Old John, The Chief Pilot, Wished To Take Advantage Of The
Fine Flood On The Changing River, And Drift Down
At least to the
head of the Boiler Rapids, twenty miles away, The breeds maintained,
with many white swear words,
For lack of strong talk in Indian, that
they never yet knew Sunday work to end in anything but disaster,
and they sullenly scattered among the trees, produced their cards,
and proceeded to gamble away their property, next year's pay,
clothes, families, anything, and otherwise show their respect for
the Lord's Day and defiance of old John MacDonald. John made no
reply to their arguments; he merely boarded the cook's boat, and
pushed off into the swift stream with the cooks and all the grub.
In five minutes the strikers were on the twelve big boats doing
their best to live up to orders. John said nothing, and grinned at
me only with his eyes.
The breeds took their defeat in good part after the first minute,
and their commander rose higher in their respect.
At noon we camped above the Boiler Rapids. In the evening I climbed
the 400- or 500-foot hill behind camp and sketched the canyon
looking northward. The spring birds were now beginning to arrive,
but were said to be a month late this year. The ground was everywhere
marked with moose sign; prospects, were brightening.
The mania for killing that is seen in many white men is evidently
a relic of savagery, for all of these Indians and half-breeds
are full of it.
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