It has often seemed to me that superstition and ritualism are synonymous in the minds and lives of men. Here were these most superstitious of beings, and in all their life intense ritualism had full sway. These council gatherings, however, were fine opportunities for the missionary, who, if in the vicinity, and if he had the confidence of the people, was always invited to be present. At these would assemble both friends and foes. Conjurers and medicine men were there, who felt their craft was in danger; warriors and horse-thieves, too, who loved their life of wild lawlessness, and readily foresaw that if this new faith should have sway their present mode of life would cease. Others there were who intensely hated the white man. His cupidity, sensuality and generally aggressive conduct had at some time in their history insulted and wronged their whole being, and now they fairly loathed the sight of the white portion of the race. On the other hand were the few who had embraced the new faith, and who were in hearty sympathy with the mission.
War, peace, trade, the present, the future, their old faiths, the new one brought in by these missionaries, all these matters would be discussed at the councils, and the tactful exponent of Gospel teaching would watch his chance, and from the speeches and arguments of his audience turn the trend of thought to Christianity and civilization.
It was fortunate that at this time our mission had a strong friend and ally such as Maskepetoon proved himself to be. With consummate tact he would preside over these council gatherings, and in every one of them score a point or more in favor of the missionary and the cause he represented.
"Here and there a cotter's babe is royal born By right Divine."
I will say an Indian's babe was "royal born by right Divine," when the child who became this man Maskepetoon was born: his birthright the common heritage of natural man, his birthplace the Rocky Mountains, his cradle lullaby the crash of tumbling avalanches and the roarings of mighty "chinooks." The shrill cry of the mountain lion, the deep bass note of the buffalo, the ripplings of limpid streams and the ragings of mountain torrents in their wild race to a common level--these with the pagan's death wail, the rattle of the conjurer's drum, and the warrior's shout of triumph were sounds familiar to his baby ears.