Previous entries of Henri Julien's Diary
July 25th-We reached 
Roche Percee. This singular rock is a
white sandstone of wind formation, running up like a crest from the bottom
of the Souris Valley. At its base. it measures about 35 feet in height and
the base about 140 feet. Some parts are softer than others, and from the
combined influence of wind and rain, fissures and holes have been worn through
it. On different parts of the rock are cut the names of people who have
passed by and many hieroglyphics which, of course, remain a mystery to us.
July 26th-Sunday, and we improved it to
enjoy a thorough repose after the arduous marching of the week. We turned
out quite late in the morning. and after copious ablutions, with general
furbishing of accoutrements, 
we
gathered together for Divine Service.
The scene was very impressive. A band from Fort Ellice joined us on this day - seven men and a few horses - commanded by Captain A. Shurtliff, who is to return to Fort Ellice and keep on military farming. We spent four days at Roche Percee recruiting generally. Nine miles further on was Wood End Depot, an ominous name, which warned us to lay in a store of bread and cooked meat. as we were not to find a stick of wood in the next three days' march. Luckily we had plenty of water.
July 30th-We 
camped on the plateau on Long Valley
and Creek, choosing a spot where a fine spring welled out of the foot
of the hill.
About a quarter of a mile from the camp there was the grave of an Indian woman. Leveille, one of our interpreters, helped to bury her some twelve years ago. She was one of a party of buffalo hunters.
Where Métis winter the buffalo is hunted on snowshoes, and in the deep snow he becomes an easy prey. Parties then travel with dogs and on flat sleds made of white oak. Immediately south of us was seen as a blue elevation the Missouri Plateau. the region of the Yellowstone and of General Custer's border warfare against the red skins. On Roche Percee we had read the words "And his scouts 1865". They were a part of Custer's force. We were told that two detachments of American soldiers were camped a little west by south of us. We did not visit them, however, but remained in camp while a fatigue squad with pickaxes and shovels made a road down the hill to cross Long Creek Valley.
Aug. 4th-About one o'clock in the morning,
we
encountered a terrific storm. My tent was blown completely away and
so were many others in camp, only one square tent remaining in a semi-erect
position. These military tents are a fraud on the prairie, as we had more
than one occasion to experience. The bell tents proved much more serviceable;
only one of them was drifted away and that was from the improper fastening
of the pins. As usual, the Métis managed such things better. There
is nothing better than their low-roofed tent, with the base forming an oval
and the door at one end. It is supported by two poles and a cross bar and
measures 15 feet in length by 11 in breadth. It is the warmest, easiest
to set up, and all together the most comfortable .
The Assistant Commissioner, James Macleod, and Major James Walker, with six carts and four men separated from us on this day and took the direction due west to Wood Mountain. They went in search of a store of pemmican waiting for us there.
We continued our route west by north to Old Woman's Lake. The prairies over which we travelled presented the same undulating. monotonous appearance. Not one green bush of the most dwarfish size to relieve the eye. The effect of this loneliness upon the imagination is very singular. The eye dwells on vacancy, tired of glancing at the blue sky above or the brown earth beneath. A feeling of weariness creeps over you, interrupted at intervals by vague longings for something beyond the far low line of the horizon, which is ever barred across your vision. The silence is oppressing. It is in vain that you attempt to relieve the tedium of conversation with your companions. Besides that the stock in trade of chatting is soon exhausted in these wilds, whither nothing from the outer world reaches you; the very labour of talking becomes irksome and you fall to meditation. You throw the reins on your horse's neck and let him jog on at will, while your eyes roam over the waste and your thoughts wander as the winds. This has truly been called "The Great Lone Land''. Its silence and its solitude weigh on you like a mechanical power. The breeze circles around your brow and bears no odour of flowers on its wings. There are no green trees even on the water's brink, and hence no wild birds carolling among the boughs. It is a real desert; a land of desolation; and it will remain such until the white man settles upon it and turns the waste into a garden.
To add to our discomforts on this day's march, old Welsh, the guide, lost his bearings and led us miles out of the way. Indeed, for a considerable time we followed no track at all and were at the mercy of the Métis. We halted at last, and wound up the day with a little farce.
