“Elise,” cried Walter, “what were you trying to do?”

“Drag Max out of the way,” she answered simply. “Didn’t you see? That

terrible beast was coming straight towards him!”

“And straight towards you, too. Didn’t you think of that?”

“She is the bravest girl I ever saw,” exclaimed Marie Brabant. Marie, who

had been on the other side of Raoul, had fled to safety, and had not

returned until the danger was over.

“No, no,” Elise protested. “I was terribly frightened when I saw that

huge, ugly beast coming up the hill. But when Max fell out of the cart, I

thought he was going to be killed. I have looked after him ever since

Mother died you know, Walter,” she added, as if in excuse for her own

bravery.

“You are the bravest girl I ever knew,” Marie repeated emphatically,

“even if you are afraid of snakes.”

But Elise had turned to her little brother. “You aren’t hurt, are you,

Max?” she asked anxiously.

“Just my shoulder where I fell on it,” the lad replied bravely. “I

think——”

He was interrupted by Neil’s shout. Unnoticed by the others, the Scotch

boy had ridden up the hill. He dismounted beside the dead buffalo.

“It was all my fault,” he said contritely. “I ought not to have driven

the beasts this way. I saw you, but I was after a cow and didn’t notice

that bull turning towards you. I never thought of his charging up hill. I

didn’t know you were in any danger, till I heard the shot and looked up

here. You’ve made a good kill, Walter. He’s a big fellow. And you

certainly kept your head. I’m not sure I wouldn’t have lost mine, if I

had been in your place.” This was a generous admission from anyone as

proud of his courage and prowess as Neil MacKay was. At that moment,

however, Neil was not in the least proud of himself. His carelessness had

brought peril to his friends.

XXXII

TO THE SHEYENNE RIVER

When Neil went in pursuit of the frightened pony, he found it feeding on

the prairie grass on the other side of the ridge. Hindered by the cart,

it had not run far. He had righted the badly wrecked vehicle, and was

examining the breaks, when the rest of his party, with the other cart and

the lame pony, came up. Mr. Perier was appalled when he heard of his

children’s peril, and Mrs. Brabant was warm in her praise of the courage

and coolness of Elise and Walter.

The hunt had swept away towards the Red River, leaving the trampled

prairie dotted with the dark bodies of the fallen buffalo. Here and there

a wounded beast struggled to its feet and made off painfully. The sight

of the injured and slain was not a pleasant one for the tender-hearted

Elise, and she turned her back upon it.

“I wish,” she confided to Mrs. Brabant, “people didn’t have to kill

things for food. I hate buffalo. They are ugly beasts. But I don’t like

to see them killed, except the one that would have killed Max. Of course

Walter had to shoot that one.”

The Canadian woman put an arm around her and comforted her. “It is

necessary, my dear, for people to have meat to live, especially in this

wild country where we raise so little from the ground. I have always told

my boys not to be wasteful in their hunting, not to kill for the sake of

killing. If no one killed more than could be eaten or kept for food,

there would always be plenty of animals in the world.”

As the carts descended the slope to the hunting ground, the hunters began

to straggle back from the chase. By the place where the animal lay, the

spot where the bullet had entered, and sometimes by the bullet itself,

they identified the game they had slain. Many of the hunters had marked

their bullets so they would know them.

Neil had killed two buffalo and Louis four. Their party was well supplied

with meat. The bull Walter had shot was too old and tough for food. At

that season of the year the skin was not fit for a robe. The summer coat

of hair was short, and in many places ragged and rubbed off. But Louis

said that the tough hide was just the thing for new harness. With

Walter’s permission the Canadian boy set to work. With sure and skilful

strokes of his sharp knife, he marked out the harness on the body of the

buffalo, and stripped off the pieces. When dry,—with a thong or two in

place of buckles,—the harness would be ready for use.

One by one the carts returned to camp loaded with meat and hides. Though

of no use for robes, the short haired summer skins were in the very best

condition for tanning. Buffalo leather was used by the _bois brulés_ for

tents, cart covers, and other purposes.

The choicest cuts were soon broiling over the coals. At the same time the

rest of the meat was being prepared for pemmican making. It was cut into

large lumps, then into thin slices, which were hung on lines in the hot

sun or placed on scaffolds over slow fires. For the meat drying and

pemmican making, the hunters prepared to remain in camp three days. It

was a very busy time, yet a rest from traveling.

The Brabant family and Neil knew just how to go about the work, but the

Periers and Walter, though willing and ready to help, had to be taught.

After the buffalo strips were well dried, they were placed on hides and

pounded with wooden flails or stones until the meat was a thick, flaky

pulp. In the meantime the fat and suet were melting to liquid in huge

kettles. Hide bags were half filled with the flaked meat, the melted fat

poured in, the whole stirred with a long stick until thoroughly mixed,

and the bags sewed up tight while still hot. So prepared, the pemmican

would keep for months, even years, if not subjected to dampness or too

high a temperature.

The skins selected for tanning were stretched and staked down, and the

flesh scraped off with an iron scraper or a piece of sharp-edged bone.

When the hides had been well cleaned and partially cured by the sun, they

were folded and packed away in the carts to receive a final dressing

later.

On the second day in camp a small body of Indians passed about a mile

away in pursuit of a herd of buffalo. A half dozen of the hunters, who

were out scouting, encountered some of the band. They reported that the

Indians were Sioux, Yankton Dakota from farther west. They appeared

friendly enough. The hunting party felt no concern about them, except as

possible horse thieves. The men were especially careful that night to see

that every pony was safe within the circle of carts. The camp guards were

even more alert than usual.

There was feasting and jollity, as well as busy work, in the hunting

camp. The _bois brulés_ always had time to fiddle and dance, to play

games and race their ponies over the prairie. Their capacity for fresh

meat was enormous. Walter marveled at the quantity of buffalo tongues,

humps, and ribs consumed. From dawn to dark, it seemed to him, there was

never a moment when cooking and eating were not going on somewhere in the

camp. Even the lean dogs grew fat on what was thrown away and what they

managed to steal. The wild creatures profited, too. The scene of the hunt

beyond the low ridge was frequented, night and day, by birds of prey and

wolves.

With high expectations of further sport, the hunters resumed their march

to the south. They were not disappointed, for they were in true buffalo

country. The first time Walter joined in the chase, he was so excited and

confused by the wild ride across the prairie and the charge into the band

of stampeding beasts, that he could do nothing but cling to his horse and

try to avoid being thrown or trampled. It was not until the herd had

scattered and the worst of the wild confusion was over, that he managed

to get a shot at one of the animals, and missed it. Mortified by his

failure, he tried a different plan next time. He kept to the outskirts of

the herd, singled out a young bull, pursued it, and brought it down.

