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Two months after Sergeant Smith had written the Commissioner of the North West Mounted Police at Ottawa regarding the killing of the girl Sap-was-te at Island Lake he received his answer.

In the meantime he had sent a lone patrol off to Island Lake to gather evidence regarding the killings he had heard of from Bill Campbell and others. Only a few days before I had departed on my long snowshoe journey to Pepekwatooce Constable O’Neill had left the barracks in the chilling cold of sub-arctic dawn and with but a single dog-team had followed his Cree guide across the river where they had disappeared into the black and gloomy forest.

As soon as he had finished reading the Commissioner’s letter Sergeant Smith called in Constable Cashman.

“Well, Constable,” he remarked as he looked into the clear blue eyes of the stockily built young man before him, “I’ve got a little job for you which may keep you hoofing it for some time to come!

“You remember the story these Hudson’s Bay men were telling at Christmas time about that murder at Sandy Lake last fall? All right! I’ve just got word from the Commissioner. He’s decided it’s about time to put an end to these murderous practices and make an example of the Medicine Men. O’Neill is at Island Lake now getting all the evidence he can. From what I’ve already learned I’m satisfied the matter is serious. Judging from the news O’Neill sends in this Pe-ce-quan is a bad actor; his band have killed about twenty all told, and the same sort of thing is going on in other parts of the North. The influence of these Medicine Men must be broken and it’s up to you to do the job! You will leave with Moses Gore and Jimmie Kirkness, who knows the Sandy Lake country well; proceed to Island Lake, arrest the Chief and Medicine Man, obtain the witnesses you want, and bring the whole bunch back to Norway House. These Saulteaux seem to be bad right through and are outlawed by the other tribes! They’re all pagans and most of them have seen no white men but the traders so you’ll have to be darned careful. Remember, there’s to be no trouble, and you must not return without your prisoners. And,” added the Sergeant, “if you fail—God help you!”

As with O’Neill it was long before sunrise when Constable Cashman and his three teams sped down the icy surface of the Nelson River between the high forested banks. To all appearances the little settlement, sprawled along the shores, was fast asleep, but many pairs of black beady eyes watched the little patrol as it started on its difficult and dangerous journey.

Two white men, mere youths, were to penetrate into an almost unknown wilderness, arrest a powerful Medicine Man who knew no laws but those of his own making and held the power of life and death over his followers, and also the Chief of a band of outlaw Indians, feared by all adjacent tribes! And to accomplish this they carried not weapons but merely the prestige of the North West Mounted Police and their reputation for square dealing. Would it be enough? Many of the old timers who knew those Indians said that it would not!

Months passed but no word reached Norway House. At length the ice commenced to get black in spots then, almost without warning, summer burst upon the Northland; the trickle of water was heard everywhere, the snow disappeared almost overnight, and with a terrific booming the ice of the Nelson River gave way. Freed of its fetters the swift and turbid waters rushed and swirled by on their way to Hudson Bay.

When the middle of July arrived without any sign of the police anxiety spread apace at Norway House and in many quarters conviction was openly voiced that the Saulteaux had lived up to their evil reputation and the patrol had been destroyed.

As soon as they had left the hard beaten trails near the fort Constable Cashman and his companions realized that they had no soft job ahead of them. Day after day they toiled through enormous snowdrifts, often whipped by the biting north wind; fighting blizzards accompanied by stinging, blinding snow; glad when night came to stretch their tired and pained limbs upon soft and fragrant spruce boughs before the roaring camp-fire. A hot meal of bannock, beans, and steaming strong tea would revive their spirits, and after feeding their dogs they would roll in their rabbitskins and sink into merciful forgetfulness of aching and swollen feet, frozen ears and the stab of icy blasts.

It was many days ere the picketed enclosure of the log fort at Island Lake came into view. Long before the tired dogs dashed excitedly through the gateway the red flag fluttered out in greeting—a welcome sight to any northern traveler.

