Indians—men, women and children—were turning out of their tepees and running towards the sound. We finally reached a small clearing and halted in front of a large spruce tree. We knew instinctively that the thing—whatever it was—was there. It had ceased wailing a few seconds, and we were anxiously peering into the shadows. Suddenly something moved in front of us and we held our breath. Then a small figure, which had been crouching unseen at the foot of the tree, rose, and a savage burst of wild music rang out.
It was “Scotty”, marching out of the darkness, blowing a huge bagpipe clasped in his arms. His face was purple and his eyes were half closed.
Round and round he marched, oblivious of everything, while the Indians, stupefied by such an instrument and such a noise, milled around like staring sheep and followed each one of his movements.
For a half hour we listened to the little man. Not once did he stop. His homesick soul was singing through those blood-curdling, shrieking pipes.
Late into the night, after turning in, we still heard him. Followed by the entire native population and surrounded by at least a hundred howling dogs, he was marching away from the Post, following the edge of the lake and playing “The Campbells are Coming”.