Though some of the hunters, like Louis, killed only what they could use

and saved as much of the meat as possible, the majority of the _bois

brulés_ were wasteful and improvident. They ran buffalo for the mere

excitement of the chase, killed for sport, and frequently took nothing

but the tongue, leaving the rest for the wolves and crows. Like white

hunters of a later period, they believed the herds of buffalo

inexhaustible. Yet it did not take many years of unwise slaughter almost

to exterminate the animals that, during the first half of the nineteenth

century, roamed the prairies in hundreds of thousands.

Sometimes the hunters had accidents. Men thrown from their horses

suffered severe sprains and broken bones. Occasionally too heavy a charge

of powder burst a gun. Raoul’s old musket was ruined in this manner. He

carried his left hand bandaged for weeks, and was lucky to lose no more

than the tip of his forefinger. There were many maimed hands among the

hunters. Fortunately none of the injuries was fatal, though one man was

so badly hurt when he was thrown and trampled that he would never hunt

again. The _bois brulés_ were skilled in the rough and ready treatment of

wounds, sprains, and broken bones, but not over particular about

cleanliness. Their open air life, however, helped most of the hurts to

heal rapidly.

Day after day the caravan made its slow and creaking way to the south.

Now and then bands of Sioux, out on the summer hunt, were seen. Sometimes

Indians visited the camp, with no apparent unfriendly intentions. The

savage blood in the Pembina half-breeds was mostly Cree and Ojibwa. But

the hunting party was too large and well armed to fear hostility from

small, wandering bands of Sioux.

Nevertheless the Pembina men had no intention of penetrating too far into

Sioux country. They did not wish to provoke the tribes to unite against

them. When camp was made one night on the bank of the Sheyenne River, the

chief of the hunt announced that they would go south no farther. July had

come. They had been out nearly four weeks. The carts were well loaded

with fresh and dried meat, fat, pemmican, and hides. On the morrow they

would turn, circling to the west a little, and, hunting as they went,

make their way back to Pembina. They should reach the settlement early in

August.

This decision meant that if the Brabants and Periers were to go on to the

St. Peter and Mississippi rivers, they must part company with the

hunters. That night Mr. Perier and the boys consulted with Lajimonière,

St. Antoine, and others who knew something of the country to the south

and east. Lake Traverse, they were told, was only three or four days’

march away. At the lake were traders who would doubtless help them on

their journey.

Some of the hunters shook their heads at the idea of such a small party

traveling alone sixty or seventy miles across Dakota country. There would

be grave danger in the attempt, they said, and advised against it. But

Mr. Perier, Walter, and Louis had not come so far merely to turn back to

Pembina. They were bound for the Mississippi and intended to reach it

somehow. They might have hesitated to travel alone farther to the

southwest, but everyone said that the route to the southeast was less

dangerous. The Indians who visited Lake Traverse were in the habit of

dealing with traders.

In truth the hunters had neither seen nor heard sign of trouble anywhere.

The Indians they had encountered had seemed inoffensive enough. The boys

had rather lost their awe of the dread Sioux. They were beginning to

believe that the tales of the fierceness and cruelty of those savages

were greatly exaggerated. As Neil expressed it, “Most of that sort of

talk is just an excuse for Saulteur and half-breed cowardice. They have

made bogies of the Sioux. I can’t see that they are different from any

other Indians. I don’t believe they dare molest white men.”

The always hopeful Mr. Perier was quite sure there would be no difficulty

in reaching Traverse. “We are not enemy Indians raiding the Sioux

country,” he argued. “We are peaceable white settlers going about our own

affairs. Probably we shall meet no Indians at all. If we do, we will

treat them in a polite and friendly manner. They are reasonable human

beings just like ourselves. They have no reason to harm us and I don’t

believe they will try to.”

“We will take care to avoid them anyway,” added Louis, not quite so sure

of Sioux reasonableness, but eager to go on.

Louis had hoped to persuade some of the hunters to go to Lake Traverse

with the little party. In fact St. Antoine and another man had half

promised. But both suddenly changed their minds. The boys could find no

one else willing to leave the hunt for the trip to the trading post.

There was nothing to do but go on alone. Before they rolled themselves in

their blankets, they had decided to part with the hunters on the

following day.

XXXIII

A LONELY CAMP

The Sheyenne River, where the night’s camp was pitched, should not be

confused with the Cheyenne, which is a tributary of the Missouri. Both

were named after the same tribe of Indians, who once lived along their

banks. To distinguish the two, different spellings of the name have been

adopted. The Sheyenne is a much smaller stream than the Cheyenne, and one

of the principal rivers that go to form the Red. After a general course

to the east, the Sheyenne turns north, and runs almost parallel with the

Red, to fall into it at last. The spot where the hunters were camped was

only about ten miles from the Red, but another stream, the Wild Rice, lay

between.

St. Antoine advised against going directly east. “If you go east,” he

said, “you will reach the Rivière Rouge many miles below the Lac

Traverse. It is more difficult to cross there. I cannot tell you whether

there is a ford or not. But if you keep to the southeast, reaching the

river where it is narrow and shallow, you can cross easily. There it is

not called Rivière Rouge, but Bois des Sioux. A few miles above where the

Bois des Sioux joins the Ottertail, which comes from the east to form the

real Rivière Rouge, there is a good crossing place. When you are across,

turn south and follow the river to the Lac Traverse.”

The caravan was slow in getting away that morning. The good-natured _bois

brulés_ lingered to help the Brabant-Perier party across the Sheyenne. At

some time hunters or traders had built a rude log bridge over the deep,

muddy stream. Part of the old bridge had been carried away by flood

waters, but skilled axmen soon repaired it, so that the two carts could

be taken across.

By the time good-byes were said, last words of advice and warning spoken,

the river crossed, and the steep bank climbed, the sun had passed its

highest point. St. Antoine, Lajimonière, and several others rode with the

little party through the thick woods that fringed the stream bank. The

woods passed, St. Antoine carefully pointed out the route. The day was

clear, and the travelers could see far across the flat, open country.

“You see that _île des bois_?” questioned St. Antoine, pointing to a tiny

dark dot far away on the prairie. “That is the only _île des bois_ for

many miles around. Make straight for it. You can camp there to-night.

There is a spring, and wood to boil your kettle. To-morrow go on in the

same direction, and you will come to the river the Sioux call _Pse_, the

white men _Folle Avoine_, from the wild rice that grows in its marshes.

If you keep a straight course you will reach that river near a fording

place. From there the Bois des Sioux is less than a day’s journey. But do

not try to take your carts across either river until you are sure that

the water is not too deep or the current too strong. The Bois des Sioux

is a small stream and has many shallow places. Go then, and the good God

go with you.”

The hunters turned back, waved a last farewell, and disappeared among the

trees. Louis set his face towards the dark dot far across the prairie.

