drum throbbed out its warning, the executioners pulled upon the rope, then as the dreaded tom-tom ceased to beat the young hunters dropped the line as though it was a thing accursed and, pale with fright, they rushed to their respective lodges.

From behind the bole of a distant tree Sap-was-te’s husband had watched the dreaded preparations, but lacked the courage to raise a hand in his wife’s defense, so deep seated were the pagan superstitions of the tribe.

Not long afterwards a bundle swathed in a rabbitskin robe was carried into the leafless forest and buried in a shallow grave. Then, lest the evil spirits should return and raise the body back to life, a long sharp stake was driven through it into the ground and a pile of rocks was heaped above the spot, while the uncanny howls of the starving sleigh dogs served as a requiem for the dead girl’s soul. Then many shots were fired into the air from the guns of the motley group of hunters to frighten the hovering spirits away; a torch was applied to the execution lodge, and Pe-ce-quan informed his awed followers that all would now be well.

Some months later “Big Bill” Campbell, the Hudson’s Bay Company’s trader at Island Lake, was looking disgustedly from the small window of his log dwelling at the snow swirling around outside. Never before had he seen such a severe winter. Right from freeze-up it had been desperately cold and snow had fallen every time there had been the slightest rise in temperature. Drifted snow almost covered the stockade and buildings, and though it was nearing Christmas hardly an Indian had been in with furs to trade.

Like most of the Company’s men Campbell had entered the service in Scotland when a lad of sixteen, sailed on the annual ship and landed at York Factory. Since that time he had traveled widely amongst the Indians; knew both Crees and Ojibways intimately, their superstitions and languages and, like other traders, managed to preserve a loose control over the thousand or so pagan natives who traded at his post.

Turning to his native wife he addressed her in Cree.

“Wat-chis-to-gatz! This is the worst winter I have ever seen. Snow, snow every day. Why, if this keeps up the Indians won’t be able to trap any furs at all, their traps will be snowed up. Here it is December already, hardly a pelt in the store, and McTavish due any day now.”

A knock sounded at the door.

“Petigay” (come in), shouted the trader.

Hat in hand the interpreter entered. “Three dog-teams out on the ice, Sir, and coming this way,” he remarked. “Dogs seem tired and they’re travelling very slow.”

Slipping on his fur cap, fringed buckskin coat and gauntlets Campbell stepped outside into the swirling snow and looked in the direction of the interpreter’s outstretched hand. Between the snow flurries he could detect three long black snake-like forms writhing and twisting over the frozen surface of the lake two miles away.

“Hmm! Guess those are some of the Sandy Lakers at last; they’ll be all in bucking those drifts. Better thaw out some fish for their dogs, and get your wife to cook up a few bannocks and make a kettle of tea.”

About an hour later Campbell looked down disgustedly into the faces of five emaciated Indian hunters squatted cross-legged upon the floor of the trading store.

“Wat-chis-to-gatz!” he exclaimed. “What’s happened to the hunters of Sandy Lake when this is all the fur they can bring in after howling for big debts last fall?”

Pointing to a pile of silver, red, and cross foxes, and a considerable number of mink, marten and beaver skins piled upon the counter he continued: “Although you say you are starving how can you expect me to give you more goods in debt if you cannot bring in more fur than this and pay for what you got already? Last winter you brought in four times as many skins.”

“Wha! Wha! Okemow,” answered Norman Fiddler, “it is not our fault that we have had bad luck all winter. Ever since Pe-ce-quan made us kill that girl Sap-was-te the evil spirits have followed us everywhere. We cannot even catch fish in our nets; Kinaw-gabow, our best moose hunter, shot himself, and day after day the snow covers up our traps so that we cannot catch any animals at all. If you do not help us soon we shall all starve to death. We had to singe and eat our beaver skins on our way in here, and the people at Big Camp are starving.”

Until far into the night the trader sat in his big babiche-netted chair, smoking pipe after pipe of Imperial Mixture, lost in serious meditation.

When was all this going to end? These pagan Saulteaux were becoming possessed with a blood lust. Hardly a winter now went by without word being received of some murder or primitive execution.

Only the fall before they had burned an old woman to death at Satchigo Lake because they said she was too old, or too evil, to live and that it was the evil spirits which would not let her die. He had seen the poor old soul the summer before lying neglected, like a dog, outside one of the bark wigwams, shriveled up to nothing, and fed on scraps thrown to her as if she were a dog, yet with bright intelligent eyes. She was very old, probably one hundred and ten years or more, and was undoubtedly an encumbrance to the band. But he had been shocked when her own daughter had told him of the manner of her execution. She had been cast alive upon a flaming pyre of dry spruce logs. After the fire had burned down all that had remained was the old woman’s heart amongst the ashes which, according to the daughter, was a sure sign of the evil that was in it else it would have been consumed within the flames. She had, therefore, taken the heart, impaled it on a stick, and ponasked it as one would roast a duck.

Later in the winter Robert Fiddler had come in and reported that old Pe-ce-quan had had his cousin shot through the head because he was ill. Then they had burned to death Me-o-was-cum because he had suffered for days with an intestinal complaint, attributed to bad spirits.^[1]

These constant killings were affecting the mentality and entire outlook of the whole band; soon it would be impossible to get them to hunt at all. After all fur was, and always would be, the thought uppermost in any trader’s mind, and anything that interfered with the trapping of furs was a matter of primary importance. Should he notify the North West Mounted Police at Norway House? The problem was a difficult one. If he failed to do so then he was, to all intents and purposes, protecting the culprits. On the other hand McTavish would, as usual, resent any action by the police as interfering with his own fancied authority, while, if he did report to Sergeant Smith and the Indians found out, as they most assuredly would, it might seriously imperil his standing with them and they would quite likely scatter and trade at other posts, or even with the hated “free traders.”

At length he threw himself upon the bed without having reached any decision as to his future course of action.

Such executions as the ones referred to, and for causes similar to those described, were by no means infrequent in the North at this time. Similar cases can be found in Mounted Police records as having occurred at Lesser Slave Lake, Whitefish Lake (in Alberta), at Berens River on Lake Winnipeg, where a son shot his mother because he thought she was possessed of evil spirits. The writer was twice privileged to see the Medicine Lodge ceremony, which is still occasionally practiced, but usually by stealth so that the missionaries will not find out.

[1]

These facts were confirmed in a conversation with Mr. Campbell at Norway House in July, 1932, where he is still living, though no longer connected with the Company. Twenty killings, at least, were attributed to Pe-ce-quan and his medicine practices and became a matter of Mounted Police investigation, as will be seen.