The genial Campbell accompanied by O’Neill met them at the gateway with hearty handshakes, glad to see another white face in this land of loneliness.

“Come right in, boys! Never mind your dogs, John, my tripper, will look after them and put your stuff into the warehouse. Just come right in and get warmed up, and give us the latest news from Norway House and Winnipeg!”

The two days’ rest that followed, the extra feed for the tired dogs; the sumptuous meals of moosemeat, dried berries and real bread, and the chance to get warmed through and through, put the party in fine fettle when the time came to hit the trail once more. With parting words of cheer from the big trader, and many warnings to be careful of the Red Sucker Indians ringing in their ears, the Mounties now headed towards the hunting grounds of the dreaded Saulteaux.

THE FUR BRIGADE. YORK BOATS EN ROUTE TO NORWAY HOUSE.

Once again they faced their bitter battle with nature and the snowdrifts, and it was not until the fifth day after leaving Island Lake that they sighted the bleak expanse of island dotted ice that Jimmie Kirkness said was Sandy Lake. Although they searched the shores for signs of an Indian camp not a wisp of smoke was anywhere to be seen so desolate and devoid of life did the surrounding country appear.

Suddenly the native trail breaker stopped in his tracks, dropped on his knee and examined the surface of the snow minutely: “Injun’ walk here mebbe tree, four nights ago,” he announced as the sleighs came up. Closely Jim Kirkness and Moses Gore scrutinized the barely discernible concave marks of snowshoes upon the snow.

“He’s right,” commented Kirkness, “let’s follow the direction of this trail towards the shore.”

Swinging along on his snowshoes the guide obeyed Jim’s orders as the dogs fell into line behind him. When they reached the shore another council of war took place. It was arranged that they would camp for the night sufficiently far in the woods to prevent their camp-fire from being seen by prying eyes out on the lake, while Jim and Moses scouted the shore for a few miles in each direction.

Late that night Jim returned, reporting no luck whatsoever, but later on Moses stepped into camp obviously excited, kicked a log making the fire send up a shower of sparks, then threw on an extra log. All sat up expectantly.

“Well, boys, the birds have flown!” stated Moses laconically. “I found the old camp all right, then about two miles further on I came across another one which they must have moved to after they killed that girl. I guess they got wise we were coming and beat it, bag and baggage, just before that last snow. They sure left in a hell of a hurry as I found a partly finished pair of snowshoe frames and quite a lot of other junk around!”

“Moccasin Telegram again,” muttered Constable Cashman disgustedly. “It sure beats me how news travels in this North country. Not a soul has been ahead of us, we’ve traveled fast, yet they’ve found out we’re coming and are all prepared for us.”

“Cyam” (Never mind), answered Kirkness. “If Moses has located their old camp we can find where they buried the girl. The Indians can’t be very far away as they’ve got their squaws and kids with ’em. There’s bound to be some kind of a trail we can follow, though it’s liable to be slow work. Looks to me as though they’re high-tailing it for Deer Lake.”

The patrol reached the old camp-site next morning where they had little difficulty in locating the resting place of the murdered girl. Turning to the southward they slowly followed the faintly marked trail.

It was not until they arrived at Deer Lake that the trail freshened. Then, as the sun was almost setting, they came upon net-holes surrounded with spruce boughs, a sure sign of the proximity of Indians. As they rounded a heavily wooded point the outlaw Saulteaux camp lay stretched before them; a score or more of squat bark wigwams nestling in the somber darkening forest a mile or so ahead.

Rapid movements among the lodges, and the angry barking of many dogs, appraised them that their presence had become known. But they continued resolutely onward with rapidly beating hearts while the medicine drum throbbed its menacing warning across the frozen bay.