“_Marche donc!_” he cried, and slapped his pony’s flank, he was riding

ahead as guide, while Neil and Walter walked beside the carts.

The stretch of flat prairie between the Sheyenne and the Wild Rice looked

easy to cross. The party expected to make good time, but the very

flatness of the land proved a hindrance. The poorly drained plain was

marshy. The grass grew tall and coarse, the soil it sprang from was

spongy and frequently soft and wet. Stretches of standing water or very

soft ground, grown thick with marsh grass and cattails, had to be

skirted. In spite of the travelers’ care in picking their way, the cart

wheels often sank far into the mud and water, and the faithful ponies had

to pull hard to haul them through. In such places Mrs. Brabant and the

children got out and walked or rode the two saddle ponies. Most of the

time Louis or Neil rode ahead to select the route.

The difficult going lengthened the ten or twelve miles to that dark spot

of woods. Sunset found the party still a mile or more from the _île des

bois_. It would be better to go on, they decided, than to camp on the

wet, open ground, with no wood for a fire, and only stagnant marsh water

to drink.

Louis and Mr. Perier, with Max in front of him on the saddle, were riding

in advance. Then came the carts with Mrs. Brabant and the girls, Neil

beside the first cart, Raoul accompanying the second. Walter plodded

along in the rear. Turning to look back at the sunset sky, where the reds

and golds were already fading away, he noticed several dark forms loping

along the trail through the tall grass. They were prairie wolves.

Walter had often seen wolves following the cart train, cleverly keeping

just out of musket range, but ready to close in on the remains of any

game that might be killed. He did not fear the cowardly scavengers. Yet

now they gave him a strange feeling he had never had when with the long

caravan. The sight of those wild creatures, shadowy in the twilight,

following so boldly in the wake of the tiny party, brought to him a

sudden sense of loneliness and peril such as he had not known before. He

shivered, though the evening was warm. Then he raised his gun, intending

to frighten the beasts, even if he could not hit them.

Before he had time to fire, an exclamation from Mrs. Brabant caused him

to lower his gun and turn towards the cart. Both carts had stopped. A

hundred feet ahead Louis and Mr. Perier had reined in. Louis jumped from

his horse and stooped to examine the ground.

“What is it? Why are we stopping?” Walter asked Raoul.

“Louis signaled for a halt. I don’t know why.”

Moved by curiosity, Walter followed Neil and Raoul to the spot where the

horsemen had reined in. It did not need the Scotch boy’s exclamation or

Louis’ sober face to make Walter understand the seriousness of what they

had found. They had come upon a trail, a clear, distinct trail. It was

not the wide, trampled track of a buffalo herd, but the clearly defined,

narrow trail of horses single file.

“Indians?” asked Walter, though he knew well enough that the question was

unnecessary.

Neil answered with a grunt of assent. Louis, leading his horse, had gone

on a little farther. In a moment he turned and summoned the others. He

had come upon a parallel trail, somewhat wider and more irregular than

the first and marked with lines resembling wheel tracks, but not so wide

as those made by the broad-rimmed cart wheels.

“_Travois_,” he said briefly. “Heavily loaded.”

Walter had heard the word _travois_ before in the sense in which Louis

used it. It was the name the French Canadians had given to a primitive

Indian conveyance, two poles lashed to the sides of a horse or dog, the

front ends resting on the animal’s shoulders, the rear ends trailing on

the ground. Cross pieces were tied on, and a hide or blanket stretched

between the poles. Travois were loaded with household goods, or carried

women too old and children too young to walk or ride horseback. The crude

vehicles were used everywhere by the prairie Indians.

A little farther on was another similar trail, and beyond it a fourth, a

narrow horse track like the first.

“A whole band,” Louis concluded, “women and children and all. When I saw

that first trail I feared it was a war party of mounted men only.”

“They are traveling as if in enemy country,” Neil commented, “in four

lines, instead of single file.”

“With the travois and women in the middle, and the braves on the

outside,” added Louis. “Yes, they must be uneasy about something.”

“How long ago do you think they passed?” asked Mr. Perier.

“Not many hours. Since last night. It must have been before noon though.

We could have seen them a long way across the prairie.”

“They are far away by now.”

“Yes. It is good that we did not make an earlier start.”

“And that our trail crosses theirs instead of going the same way,” said

Neil. “We’d better go on as fast as we can to that clump of trees. Our

camp will be hidden there.” Somehow he did not feel quite so sure now

that Dakotas would not dare to attack white men, especially when the

white men had horses to be stolen.

Louis climbed on his pony again, and the other boys turned back to bring

up the carts. They made the best speed they could through the tall grass

and over the marshy ground, but darkness had settled down before they

reached the _île des bois_.

Finding a camping place among the trees, Louis and Walter unhitched and

unsaddled the horses. Instead of hobbling them and turning them loose to

feed, they tied the four ponies to trees close to the camp fire, where

they could browse on tufts of grass, leaves, and twigs. Louis was taking

no risk of losing them. In the meantime Neil was cutting wood, Raoul had

kindled a fire, Mr. Perier had brought water from a rather brackish pool,

and Mrs. Brabant and the girls were preparing supper.

To Walter the seclusion and shelter of the grove came as a relief from

the open prairie. The cheerful flames of the camp fire lighting up the

surrounding tree trunks and the cottonwood leaves overhead, the

appetizing smell of pemmican heating in an iron pan, raised his spirits.

He forgot the following wolves and the Indian trail. The rest of the

party also seemed to have forgotten the unpleasant things of the day’s

journey. Elise hummed to herself as she helped Mrs. Brabant with the

simple meal. Max ran about to find sticks for the fire. Raoul teased

Marie, as he often did, and she retorted in her usual lively manner.

Little Jeanne, with the dog Askimé beside her, had fallen sound asleep on

a blanket bed between the carts. She had to be waked when supper was

ready.

The meal was as cheerful as if the little group had still been part of

the big hunting party. Yet the loneliness of their situation had its

effect upon them. Unconsciously they lowered their voices. At the

slightest sound from beyond the circle of firelight, the stirring of a

horse, the breaking of a twig, the rustling of a bush, the cry of a night

bird, everyone glanced quickly around. When a screech owl in a near-by

tree wailed, they were all startled, then, shamefaced, laughed at

themselves.

After supper Mr. Perier drew Louis aside. “Do you think we ought to stand

guard to-night?” he asked in a low voice.

“I think it most wise,” Louis replied promptly. “We do not wish our

horses stolen, if any Indians have seen the smoke of our fire.”

Including Raoul, who was quite old enough to do guard duty and would have

been insulted if anyone had suggested that he was not, there were five

men in the party. To make up an even number, Mrs. Brabant insisted on

taking her turn. It was arranged that Walter and Raoul should keep first

watch, Mr. Perier and Neil second, and Louis and his mother the hours

just before dawn. Both the latter knew, though they said nothing about

it, that before dawn was the time danger was most likely to come, if it

came at all. Mrs. Brabant confessed to Louis that she would not be

sleeping then anyway, and might just as well be standing guard.