The deer had begun to show themselves in considerable numbers. and we were naturally looking out for some sport to relieve the distressing monotony of the march. Five antlered beauties approached the outskirts of the camp in a body. Jack French, scenting the battle from afar, made for them. He crept along slyly, carefully in true Indian fashion. till within 400 yards, when Cecil Denny went rushing down like mad, scaring the animals away. Jack French was so furious that he felt tempted to give the intruder a taste of his lead, while the sporting qualifications of "Texas Jack'', as Denny was nicknamed, became the byword of the force. That night, we had pemmican instead of venison.
I was bound to have my own private adventure, and I had. I started one afternoon, with Page, one of our Métis guides, for a duck hunt on the prairie. About five o'clock in the afternoon, we came to a lake which, to our delight we found covered with the coveted birds. Page had a shotgun; I had only my rifle. His chances were, in consequence, far superior to mine. He took up a position at one side of the lake and plied his weapon to his heart's content. I went over to the other side of the water in quest of adventure. Sitting on my horse, hardly expecting much success. I spied a fair chance for a shot and, aiming my rifle, I brought down a duck, stricken to the heart with a ball. Too well pleased with my success and forgetful of the risks which I ran. I immediately leaped from my saddle, dragging my horse by the bridle, I turned to the water's edge.
My horse was a thoroughbred mustang, with all the virtues and vices of his race. He was docile enough, affectionate after a fashion, at times dull as a post, at other times. intelligent, vivacious and proud. He knew me well, as we had been constant companions since the march commenced at Fort Dufferin. But like all old acquaintances, he was sometimes inclined to be too familiar.
I had christened him "Old Rooster" and I have since fancied that he did not feel ccmplimented by the appella- tion. In the first place, he may have objected to being called Old, when he was probably not more than fifteen, and in the next place. he may not have liked being compared to the type of ridiculous vain-glorious birds. "Old Rooster" was not much to look at, but for the jog of the prairie, I could not ask for a better horse. I kept him to the end, and when I left the force at the end of my mission I can honestly say that I parted from him with genuine regret.
On this particular occasion,
as I stooped to pick up the duck from the margin of the lake, the horse
seized his opportunity and broke away, and, of course, instead of making
straight to the main body of the camp as a civilized horse would have done,
he scooted
away in a directly opposite line. Nothing would do, but I must make
after him. He did not go fast, being intent upon teasing me rather than
anything else. so as I ran along side of him, but whenever I reached out
to seize the bridle he would shy his head, kick up his heels, and look around
me as if to say "Oh no, not if I know it." I ran about eight miles,
dropping my duck in disgust on the way. I was amused at first, then I got
vexed, then I swore, but all was useless. At last, resolved upon being philosophic
and employing strategy I got ahead of Old Rooster and got up a conversation
with him. I promised him all sorts of things and talked to him like a father.
He was actually fooled. He turned his head to make sure that I was in earnest,
when I made a desperate plunge and seized the bridle. He had sense enough
to see that he was fairly caught and he fairly capitulated.
I got on and struck for the line of march. But here another disappointment presented itself. Instead of continuing the direct route mapped out for the day. the caravan had deflected at an acute angle and after several hours ride I failed to come up with it.
It was now far past sunset, night was gathering in its shadows, I was tired and I made up my mind to give up the pursuit for the evening. So I halted in a sheltered hollow, dismounted. made a pillow of my saddle, tied down my horse with the bridle to his pastern, and stretched out to sleep, supperless. wearied and disgusted.
The mosquitoes were buzzing in millions. I wrapped my hands in two handkerchiefs, thrust them in my pockets. covered my face, and still they pestered me beyond endurance. The next day my hands and face were all blistered. I slept thus as best I could till about three o'clock; next morning when I awoke to find that my rascally horse had broken from his fastenings and had scampered off over the prairie. Another chase and another series of vexations. At last I caught him about six or seven miles from the place where I had left my saddle.
Meantime my friends in camp were kind enough to be alarmed at my absence. Captain E. A. Brisebois was detached to the rear with the waggons in order to pick me up. Early in the morning, Dr. J. Kittson, Morin of "E" Troop and Wright of "D' Troop, went forth in search of me. About six o'clock we met and my return to camp, I am proud to chronicle, was received with general manifestations of joy.
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