Leaving the teams in charge of Moses Gore and the Indian Constables Cashman and O’Neill, along with Kirkness, climbed the bank and next moment were looking into a sea of angry scowling faces and piercing deep-set serpent-like eyes. Squaws, from the security of their lodge doors, spat and hurled insults at the two Shi-mar-kanis-uk—the hated Long Knives.

VOYAGEURS CARRYING UP THE FREIGHT.

Although he dared not show his feelings Cashman was surprised at the size of the camp, which was the largest he had seen, while there were far more long-haired, capoted bucks around than he had ever anticipated meeting. Evidently they had heard of the coming of the Red Coats and a call had been sent by the Chief to the neighboring camps to gather his swarthy supporters all around him.

The Saulteaux were obviously in a thoroughly ugly and surly mood and his interpreter was also nervous. The atmosphere was tense in the extreme and Cashman realized instinctively that any tactless action on his part would probably be accompanied by most serious consequences. Any Indians he had dealt with so far had always held the Mounted Police in fear, and the prestige which this famous force enjoyed went far when making difficult arrests. Here there was no fear but only bitter racial hatred, and for the first time he fully realized the magnitude of the task before him.

With set lips and a steady stride he entered the largest wigwam where most of the bucks were assembled, their muzzle loaders in their hands. Giving but a cursory glance at the motley crowd around him he turned to Kirkness.

“Tell the Chief that the Great Father has sent me a long distance to come and talk with him.”

Twenty pairs of beady eyes gazed unwinkingly upon the interpreter as he conveyed the message in the sonorous Ojibway tongue. Piercingly the old Chief surveyed the policemen, puffing deliberately meanwhile upon his long-stemmed stone-headed pipe, then with an abrupt wave of his hand towards his followers he arose and faced the Mountie with angry flashing eyes.

“What has your Great Father to do with the Mi-qua-mapin-uk?” (Red Suckers), demanded the Chief arrogantly. “This is the country of the Indians, the An-sin-a-beg, who do as they please in their own hunting grounds. The Long Knives wish to take me and my brother away and put us in their stone house, but I have twenty young men who do not wish that I should go. All of them have guns, all ready to shoot—not toy guns such as you carry in your belts. What is to stop them killing you where you stand and throwing your carcasses, and those of the half-breed dogs you brought with you, to the sleigh dogs?”

It was no idle threat and Cashman realized it for the scowling natives seemed only too anxious to put the Chief’s threat into action at the slightest sign from him. As they grunted their approval he looked the Saulteaux squarely in the eye then replied in quiet level tones:

“What you say is only partly true, Mista-inninew, for you forget one thing. Truly, you have twenty young men but the soldiers of the Great Father are like the leaves on the trees, and he will never forget an insult offered to the men who wear his red coat. For every one of us you might injure the Great Father across the Big Water would send a hundred men to take his place, and he would never rest until he had run each one of you to earth even as you run the foxes to their holes. Many widows there would be to cut their hair and slash their bodies in mourning for their dead. Let you and your brother Pe-ce-quan show that those gray hairs denote the wisdom age has taught you. Tell these young men to put away their guns, and warn them to do nothing foolish lest their squaws and children suffer with themselves.”

For hours the contest of wills lasted. Frequently the outcome seemed in doubt. Then Mista-inninew suddenly shook the long locks from before his eyes, threw back his head, with his hands held out towards his captors.

“Mi’way! Ah-mi-way! Put those irons on my wrists, White Man. I am old and have not long to live, many winters have left the snows upon my hair. I do not wish to see my people get into trouble. I will go with you, so will my brother Pe-ce-quan. You are a brave man, you look me right in the eye as one true man should always look at another.”

Neither of the policemen displayed the intense relief they experienced from the favorable outcome of the council. They knew Indian nature too well not to realize that any moment might still witness a change of attitude. Promptly the two young men who had assisted at the killing were singled out and, upon the advice of Mista-inninew, agreed to accompany the police. Both prisoners were spared the humiliation of being handcuffed as it might easily have caused the smoldering fires of hatred to once more burst into flame. Without any outward display of haste the baggage of the prisoners was placed upon the sleighs and, accompanied by the Chief, Pe-ce-quan and the two witnesses, the four teams set out on their long journey back to Norway House.