Though they had seen no sign of Indians except the track across the

prairie, and seemed to be in no real danger, everyone but the two younger

children slept lightly and uneasily. The beasts seemed to catch their

masters’ uneasiness. Askimé, as if personally responsible for the safety

of the camp, padded back and forth and round about through the grove,

growling low in his throat sometimes, but never making a loud sound. The

night was windy, and the mosquitoes were not troublesome, but the ponies

were restless. They crowded as close to the carts as their lariats would

permit. Now and then one or another would jump and snort as if in terror.

Yet the guards could find nothing wrong, no cause of disturbance except

the howling of a wolf on the prairie or the hooting of a hunting owl.

XXIV

DANGER

The camp was stirring early, and the sheltering grove was soon left

behind. On every side the prairie, empty and peaceful, stretched away

into misty distance. The fears and alarms of the night had been

imaginary.

As on the day before, the route lay over flat, poorly drained, often

marshy country, where the grass grew tall and rank. By going directly

east, the travelers might have reached the Wild Rice River in a few

hours, but far from the place where St. Antoine had advised them to

cross. Even if they succeeded in crossing, they knew they would lose

rather than gain time by going that way. If they went straight east they

would come to the Red River a number of miles below the Ottertail, where

the Red was much larger and more difficult to ford. St. Antoine had

explained all that, showing them how, by going southeast, instead of east

and then south, they would find better fording places as well as save

actual distance. So they continued to the southeast.

By the position of the sun and the little grove behind him, Louis strove

to keep a straight course, a difficult feat for anyone less experienced

in prairie travel. Louis himself found it far from easy, especially when

he had to make detours around impassable ground. Many times that day he

wished for St. Antoine or some other older and more prairie-wise man.

As the sun rose higher, the day grew very hot. Even the ponies felt the

effect of the heat, as they plodded steadily on. At noon the party halted

for an hour on the open prairie, to let the horses rest and feed. There

was not a stick of fuel anywhere, so the pemmican was eaten cold, and

washed down with a sip of the warm, brackish water they had brought from

the _île des bois_.

In mid afternoon, hot and tired, the little caravan reached the bank of a

stream Louis knew must be the Wild Rice. A narrow, crooked, muddy stream

it proved to be, like a deep ditch between high and scantily wooded

banks. At the top of the bank the carts halted, while Louis and Neil

scrambled down, leading their horses, to look for a ford. After a half

hour’s search for a place that appeared safe, the two boys came upon a

trail. The slope was a little less steep in this spot, and, winding down

to the water’s edge, was the well-worn track of men and animals. There

was no mistaking it.

“Here is a ford,” Louis announced confidently. “It is here that the

Indians cross.”

“It looks like it,” Neil agreed. “We might as well go back for the carts.

This is the easiest place we’ve seen to bring them down.”

Louis shook his head. “Wait a bit,” he commanded. “I must see if the

crossing is safe. The trail is old. There are no signs that anyone has

crossed recently, and the river is yet far from its lowest point. You

stay here, and I will try to trace the ford and make sure it is not too

deep.”

“All right,” consented Neil. “I’ll keep an eye on you. If you get into

trouble, I’ll go to your help.”

The water was so thick and muddy, Louis could scarcely see whether it was

deep or shallow. His pony was sure footed, and picked its way carefully.

So he left the finding of the ford to the animal’s instinct and

intelligence. Slowly they made their way across. The water rose to the

horse’s sides, but did not carry it off its feet, as the current was

sluggish. There was one deep place, however, where the pony was forced to

swim a few yards.

Neil, mounted and ready to go to the rescue, watched anxiously. His help

was not needed. The pony found foothold, and was soon scrambling up the

farther bank to dry land. Dismounting, Louis patted the animal and rubbed

its nose. Unlike the _bois brulés_, he treated his beasts kindly. He had

brought this horse up from colthood, and it had no fear of him. After

resting a few minutes, boy and pony made their way back again.

“Can we get the carts across?” asked Neil, as Louis, wet to the waist,

reached shore.

“Yes, if we pull them over with ropes. We can take my mother and the

children on the horses. There is only the one deep place, and the current

is not strong. César knew the way. He took me out where the trail goes up

from the water. This is an old fording place.”

“St. Antoine said nothing about a trail.”

“No, I think this is not the place where he crossed. We may be miles from

that spot.”

“If we can get across here, that is all we care about,” returned Neil.

The old trail was steep but not impossible for vehicles. With the boys

acting as brakes by hanging on to the rear, the carts made their

screeching, groaning way down. The horses were unhitched, and rawhide

ropes attached to one of the carts. Then Louis and Walter rode over the

ford, wound the ropes around a willow tree for greater security, and

began to pull. The others steadied the cart into the water. Neil,

mounting hastily, rode behind it to prevent disaster.

Part way across, the wheels stuck in the muddy bottom and would not turn.

Neil jumped off his horse, and Raoul waded out to help him. They pushed

and heaved vigorously, while Louis and Walter pulled, and got the cart

moving again. In the deep place the box body floated, and the boys

succeeded in pulling it to shore before it took in much water. Knowing

that the dry box would leak more or less, they had lined it with hides.

The load came through uninjured.

The same process was repeated with the second cart, which was not so

lucky and took in more water. Then Mrs. Brabant and the girls, their

skirts gathered up under them on the horses’ backs, were brought across,

wetting no more than their feet and ankles. Max, sitting cross legged in

front of his father, did not even get his feet wet. The older boys and

Mr. Perier were well soaked. The day was so warm they did not mind a

wetting.

The search for the ford and the crossing had taken a long time. The sun

was low when the weary little party started up the old trail to seek a

camping place. It happened that Walter, leading one of the horses along

the steep track, was ahead. As he reached the top, picking his way, he

turned to look back at the pony. After the horse was up, he continued to

stand looking down, watching the carts making their slow way up, the

ponies pulling steadily, the boys pushing. He ought to be down there

helping, he thought.

The neighing of a horse startled him. He swung around, gave one gasp, and

fairly tumbled down the bank, dragging the surprised pony after him.

“Indians!” he gasped.

“Where?” Louis let go his hold on the first cart, and scrambled up to

join Walter.

“Coming across the prairie. A whole band of them.”

“How far away? Did they see you?”

“They must have seen me. There are no trees. I stood right in the open.”

Louis dropped flat and wormed his way up the slope. He raised his head

cautiously, lowered it quickly, and slid back.

“They certainly saw you. They are too close to have missed you. We can’t

avoid them. They come straight to the ford. We have no time to get out of

the way. There is not enough cover to hide in. And they must have seen

you and the horse. We must put on a bold front and not act afraid. That

is the only thing we can do.”

