The War Trail of Big Bear, Being the Story of the Connection of Big Bear and other Cree Indian Chiefs by William Bleasdell Cameron

Author:William Bleasdell Cameron [Cameron, William Bleasdell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B073FZS12X
Goodreads: 40796545
Publisher: Borodino Books
Published: 2017-06-28T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XVII — AN INDIAN CANNIBAL

LONE MAN was always my friend and one bright afternoon in early May I walked to his tent to smoke and chat with the son-in-law of Big Bear. The usual dance was on, but Lone Man seldom attended. The Indians still had the Hudson’s Bay Company’s flag—the Union Jack with the old corporation’s crest in the corner—and I noted with satisfaction that the ensign flew at half-mast and upside down above the dancing lodge. I fancied it might be an omen of impending woe for the soldiers.

Lone Man invited me to a seat on the floor of his lodge. He asked me, according to his custom, endless questions concerning the number and ways of the white men, in which he displayed the keenest interest. Little Poplar and his son-in-law, a Crow from Montana, came in and the host set before us bowls of dripping and sheaves of dried meat, which we ate. It tasted very good.

I noticed Big Bear’s men unusually in evidence, carrying their guns and wearing grave faces. An ominous quiet reigned. When his tribal friends were gone, I asked Lone Man to enlighten me.

“Well,” said he, “you have heard of the old woman in camp who wants to eat human flesh. She says if she isn’t dead before the sun goes out tonight she cannot be killed and will then begin to eat the children. They are afraid. She has but half a smoke to live. Come, we will go and see her.”

At the farther end of the camp we came to a lodge around which were grouped many of Big Bear’s warriors. Wandering Spirit in full war dress was there with his Winchester. His look was inexorable, relentless. Four-Sky Thunder stood near him. The doomed woman, the weetigo, crouched on the floor of the lodge groaning and mumbling to herself, a poor demented creature, a helpless, aged and ailing imbecile. We had tried to persuade the Indians that nothing serious was wrong, that she could do them no harm—we saw, now, unavailingly. We suggested that they give her laudanum, as an easier way to the Sand Hills. Unfortunately, no one had any of the drug.

As Lone Man and I stood with the crowd looking in at her, Henry Quinn and Malcolm Macdonald approached under an escort of Indians. The crowd made way for them. Quinn knelt beside the old woman and bound her wrists and ankles. Then she was placed on a tanned beef-hide, Quinn took a corner, Macdonald another, Indians the remaining two and the wretched invalid was borne to the place of death, an open space a few hundred yards from the lodge. They set her down on the skin, blindfolded her and an old half-breed named Charlebois, the lower half of his face painted black, leaped toward her brandishing a heavy club.

“You have asked everybody to kill her and all were afraid. Don’t laugh at me for striking a woman, and don’t say I did it!” he cried.

He swung the club and struck her a frightful blow on the temple.

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