Until far into the night they continued on their way, anxious to place as great a distance as possible between themselves and the village they had left, lest in their excitement some of the more hot-headed young bucks might follow in their trail and attempt a rescue.

Turn about they stood guard over the sleeping prisoners at night. A large cold silvery moon shone down upon the camp as O’Neill took watch lighting up the heavily lined face of the sleeping Chief. An owl hooted mournfully somewhere in the darkened woods and a faint breeze sighed through the tree-tops, rustling them slightly. Some unseen presence seemed to hover around the place. The Constable watched silently and a feeling of deep sympathy came over him.

After all these were pagan Indians, and it was their own country which the white man was taking possession of without as much as a “by your leave.” Murder could not be condoned yet these natives had their own queer laws and superstitions and, no doubt, there were many occasions when the destruction of a demented person was actually necessary to the safety of the band. Where was one to draw the line? There had been a certain nobility in the manner of the old man’s surrender. Furthermore, he remembered now the kindly pat the old Chief had given him on the back when he had insisted to his tribesmen that no harm was to come to the young Shi-mar-kanis. After all the white man’s justice, like his commerce and his laws, often worked in strange and unfathomable ways.

Tired, spent and grimy from the smoke of the camp-fires they at length made their way once more into the fort at Island Lake. Two hundred miles still to go; the trails breaking up under the heat of the warming sun; the surface of lake and river one mass of slush, and the ice unsafe to travel on.

PE-CE-QUAN, THE MEDICINE MAN.

Constable Cashman gave the matter deep thought, then at the earnest solicitation of Bill Campbell he decided not to take foolish chances but to remain at the post with his prisoners until open water. Then they could travel with the Company’s fur brigade to Norway House. As soon as this decision was reached the trader turned over one of the post buildings to the police to serve as a temporary jail, and here the prisoners took up their abode. Furnished with ample tea and tobacco, fresh moosemeat and whitefish, the Indians seemed little worried as to what the outcome was to be but smoked contentedly all day long.

About the time that I was bidding farewell to Carl and Alex Swain at God’s Lake that same summer the three York boats, with police and prisoners aboard, pulled out from the dock at Island Lake to the usual accompaniment of whooping and gun-fire from the Indians lining the shore.

Next day they heard the roaring of water ahead and soon the boats were in the midst of the Kanutchewan Rapids, rushing like mad things through the foaming waters. Passing within ten miles or so of where I remained in solitary state at God’s Lake they reached the Mossy Portage just ahead of our own brigade and three weeks after leaving Island Lake they sighted Norway House.

With one accord the people at the post rushed down to the dock to greet the new arrivals, and great was the rejoicing when it was found that rumor had once again proven false and that the “lost patrol” was safe.

As the police party transferred to canoes for their two-mile paddle to the barracks at the Crooked Turn realization of their predicament seemed to strike Pe-ce-quan for the first time. He appeared worried and turned to Campbell who had accompanied them: “Wha! wha! I guess it is all up with us now.”

“Quiesk, kiam picu weeta” (Never mind, tell the truth), replied the trader as he shook hands with the prisoners and next moment the paddles dipped and the canoes were on their way.

Such was the story I heard from Cashman and O’Neill, also Moses Gore, shortly after my arrival at Norway House, and at the first opportunity I paddled up to the barracks to have a talk with the prisoners and take them some tobacco. They appeared to be in good spirits and glad to see me as my post at Pepekwatooce was only a couple of hundred miles from their home at Sandy Lake.

Ottawa had decided to make an example of the murderers, and to hold the trial at Norway House in order that the surrounding tribesmen should be properly impressed with the power of the police, and the certainty of punishment overtaking evil-doers. Arrangements had already been completed to have Colonel Saunders of the North West Mounted Police proceed North in order to conduct the trial.