The rest of the party, alarmed by the two boys’ actions, had stopped in

their tracks. Not many seconds were spent in telling them what was

happening. All realized that Louis was right when he said there was

nothing to do but put on a bold front. In a few moments the tiny caravan

was moving again. Raoul held Askimé by the collar to keep him from

running ahead.

Louis and Walter went first, side by side, leading their horses. When he

came in view of the prairie, Walter’s heart beat fast. He struggled to

control his trembling knees, and to appear cool and unconcerned.

A very short distance away, coming straight towards the two lads, was a

little group of mounted men, with bare, black heads and feathers in their

hair. Some wore loose buckskin shirts. The bronze bodies of others were

bare. Beyond them more mounted men, men, women, and children on foot,

pack animals, and travois covered the prairie in a wide, irregular,

disorderly procession.

“A whole band out on the hunt,” said Louis. “Well, that is less to be

feared than a war party of braves only.”

The advance group let out a yell, a wild, menacing sound it seemed to the

Swiss boy, hammered their horses’ sides with their heels, and came on at

a gallop. Louis swung himself into the saddle, and advanced to meet them,

one arm raised in the friendship sign. Walter mounted and followed,

imitating the gesture.

The leading Indian responded with upraised arm, and the group came on.

Surrounding the lads, they reined in their ponies. Walter’s heart was

thumping against his ribs, but the trembling had passed. He sat straight

and steady in the saddle, and kept a calm exterior.

“_Bo jou_,” said Louis pleasantly.

“How,” stolidly returned the leader of the advance party. He was a

well-built, broad-shouldered fellow in the prime of life. A piece of

buffalo robe was his only saddle. He guided his horse with a cord of

twisted hair around the jaw, and rode with free and easy grace.

As Louis knew only four or five words of Dakota, communication had to be

carried on principally in sign language. Recognizing the word for trader

when the Indian spoke again, Louis replied with a shake of his head, then

pointed to the carts just appearing over the top of the bank. He

interpreted the Indian’s next gesture as a question about the size of the

party, and held up ten fingers in answer. Wishing to convey the idea that

the ten were only part of a much larger party, he pointed across the

river, and spread out his fingers, closing and opening them several

times.

The Indian nodded, stared fixedly at the carts, and inquired,

“_Minnewakan?_”

That was one of the few words Louis knew. “No _minnewakan_, no liquor,”

he replied. His questioner looked disappointed, so Louis hastened to add,

“We can give you a little tobacco. _Tabac_,” he repeated with emphasis.

Evidently the Indian had heard the word _tabac_ in intercourse with the

traders. He repeated it with a nod and held out his hand.

Louis pointed towards the carts, and said quickly to Walter, “Go get some

tobacco. It will be all right. We’re safe enough for the present.”

The Indians made no move to hinder Walter’s return to the carts. He was

back in a few moments with the tobacco, which Louis divided among the

group of braves, taking care to give the largest portion to the leader.

The first of the main body of Indians had come on almost to the river

bank, a little way beyond where the carts were standing, and had halted

there. The boys’ new acquaintance pointed to the spot, then brought the

tips of his forefingers together to indicate the pointed shape of a tipi.

Walter guessed the man’s meaning to be that the band would camp there for

the night. His heart sank. He had been hoping that the Indians would go

on across the river.

If Louis was troubled, he did not show it. He pointed the other way,—up

river,—and made the same sign. Then he said “_Bo jou_” again and turned

his horse in that direction.

The Indian gave a little grunt which might have meant either assent or

protest. Neither he nor his companions showed any wish to hinder the

boys’ freedom of movement. They remained motionless for a few moments,

then turned towards the camping place of their own band.

“What are we going to do?” asked Walter, when he and Louis had put a few

yards between themselves and the Indians.

“We will have to make camp,” Louis replied slowly. “We will not be any

safer if we go on. If they wish to steal our horses or interfere with us

in any way, they will only follow. They can overtake us easily. Those

fellows’ horses are fresher than ours. I saw that at once. We will camp

farther up the river, as far as we can without seeming to run away. I

tried to make them believe that we are an advance party. If we camp here

it will look as if we waited for the others to join us. It is a bad

situation, but I do not see what else we can do.”

“If they want to take our horses, though, and everything else we have, we

are helpless. We are too few to fight a whole band. I suppose you are

right about going on now. If they wished to harm us, some of them would

follow. But when they think we are all settled for the night, can’t we

steal away in the darkness?”

“I have thought of that,” Louis returned quietly. “That is one reason I

want to camp as far away as we can, without making them suspicious. If

they seem perfectly friendly, it may be best to remain in camp till

morning. We can decide that later. The important thing now is to keep our

heads and act as if we had no fear.”

XXXV

IN THE CHIEF’S TIPI

The others of the party realized that Louis knew more than they about

Indians, so his view of what was best to do prevailed. He chose a spot

back from the river bank on the brink of a narrow, steep sided ravine. A

_coulee_ such a rift in the prairie was commonly called. There, in the

open, nearly a half mile up river from the Indian encampment, camp was

pitched.

The dangers of the situation were carefully concealed from the younger

children. Elise and Marie were old enough to realize the peril, but they

understood as well as their elders that they must not appear afraid. Both

girls were frightened, but they tried pluckily not to give way to their

fears. Mrs. Brabant set them a good example, going about the camp work in

a cheerful, matter-of-fact way. Not even Louis guessed how she was

suffering with anxiety and dread. While her lips smiled bravely, she was

repeating over and over in her mind passionate prayers for her children’s

safety. Though he understood less of the danger, and was by nature always

hopeful that things would turn out all right, Mr. Perier too was far from

easy in his mind. He regretted sincerely that he had brought Elise and

Max on this dangerous journey. Still, as always, he hoped for the best.

Of the four older boys, Raoul, the youngest and most reckless, was the

least frightened and the most thrilled by the adventure. The feelings of

the others were of mingled fear, excitement, and manly pride in the

responsibility laid upon them. The red-headed Highland lad, cleaning his

gun carefully, was almost hoping for a fight. Louis and Walter, though

determined to protect their camp at any cost to themselves if that should

be necessary, were racking their brains for ways to avoid conflict of any

kind. They must avoid it or their little party would be wiped out.

At first the Indians left the white men to themselves. Before the evening

meal was over, however, visitors arrived, announced by a warning growl

from Askimé. Into the firelight stalked the sturdy, strong-faced brave

who had led the advance party. He was followed by two younger men. Both

were slender, wiry fellows, and one was distinctly handsome in a

Roman-nosed, high-cheeked, hawk-eyed style. The other was disfigured by a

broken and crooked nose.

The young men stood impassive, while the elder made a sign of greeting

and said “How” in his deep voice.

