"What is the occasion of the crowd?" I asked.
"'Tis Master Murray, the fur-trader, hath returned from London after
winning his case before the Lords of Trade," he answered.
"How is that?"
He regarded me suspiciously.
"Are you a stranger?"
"I am but just landed from the same ship as carried Master Murray," I
assured him.
"Ah!"
His manner became impressive; plainly he considered himself one who
imparts portentous news.
"Master Murray, as you will soon learn, sir, is our most enterprising
merchant. He hath built up with much difficulty a valuable trade
with the French, with the result that the business of the province
hath doubled.
"But the governor will have none of it, or so he says. He hath done
all that he may, even to passing laws against Master Murray's trade;
but now, it seems, Master Murray hath carried his case to the Lords
of Trade, who have refused to approve the laws."
I thanked the man and pushed on through the crowd. So that was the
story Murray was telling! And plainly he had the prestige and the
following to make himself a dangerous force, even, as he had boasted,
against the governor and the provincial authorities.
But on the outskirts of the gathering I chanced to overhear another
conversation which indicated that Murray's hold upon public opinion
was perhaps not so strong as my first informant had led me to believe.
"He hath the devil's own luck," murmured a prosperous-appearing
citizen.
"Aye," said his neighbor bitterly; "they will ply a grand traffic
over the Doom Trail."
The odd name, so sinister in its implication, struck my imagination.
I lingered behind the two, pretending to peer over their heads.
"And 'tis these fools here who will pay for it in the long run,"
answered the other.
"And yourself and I," rejoined the second.
As I turned to leave, I met again the threatening glance of the
red-haired giant which sought me out across the crowd. I tapped the
nearest of the pair of disgruntled citizens upon the shoulder.
"Pray, sir, who is the tall fellow in buckskin on the steps?"
The man edged away from me as suspiciously as the first one I had
accosted.
"I am a stranger in your town," I added.
"'Tis a frontiersman," he replied reluctantly; "one called 'Red Jack'
Bolling."
"An ugly knave," I commented.
But the citizen and his friend only eyed me askance, and I walked on,
reflecting on the current of intrigue which I had uncovered beneath
the placid life of the little town within two hours of my landing.
I was walking through Bridge Street, with the leafing tree-boughs
overhead and the walls of Fort George before me, when another and
smaller crowd rounded the corner from the Broad-Way, a street which
formed the principal thoroughfare of the town and took its name from
the wide space between the house-walls.
In the lead came an Indian. He was the first of his race I chanced
to see, and sure, 'tis strange that we were destined to be
friends--aye, more than friends, brethren of the same Clan. He was a
large man, six feet in his moccasins, and of about the same age as
myself. He stalked along, arms swinging easily at his side, wholly
impervious to the rabble of small boys who tagged behind, yelling and
shrieking at him.
His handsome face, with its high-arched nose, was expressionless.
His eyes stared straight in front of him. He wore the go-lea, or
breechcloth, and thigh-leggings of soft, tanned deerskin. A single
eagle feather rose from the scalp-lock which hung from his shaven
head.
He was naked from the waist up, and on his massive chest was painted
in yellow and red pigments the head of a wolf. He wore no other
paint, and he was weaponless, except for the tomahawk and knife which
hung at his belt.
The children danced around him like so many little animals. They
never touched him, but some of the more venturesome hurled pebbles
from the walk at his brawny shoulders.
"Injun Jim came to town, with his breeches falling down," they
chanted.
"Scalp-taker, scalp-taker," shrieked another.
"Big Injun drink much fire-water," howled a group.
"Injun dirt, Injun dirt, always 'feared that soap will hurt,"
proclaimed others.
I can not repeat all the catch-calls and rimes which they employed,
some of them too disgusting for print. Sure, the gamins of Paris,
with their natural ability at verbal filth, might have listened
respectfully to these children of a far province, attempting to
humiliate one of the race who had formerly been lords of the whole
land.
I looked to see some citizen intervene, but several who sat on their
doorsteps or lounged in front of shops, smoking the inevitable pipe,
viewed the spectacle with indifference or open amusement. And the
Indian stalked along, his dignity unruffled through it all.
My wrath boiled over, and I charged down upon the tormentors.
"Be off," I shouted. "Have you no proper play to occupy your time?"
They fled hilariously, pleased rather than outraged by the attack,
after the perverse habit of children who prefer always to be noticed
instead of ignored. The citizens who had witnessed the persecution
of the Indian chuckled openly at the discomfiture of his assailants,
and then returned to their pipes.
I was proceeding on my way when I was dumfounded by hearing the
Indian address me.
"Hold, brother," he said in perfect English, but with a certain thick
guttural accent. "Ta-wan-ne-ars would thank you."
"You speak English!" I exclaimed.
A light of amusement gleamed in his eyes, although his face remained
expressionless as a mask.
"You do not think of the Indian as these ignorant little ones do?" he
asked curiously.
"I--I know nothing of your people," I stammered. "I am but this day
landed here."
"My brother is an Englishman?" he questioned, not idly but with the
courteous interest of a gentleman.
"I am."
"Ta-wan-ne-ars thanks you, Englishman." He extended his hand.
"Your kindness was the greater because you obeyed it by instinct."
I regarded him with increasing amazement. Who was this savage who
talked like a London courtier?
"I helped you," I said, "because you were a stranger in a strange
city, and by the laws of hospitality your comfort should be assured."
"That is the law of the Indian, Englishman," he answered pleasantly;
"but it is not the law of the white man."
"It is the law our religion teaches," I remonstrated, feeling that I
must defend this indictment of my race.
"Your religion teaches it to you and you try to apply it to
yourselves," he objected. "But you do not even try to apply it to
the Indian. The Indian is a savage. He is in the way of the white
man. He must be pushed out."