Meanwhile the Company had turned over to the police the large council house wherein the factors had gathered in years gone by from the Great Lakes to the Rocky Mountains to hold their annual councils and regulate the affairs of Rupert’s Land.

Upon the day that Colonel Saunders and his party were due to arrive Sergeant Smith and Cashman left for Warren’s Landing at the head of Lake Winnipeg, twenty miles away, to meet the steamer. At the barracks the prisoners were taking their daily exercise under the charge of a young constable. Suddenly the policeman noticed that Pe-ce-quan was missing.

“Tante Pe-ce-quan?” he asked the Chief.

“Dunno!” gruffly replied the Indian.

A hasty search of the barracks grounds failed to reveal any sign of the missing man and the alarm was hastily spread; Pe-ce-quan had escaped.

“Quick, boys, search the woods,” cried the thoroughly excited constable to some half-breed onlookers, but not a sign could be found of the prisoner. It was near nightfall when O’Neill returned from the fort and assisted the constable in his search. Through the drear and forbidding forest they made their way.

“Good God! What’s that?” cried his companion in a hoarse shaky voice.

“What? Where?” demanded O’Neill in alarm as he shook off the convulsive grip upon his arm.

“There! Swinging from the branch of that tree,” cried his companion, pointing to a dark object silhouetted against the darkening sky.

It was the lifeless body of Pe-ce-quan hanging from a tree by his L’Assumption belt which was knotted tightly around his neck. He had gone to meet the Manitou of the Saulteaux, but he had chosen his own time and place and had not died shamefully at the hands of the pale-faced usurpers of the Indians’ hunting grounds.

On August 8th, 1907, Mista-inninew stoically faced his accusers in the historic old council house which had witnessed many strange sights, but none more thrilling than those now taking place. Behind a large spruce table covered with a Union Jack sat Colonel Saunders, impressive in his immaculate uniform. Beside him sat the lawyers attired in wigs and gowns, while behind stood the red-coated escort in charge of Mista-inninew and the Indians. Opposite sat the jury; white collared clerks of the fur company, moccasined traders, capoted French-Canadian voyageurs, and half-breed dog-drivers, while priests, missionaries and Indians filled the balance of the hall. In front of the Judge’s table, looking somewhat nervous, was the interpreter, Jimmie Kirkness.

Without the slightest hesitation Mista-inninew pleaded guilty to the charge of murder, then told of what had happened in the lodge that cold October morning. They had decided, he and Pe-ce-quan, that Sap-was-te must die. Old Pe-ce-quan placed the fatal cord around her neck, then as she struggled he himself had held her down.

As the jury retired to consider the verdict the Chief leaned back and stared stolidly at the heavy beams above him. Considerable sympathy was felt for the old Chief, especially by the fur traders who realized fully the extent to which these pagan Indians were swayed by superstition. But the police felt otherwise. There were four authenticated cases of killings at their hands, and evidence pointing to probably twenty others. These murders, and the domination of the Medicine Men, must cease, and that could only be accomplished by making an example. During the solemn silence that prevailed when the jurymen returned the Chief listened unmoved while the sentence of death was passed upon him by the Judge.

In a few days he was being taken across Lake Winnipeg towards the dreaded stone house of the whites. But the sentence was never carried out for upon the representations of the fur traders and others to the Minister of Justice it was decided to temper justice with mercy and the sentence was commuted to imprisonment for life.

Three years later Mista-inninew’s soul also passed on to the Happy Hunting Grounds of his forefathers for one morning his emaciated body was discovered lifeless upon his narrow prison cot by one of the wardens of Stoney Mountain Penitentiary.

“Angus Rae” and “Norman Fiddler” were not detained but were sent back to their tribesmen to spread the word amongst them of the power of the whites, and the certainty of Mounted Police justice.