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.