North Dakota State College of Science - Agawasie Yearbook (Wahpeton, ND)

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30 THE AGAWASIE ward— tall and alertly poised. Unlike most of his companions his face was usually smooth shaven, and now its regular, clear-cut profile seemed magnified against a moonlit background. Most of the voyageurs were men who thought in terms of space, men whose veins were aflame with a desire toward unknown places. Vanston was one of the few who thought in terms of time and. though enjoying fully the adventure of the moment thought also of later generations. II. CAPTIVITY That night there was a thunderstorm. A mighty wind rushed and swirled and roared over the prairie; the heavens were opened and poured forth cataracts of rain; the trees within the narrow grove bent and creaked, hardly maintaining themselves against the attack. Storm may be fearful in towns and cities but its proper domains where it clothes itself in the full panoply of its terrible splendor are the sea—and the prairie. A hundred times the vast expanse was weirdly revealed. For hours amid the lightning, the artillery of heaven crashed and reverberated as if the battle of the angels were joined again. Cunningly fitted in a natural depression, the shelter built by the travelers withstood the tempest. Adventure is of many kinds: quest of treasure by sea or land, going forth to battle, searching afar for tilings previously hidden, encountering multitudes or perils for the sake of a high purpose,—“in perils of rivers, in perils of robbers, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in labor and travail, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in perils often, in cold and nakedness. There are adventurers also of the spirit; and to be alone amid storm where the reign of silence is overthrown by the loosened powers from above, to feci oneself a part of this convulsed element, and try to pierce with eyes of the spirit into the mysteries of nature unchained: this also is adventure. At sometime between midnight and morning, Marie loosened for a moment the buffalo hangings of the shelter, and saw her father standing on the river bank, careless of drenching torrents, careless of lightning and thunder-crash, looking westward. Little surprised, she dropped the curtain and returned to an attempt at slumber. This father of hers, she knew, was not like the others of his trade, but a creature of strange moods, a thinker amid the wilderness. Out of such moods empires have risen. The sun rose, next morning, into a cloudless sky. The travelers could see ahead of them several turns of the river, yellow from its burden of clay, and now transformed beneath the morning sun into a woven ribbon of old gold. Through April groves it ran. and through limitless rich, green plains.diamonded afa»- with myriad rain-drops. Marie and her father had breakfast and then renewed the journey up the river, vigorous from the lively air which the storm had cleared.

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THE A G A W A S I E by them, and was therefore more free than many of his companions to go on adventurous and profitable journeys. Recently, while somewhat hard pressed by the competition of his rivals he had heard that there was good trading to the south. A tribe of the Sioux, the Wah-petons, had moved north from the country beyond Lake Traverse and located in a territory which had for its center the junction of the Red River and a small stream called the Bois-de-Sioux. Few white men had visited this people. Once long ago the Sieur Duluth had gone far west from the Mississippi and “set up the King's Arms in a village of the •Huatbetons'.” But John Vanston himself in one of his former journeys had become friendly with their chief and thought now to profit by that friendship. Several years before, Vanston’s wife had died leaving him with an only daughter, Marie, now about twenty-two years old. In spite of his objections Marie insisted on going with him on this proposed journey to the south. Preparations were short. Vanston sold his present stock of furs to a group or traders just about to set out for St. Paul, gathered just what was necessary for camping equipment and started south. For his main subsistence he must depend on his skill as a hunter or on barter with Indians whom they might visit on the journey. If they followed the river, the journey must be a matter of about 400 miles. Sometimes, where the river almost “met itself” they could gain several miles by easy portages. The trip was not as dangerous as one might think. Dangerous beasts were rarely met with and the Indians up to this time had experienced more of friendliness and justice from the white man than they had of his malice. Vanston often had reason to be glad that he had yielded to Marie's entreaties. He had taken most of his baggage in his canoe; and she. being used to the plains and the river, was able not only to manage her own craft, but often to help him in times of difficulty. As the journey was up stream they had to be careful to avoid the full force of the current, now availing themselves of the quiet water along one shore, now taking to the other. There were many evenings when the two sat together at the edge of a friendly grove and watched the great red moon rise over a rustling sea of undulating grass, when Vanston. smoking contentedly, told of his early days in New York; of cities and great buildings; of vast crowds of white men; and of a great tossing sea at times more peaceful, at other times so wildly different from this whispering expanse. And Marie, who had been born in the Canadian west and knew only the silent prairies, listened, as she had listened before, to these stories which seemed to her like accounts of an unattainable fairyland. “Father, are we never going to that eastern land. So many times you've promised.” “Perhaps, perhaps—some day. But some day, I think that east will come here.” Marie looked at John Vanston as he spoke. He stood looking east-

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T HE AG A W A S I E 31 glances straining forward toward lands unvisited. This was the heyday of spring on virgin plains,—April in the air, April in the blood-Day after day, day after day. the two lone canoes climbed the river, winding through an unchanging scene—scattered bank-side groves and emerald plains—always the same, but always fair with a broad and generous beauty. Now and then a sluggish stream which had crawled torpidly for hundreds of miles through the rich valley, added to the river its little store. Now and then a herd of buffalo galloped across the prairie, caught from afar the scent of man, swerved and thundered away. Game, large and small, was abundant. Now and then they stopped to stalk water fowl or to find, a short distance inland, a rabbit or a prairie hen to keep them company at dinner. Indians they saw only thrice on the whole journey. Two of these bands they saw from afar, gleams of distant bronze on fleet ponies, keen in pursuit of herds of buffalo. The other band awaited them, one morning armed and menacing, on a long beach which sloped down to the western shore. Both parties were startled. Here, as the white folk turned a sharp curve, about two hundred yards before them, were about twenty-five braves just about to renew their hunt. These, seeing the two canoes, thronged at once to the waters edge, arrows fitted to bow, spears poised for a cast. Vanston looked over his shoulder and saw Marie turning her paddle, about to put for shore. “Straight on,” he called, driving his own canoe forward without changing stroke. Nearer and nearer they came and yet no arrow was loosed from the string, no spear was thrown. Nearer still they came, and the Indians still waited, statue-like upon the shore, showing externally nothing of the surprise which they felt at the appearance of these white folk of whom they had heard but whose like they had never before seen. Vanston, who had previously told his daughter to wait within her canoe, drove his own on the beach at the very feet of the Indians. Meeting directly and constantly the threatening glances of those in the midst of the group, lie raised one arm aloft in a gesture combining authority and salute and began to speak slowly in the language of the Sioux. A tall brave who was directly facing Vanston. gave a quick signal. It might have been death; it was peace. Arrows were withdrawn, spears were lowered. A spirit may go out of a man, with power to still the passions of a multitude. But in that man there must be inherent magnanimity—greatness of soul. A mean-spirited man goes forth into the wilderness and returns not; and his bones make white a spot in the vast unknown which the green, waving grasses cover. But the courtly and imperious La Salle, the hold and eager Sieur de Tonti, the saintly Marquetts, or the just and austere Du Luth might have gone alone from the Sault to the great mountains, unharmed as if a legion of angels were about them.