Mar.2

Brooks has had another bad turn and for a couple of days has been pretty bad, but I am glad to say is now doing better. Last night we had our monthly Mess Meeting. I was again forced to continue as secretary. The accounts required looking over and so were postponed[?] until tonight + then accepted + approved. No Mail has yet come in. Two[?] wagons from High River came in this morning, with the news of a murder + brought the body of the murdered man, struck in the head with a bar of iron + died after 3 or 4 days of suffering. The murderer is not to be found. Another whiskey trader has also been routed out of the place[?] + his stock seized so we are doing some good. It is late and I must say Good night.

Fort Macleod February 21st 1875

Yesterday I sent you a letter. I hope that you will get it safe and within a reasonable time. After sending it- I did nothing – the day turned very chilly and I remained in the house finishing a sketch of a camp on High River sketched in pencil by Capt. Crozier when he was up there on his expedition. I am going to give it to him – I hope that you have no objections. To day after church parade I intended to take a walk but got talking with Crozier and did not get away. After lunch I went to my room and read some Anatomy. Then hearing some singing going on in the Mess Room went in there and joined in. this continued until dinner time. After dinner I came to have a little talk with my darling. And I would like to know how she is, what she is doing and what thinking about. I would like to see her, talk to her. My [?], would I not have a good time. No mail has come in today, but all day long we have been on the qui vive – to see any one coming across the prairies with a bag or wagon load of letters. Several times we saw horsemen a long distance off like specks. The glass revealed an Indian on Roundabout but Allen did not appear. This evening we heard a report through some Indians that a number of wagons were camped on Milk River which is about 85 or 90 miles from here. Allen had probably heard the same and has gone down to Whoop Up to get the mail, should there be any, and bring it up as soon as possible. I am in great spirits tonight – perhaps it is because letters from you are so near – I feel almost certain that I shall hear from you in the course of a day or two. Good night Darling and pleasant dreams.

Saturday Feb 13th

After being away about 10 days Crozier returned last night. Information has been laid before Col Macloed that whiskey was being traded north of us + Weatherwax was suspected of being mixed up with it. So Crozier with a party of men started up. It was dreadfully cold the first night or two, but they arrived safely at High River + found the birds had flown. Their forts were destroyed. We met one of the traders named Smith, managed to get direct evidence of his having traded whiskey and so brought him along. They started out with a wagon, but about 46 miles from the Fort had to leave it + build a sleigh. This too they had to leave on account of the snow + pack their food + bedding on pack horses. Crozier says the soil up there is much richer + better than it is down here, but the general character of the country is much the same. We were all very glad to see Crozier back again. The Indians up in that part of the country, he said, were dreadfully afraid of the soldiers. For instance, they had stolen a couple of horses, Crozier had demanded them, one was near at hand + was immediately delivered up, the other was at their Camp 8 or 9 miles away, it was late in the evening when the demand was made. That night when all was fast asleep, a knocking at the door wakened them (They were in a trader’s fort) + an Indian was found with the horse + this at 12 midnight. Father Scullen [Scollen] is the Roman Catholic missionary out there, he seems to be a jolly kind of man + frequently gives the Indians a good sound drubbing going at them with his fists. He is a Dublin man + well educated, has been out in this country for 12 years + expects to leave his bones here. I have a patient now under my care, an old Frenchman, cook at Fort Kipp. I expect to have a little operation on him tomorrow, he has an abcess in his shin bone. I am going to try + take it out. This Frenchman is a strange character he is from Berthier Quebec, says he is only 48 years old + looks 80, from the person he talks about, people who know say he must be 70 at least. He is called by everyone Frank Missouri or simply Missouri. He is partly deaf + talks but a little English. And now I must tell you what is confidently expected. A Mail letter next week, just think of it. Our man is probably now on his way out from Benton, or will start tomorrow or Monday, + will reach here sometime during the week. How anxious I am to hear from you is known only to you and I. Tomorrow will be St Valentine’s day, surely that is a harbinger of letters, or ought to be. Don’t you think so?

The time passes now quickly, perhaps because we are now more used to it, perhaps because I have something to keep me busy. The Blackfoot language is a fine melodious language, here is a specimen Ninā-ākă-afoi-wōsin-o-ma[oma]-kistowā-otā-wōsin-tāpix – which is short for British American or Canadian. The “ā” is pronounced ‘ah’ broad, the ‘ă’ like the ‘a’ in fate the ‘o’ long “oh” the “i” like ‘e’, + accented a little over the accents. Isn’t it a dear little language with sweet little mouthfuls for words? I must now say Good night for it is getting late.