The chemist reached Ojeeg’s landing supposing that the chieftain’s
estate extended to the shore. It had, originally, but most of it had
vanished down a throat. Just now however the owner was sitting in his
sailboat perfectly sober, and looking as if he owned that land down to
the centre of the terrestrial sphere.
“Bo-jou, bo-jou, Ojeeg.”
The salutation was not returned.
“May I camp for a day or two on your land?”
“No!” And Ojeeg proceeded to light his pipe.
“I am willing to pay for the privilege,” said Marvin, and handed over a
five-dollar bill.
The lighted match was still in Ojeeg’s hand, but the pipe was not yet
drawing well. So he took the money, ignited it, and used it to spread a
broad flame over the tobacco.
But the buyer rose to the occasion. He extended his hand for the blazing
paper, and lighted his own pipe.
“Ojeeg, I ran up to see you about Keego. I’ll give you a thousand for
that useless chunk of rock, and I have a hundred in my pocketbook to
bind the bargain.”
“You take your pocketbook go to hell.”
The savage had learned this trite expression from Christians, for no
unconverted Indian swears. But Marvin made no motion as if departing for
hell.
He merely sat down on the pier and began to whittle a stick. It was a
green sapling with a heavy root uptorn by the flood. He trimmed the
root, shaping it to look like a warclub, and felt a strong desire to
punch Ojeeg’s head.
For some time the silence was complete except for a kingfisher, who now
and then wound his clicking reel as he darted from his perch.
“You come here to rob me, you land-hog.”
“Nick, you are a liar.”
Ojeeg rose and disembarked.
Marvin dropped his club and stood up. He stepped forward, willing to
take the first blow. He got it promptly enough, and went reeling into
the hazel bush where Jean had hung her lantern. He came back and
delivered one good uppercut, in return for which the Indian landed
square on his heart.
The savage stood over him and grinned.
“You break three hundred treaties. You make my grandfather drunk, you
keep him in debt, so you can hang silver fox on white bitch. You take my
corn-patch. I say get out. You call for troops. You shoot my dog, my
baby, my wife.”
Marvin staggered to his feet and hung on to the hazel.
“I am going up to the house and speak to that wife. If she wants some
money so that she can leave you, I’ll give it to her.”
He picked up his club and disappeared in the woods.
Ojeeg reciprocated. He stepped into the launch, lifted the can of
gasoline, and emptied it into the swift stream.
Marvin kept on till he reached the clearing. There he perceived a seated
woman, weaving a mat. Before her were two sticks driven into the ground,
the fabric of cedar strands between them. She was an old woman,
massively built, and her neck was disfigured by a goitre. She was
evidently Ojeeg’s mother.
“Bo-jou, bo-jou. Bright River.”
The woman lifted her eyes. In one hand he held his pipe, in the other
his club. The pipe and the club were the sacred marks of the bear totem.
“I have come for my Fish.”
The old woman did not seem surprised. Her grandson had informed her of
the answer to prayer.
“You come back this evening.”
“That’s a long time to wait.”
“You come back this evening, Mugwuh.”
With perfect dignity she lifted the web once more. Marvin faced about
and returned to the shore.
“Chief, you will see me again this evening.”
In reply the chief deigned to express his views on the land question.
“My grandmother not for sale.”
“Chief, the sentiment does you credit. But I am willing to disinter your
grandmother, and bury her again wherever you direct.”
Ojeeg contemptuously picked up a handful of mother earth and held it
out.
“My grandmother, Noko.”
“Ah, I get the point. Say on.”
“Land, she can’t be sold. Manabojo he make her for his uncles. He make
her out of pinch of mud, one little island. He put mouse on her, she
grow. He put muskrat on her, she grow. He put fisher, crane, bear; she
grow. He say, ‘My uncles, you not sell. Land will grow forever.’ Then
you come. No room for us. Get off the earth, you God-damn Injuns. Bien,
old Nenbojo go away, sit beside frozen chigomee. He will come again.
Where his foot touch land, fire will jump. Every damn land-hog get
burned good.”