Louis, who had risen, returned the “How” and motioned the visitors to

seats by the fire, the others moving closer together to make room.

Foreseeing that there might be guests, Mrs. Brabant had made more tea and

heated more pemmican than usual. She helped the guests liberally, and

they ate in silence. When each was satisfied, he carefully placed his cup

and plate upside down on the ground.

“_Minnewakan?_” the elder warrior inquired, as if he had not asked the

question before.

Louis shook his head and passed out some tobacco. There was silence,

while each Indian gravely smelled of his portion, and stowed it away in

his beaded buckskin fire bag.

Then the man with the crooked nose pointed to Askimé, who lay at Louis’

feet, keeping a watchful eye on the strangers. “_Nitshunka?_” he asked,

looking at Louis.

The boy had never heard the word before. He did not know whether the

fellow was inquiring if the dog was his, or offering to buy it. In answer

he laid one hand on Askimé’s head, and touched his own breast with the

other. The young Indian promptly took off the necklace of beasts’ and

birds’ claws he wore, and held it out. But Louis shook his head

emphatically, saying “_Non, non_.”

The broken-nosed man nodded gravely, and replaced the necklace, but he

continued to gaze at the dog. It was plain that he was anxious to get

Askimé by some means or other.

The elder brave soon brought the call to a close. Rising to his feet, he

pointed first in the direction of the Indian camp, and then to Louis and

Walter in turn. He said something in his own language, drew his

forefinger across his forehead, and pointed again towards the camp. The

drawing of the forefinger across the forehead was the common sign for a

hat-wearer or white man.

Louis’ curiosity was aroused. He drew his finger across his own head,

then pointed to his breast.

The Indian shook his head. It was some other white man he meant. Again he

made the sign, with his left hand, while he pointed towards the camp with

his right. At the same time he spoke the word for trader.

Louis nodded to show that he understood.

The Indian gave a little grunt, and once more pointed to the boys in

turn, then to the camp. He repeated the hat-wearer sign and the word

trader.

Louis turned to Walter. “There is a white man with that band, a trader. I

am sure that is what this fellow means. And he wishes us to go to the

camp and see the man. Perhaps the white man has sent for us.”

“Shall we go?” asked Walter. “Do you think it is safe?”

“I do not know if it is safe,” was the thoughtful reply, “but _I_ must go

I think. If I do not he will think I am afraid. And I want to discover if

there really is a white trader there, and talk with him. He may be our

one chance of safety. Sometimes the traders have great influence. Yes, I

must go.”

Louis indicated his willingness to accompany the Indians, but the elder

man was still unsatisfied. He kept pointing at Walter.

“I am going too, Louis,” the latter decided. He glanced around the little

circle. “Do you suppose the others will be all right while we are away?”

“There is risk to all of us, all the time, whatever we do,” Louis

returned gravely. “It is not good for our party to be separated. Yet I do

not think they try to separate us. Why should they, when we are so few,

and they are so many? No, I think that white trader has sent for us, and

we had best go.” He turned to Neil and Raoul. “Keep close watch,” he

warned, “and you, Raoul, make a big pile of dry grass and wood. If

anything happens to alarm you, light it, and we shall see the flames, and

come at once.”

“If we can,” Walter added to himself. He did not voice his doubt. He knew

they must take the risk; he saw that quite clearly.

There was a frightened look in Elise’s eyes. She laid her hand on

Walter’s arm. “Don’t go,” she whispered.

“I must, little sister. I can’t let Louis go alone. We will be back

soon.”

Mrs. Brabant’s face had turned pale, but she made no protest. As for Mr.

Perier, the news that there was a white man with the Indians had gone far

to reassure him of their friendliness and good intentions.

The three braves had come unarmed, so courtesy required that Louis and

Walter should not take their guns, reluctant though they were to leave

them behind. The Indians were on foot, and all went back in the same

manner. The long twilight was deepening, as the five took their silent

way towards the firelit group of tipis that had sprung up from the

prairie like some strange mushroom growth. The air was hot, still, and

oppressive. Dark clouds lay low on the western and southern horizon.

The Indian camp was a noisy place. As the party approached, their ears

were assailed by a variety of sounds; the neighing and squealing of

ponies, the howling and yelping of dogs, the shouting of children, the

voices of the women, the tones of the old squaws cracked and shrill,

calling, laughing, and scolding, the toneless thumping of a drum and the

clacking of rattles accompanying the harsh monotone of some medicine

man’s chant, and a hundred other noises. Hobbled horses fed on the

prairie grass around the circle of lodges. A whole pack of snarling,

wolfish dogs rushed out as if to devour the newcomers, but did not dare

to approach very close for fear of a beating. The buffalo skin tipis were

lit up with cooking fires without and within. The mingled odors of wood

smoke, boiling and roasting meat, tobacco and _kinnikinnick_,—osier

dogwood or red willow bark shredded and added to tobacco to form the

Indian smoking mixture,—filled the air.

The little party were close to the tipis, when a man came out to meet

them. He spoke to the older brave, and an argument followed. Unable to

understand the conversation, the boys stood waiting, and wondering what

was going on. Evidently the two Indians were disagreeing, but the only

words Louis recognized were _minnewakan_ and the term for trader.

It was the lads’ conductor who yielded at last. He gave a grunt of sullen

assent, gestured to the boys to follow the other, turned on his heel, and

stalked off. The stranger led the way among the lodges.

Walter had never visited an Indian camp, and curiosity was getting the

better of his fears. The squaws and children were quite as curious about

the white men. The women left their various occupations, and ceased their

gossiping and scolding, the children stopped their play and quarreling,

to stare at the strangers. Their inquisitiveness was open and frank, but

did not seem unfriendly. The men, lounging about at their ease, eating,

smoking, polishing their weapons, or doing nothing whatever, disdained to

show interest in the newcomers. Their casual glances were indifferent

rather than hostile. Walter noted that these people were in the habit of

dealing with traders. Many of the loose, shapeless garments the women

wore were of bright colored cotton, instead of deerskin. Some of the men

had shirts or leggings of scarlet cloth. The boy’s courage rose. So far

there was nothing to fear.

The lodges were arranged in two irregular circles, one within the other.

In the center of the inner open space, stood a solitary tipi of unusual

size. From it, apparently, came the sounds of drum, rattles, and chant.

Walter wondered if it was there that he and Louis were being led. Surely

a white man would not—— But the guide had turned to the right, and was

pulling aside the skin curtain that covered the entrance to one of the

lodges in the circle. He motioned to the boys to enter.

Walter followed Louis in, and looked about him. The fire on the ground in

the center of the tipi was smouldering smokily, and the forms of the men

beyond were but dimly visible. Louis went forward unhesitatingly. At the

right of the fire, he paused, and Walter stepped to his side.

Someone threw a piece of buffalo fat on the fire. The flames leaped up,

casting a strong light on the bronze bodies of six or seven seated men.

All were nearly naked, except the slender young man in the center. He

wore scarlet leggings and a blue coat with scarlet facings; an old

uniform coat that must once have belonged to some white officer. The

young Indian’s chest was bare and adorned with paint. A necklace of elk

teeth, with a silver coin as a pendant, was his principal ornament. There

were eagle feathers in his scarlet head band, and his coarse, black hair,

which hung in two braids over his shoulders, glistened with grease. The

swarthy face of the young chief, as the firelight revealed it, struck

Walter with instant distrust and dislike. The wide mouth was loose

lipped. The dark eyes—large for an Indian—that he fastened on the boys

were bloodshot and fierce.

Louis stood straight and motionless, steadily returning the young chief’s

gaze. Drawing himself up to his full height, Walter tried to imitate his

comrade’s bold bearing. After a few minutes of this silent duel of

glances, during which the fire died down again, the chief deigned to

speak.

His first words were apparently an inquiry as to whether the white men

were traders. Louis shook his head. Then came a request,—it sounded more

like a demand,—for _minnewakan_.

Again Louis shook his head. Stepping forward, he offered the chief the

gifts he had brought him, a twist of tobacco, a paper of coarse pins, and

a piece of scarlet cloth. Though the boys had expected to be led directly

to the white trader, Louis had thought it best to go provided with a few

courtesy presents for the head man of the band. The chief accepted the

things in silence.

On the chance that the fellow or someone of his companions might know a

little French, Louis proceeded to explain that he and his party were

peaceful travelers from the Selkirk Colony on their way to the trading

post at Lake Traverse. Whether anyone understood what he said the boy

could not tell.

When Louis had finished, the chief made a speech, a long speech,

delivered in an impressive, even pompous manner, with frequent pauses for

effect. At each pause, his companions in chorus uttered an approving

“Uho, uho!” That was the way the exclamation sounded to Walter. He could

understand nothing of the chief’s oration, of course, but he got the idea

that the young man liked to listen to his own voice.

Among the voices that cried out “Uho,” there was one deep pitched one

that affected the Swiss boy in a peculiar manner. It sent a sudden chill

of fear over him. And there was something familiar about it. He glanced

around the group to see to which man that voice belonged. The fire had

nearly burned out, and the lodge was so dark he could distinguish the

figures but dimly. At the third exclamation of approval, he made up his

mind that the voice that affected him so strangely came from the man on

the chief’s right. During the few moments when the firelight had been

bright enough to reveal the Indians, Walter had noticed nothing about

that man except his size. He was a big fellow, broad shouldered and tall,

overtopping the chief by several inches, though the latter was not short.

The big man’s features the boy had not seen, for they were in the shadow

of the scarlet blanket the fellow held up, apparently to shield his face

from the heat.

The speaker brought his oration to a sonorous close. There was a chorus

of loud “uhos.” As if for dramatic effect, another chunk of fat was

thrown upon the fire. The flames shot up again, and cast their light upon

the chief and his courtiers.

Walter gasped. He felt Louis’ fingers close upon his arm and grip it

tight in warning. The blanket no longer concealed the face of the big

brave on the chief’s right. The amazed boys were staring straight at the

glittering, bright eyes and thin-lipped, cruel mouth of the Black Murray.

It seemed incredible, impossible, but it was so.

The big warrior, a Sioux Indian in every detail; braided hair and

feathers, big-muscled, bronze body naked except for the breech cloth and

the handsome scarlet blanket about his shoulders, chest and arms adorned

with streaks and circles of red and black paint, was the former Hudson

Bay voyageur, Murray. If it had been possible to mistake that regular

featured, sinister face, with its glittering eyes and scornful smile, the

silver chain around his neck, with Mr. Perier’s watch hanging upon his

chest, must have removed all doubts. He was the Black Murray beyond

question.

XXXVI

THE WHITE TRADER

While Louis and Walter stared, amazed and apprehensive, the Black Murray

rose to his feet and turned to the chief. He said a few words in Dakota;

his all too familiar voice sending another chill up Walter’s spine,

gathered his blanket about him, gave the boys one scornful glance, and

strode around the fire and out of the tipi.

Louis drew a long breath to steady himself, and spoke to the chief again.

Still uncertain whether the Indians understood any French, the boy

thanked the young chief for receiving his comrade and himself. They had

enjoyed the visit to the village, he said, but must return to their own

camp now, as the hour was growing late. They hoped to see more of the

chief and his people in the morning. At the close of this speech, Louis

bowed slightly, and began to step backward around the fire.

Walter imitated his friend, carefully keeping his face turned towards the

chief. That young man waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. Not one

of the Indians made a move to hinder the two from leaving.

It was an enormous relief to be out of that tipi, yet both boys knew they

were far from being out of danger. From the illuminated lodge in the

center of the camp, the thumping of the drum and the clacking of rattles

went on tirelessly. Fires had been kindled in a circle around the big

tipi, and about them men and women were gathering.

“There is to be some kind of a dance,” Louis whispered. “Look!” he

exclaimed suddenly. He gripped Walter’s arm and drew him back into the

shadow of an unlighted lodge.

Crossing the open space, in the full light of the blazing fires, was the

tall, stately form of Murray. A great, hairy buffalo robe fell loosely

from his broad shoulders. His head was adorned with the strangest of

headdresses, the shaggy head of a buffalo bull, horns and nose painted

red. That stuffed buffalo head must have been exceedingly heavy, but

under its weight Murray held his own head and neck proudly erect. Looking

neither to right nor left, he strode between the fires, men and women

making way for him. He stooped only to enter the big tipi.

The two boys, in the protecting shadow of the dark lodge, had stood

apparently unnoticed through this show. After Murray disappeared Louis

led Walter around to the side of the unlighted dwelling farthest from the

fire.

“We must be away,” he whispered. “This is no place for us.”

Silently, cautiously, they made their way among the tipis. The whole band

seemed to have gathered in the central space, yet the boys were not to

escape notice. They were passing through the outer circle of dwellings,

when a man suddenly appeared in front of them. It was the

broad-shouldered warrior who had brought them to the camp. He spoke

urgently, pointing again and again towards the inner circle of lodges,

and making the hat-wearer sign.

Louis shook his head. “_Non, non_,” he replied emphatically. “We have

seen enough of your white trader. A fine white man he is. Go on, Walter,”

he ordered, and Walter obeyed.

If the Dakota did not understand the words, he could not mistake the

boys’ actions. He tried to seize Louis by the arm. Louis dodged, jumping

to one side nimbly, eluded the Indian, and ran after Walter, who also

broke into a run. To their surprise, the man did not attempt to follow

them. Perhaps the middle-aged, rather heavily built brave despaired of

catching the light-footed lads. At any rate he let them go. There was no

one else near by to stop them.

As soon as the boys were sure they were not being followed, they slowed

to a walk.

“We are well out of that,” said Louis, drawing a long breath of relief.

“Yes. I can’t understand why Murray let us go so easily.”

“I fear we have not seen the last of _le Murrai Noir_ yet,” was the sober

reply. “If he had abused us, cursed us, threatened us, I should have less

fear. I do not like his silence, the way he allowed us to go without

raising a hand against us.”

“The Indians seem friendly. Perhaps they won’t let him touch us.”

“That may be. They may be afraid that any trouble with white men will

bring vengeance upon them. Yet I do not like the looks of that young

chief. And he did not offer us food. That is a bad sign, Walter. If he

had invited us to eat, to smoke the calumet, but he did not.” Louis shook

his head doubtfully.

“I can’t imagine,” Walter pondered, “why Murray went out and left us, and

then sent that man after us again.”

Louis was equally puzzled. “It is all very strange. _Le Murrai_ sent him

for us. Surely that was what he meant. Then, when we reached the camp,

another man came and took us away from him. And when we were leaving, the

first fellow came again and wished us to go back.”

“Perhaps Murray wanted to see us alone, and the chief interfered,” Walter

suggested.

“So he sent for us again? But we saw _le Murrai_ going to join in the

dance. The dance will take a long time, all night perhaps, and he is the

chief figure in it I think.”

“He certainly looked as if he was. Louis, is there really any white blood

in Murray at all?”

“That is another strange thing,” returned the troubled Louis. “It is

strange that those Indians should speak of him as a hat-wearer, a white

man. Rather he seems one of themselves.”

Discussing and pondering the bewildering events of the past few hours,

the boys made their way across the prairie towards their own camp. The

moon had risen and lighted their way. The camp fire, a flickering point

of light, guided them and assured them that all was well with their

companions. Had there been no spark of fire at all, or had a great column

of flame sprung up, the two would have been running at full speed. Their

puzzlings led to no solution of their strange treatment at the hands of

Murray and the chief.

“I am certain of but one thing,” Louis asserted finally. He spoke

emphatically and in a louder tone than he had been using. “There is

mischief brewing in that camp to-night, and _le Murrai Noir_ is the

center of it.”

“Aye, you are right there.”

The words, in a strange voice, came from behind them. With one impulse

the boys sprang apart, and turned. Louis’ hand was on the hilt of his

hunting knife.

Close to them, leading a horse, was a tall form, a very tall form. Taller

he seemed than Murray himself, though perhaps that was because he was so

gaunt and thin. In the moonlight the boys could see that his buckskin

clothes hung loosely upon his long frame. He wore a cap, and had a bushy

beard.

“You were too busy with your talk,” the strange man went on rebukingly.

“The whole band might have stolen up on you.” He spoke easy, fluent

Canadian French, but with a peculiar accent that reminded Walter of

Neil’s manner of speech.

“Who are you?” demanded Louis, his hand still on his knife.

“I’m the hat-wearer that sent for you.”

“You are the white trader? Then it wasn’t _le Murrai_?”

“It was not. But you’re right in thinking he’s the center of the mischief

over there. I sent Shahaka to your camp. He was to bring you straight to

my lodge, but someone, Murray or Tatanka Wechacheta, interfered. Then I

told Shahaka to wait for you at the edge of the village, but you wouldn’t

go back with him. I wanted to warn you of what was going on. I thought it

wiser not to go to your camp myself. My influence with that young fool of

a chief is not so strong as it was before the big medicine man Murray

came along.”

“He claims to be a medicine man?” asked Louis.

“Aye, a mighty one, with all sorts of _wakan_. He is teaching a picked

few rascals of them a new medicine dance. They will dance and powwow till

near the dawn, then Murray will feast them and fill them full of rum.”

“But why?”

“Why? He’s a free trader, that Murray, a clever one and not particular

about his methods, his boasts that he got his start by stealing pemmican

from the Hudson Bay Company and then selling it back to them, through a

friend, for trade goods. If he can make those foolish savages look up to

him and fear him as a great _witan wishasha_, he can do anything he likes

with them in the way of trade. He has sold them a lot of medicines

already, charms against evil spirits and injury in battle, charms to give

them power over their enemies and the beasts they hunt.” The tall man

changed the subject abruptly. “You have horses and carts and goods with

you?” he demanded.

“No trade goods, except a few little things for presents. But we have two

carts loaded with our personal things, and four good horses, and an

Eskimo dog.”

“You will have none of them by sunrise,” was the grim response, “if you

stay here. Murray is not the man to let all that slip through his

fingers.”

“Then why did he let us leave the camp?”

“And why not? He can put his hand on you whenever he likes. In a few

hours he will have plenty of drunken savages to do his will.”

Walter shivered. He was thinking, not of himself, but of Elise and Mrs.

Brabant and the children.

As they drew near the camp, Neil, gun in hand, sprang up from the ground,

where he had been lying, watching their approach. He had been worried

because, instead of two only, he could make out three men and a horse.

Entering the circle around the fire, Louis introduced the stranger. “This

is the man who sent for us, the trader.”

The tall man pulled off his fur cap and ducked his head to Mrs. Brabant.

“I’m Duncan McNab, at your service, Madame,” he said. He caught sight of

Neil’s freckled face and blue bonnet. “Ye’re a Scot,” he said accusingly

in English.

“I am that, and sa are you,” Neil retorted promptly.

“Aye. Ye’ll be fra Kildonan na doot, but there’s na time ta be talkin’

aboot that.” He turned to Louis and spoke in French again. “You are

camped on the edge of a coulee. Did you pick this spot on purpose?”

The boy nodded.

“Then you know what to do. The coulee leads towards the Bois des Sioux.

Leave your fire burning. The savages will think you’re still here.”

“Our carts make so much noise,” interposed Walter. “If any of their

scouts or camp guards should hear that squeaking——”

“Leave the carts behind,” McNab interrupted. “I doubt if you could take

them up the coulee.”

“We can go faster without them anyway,” Louis agreed, “and get more out

of our horses.”

“Travel light, a little pemmican, your weapons and ammunition, nothing

else. It is hard to lose all your things, Madame,” the trader said

bluntly to Mrs. Brabant, “but better than to run the risk of your

children falling into the hands of Tatanka Wechacheta and the Black

Murray.”

“Murray?” cried Mr. Perier.

“You know him?”

“We all know him. We have good cause to,” said Walter.

“That makes it all the worse, if he has anything against you. No, don’t

tell me the story now. We have no time to exchange tales.”

“If we must leave the carts behind,” Neil suggested, “why not hide them

in the coulee? Then the Indians may think we have taken them along. Later

we can come back from Lake Traverse and get them.”

“It micht work oot that wa’,” returned McNab, falling into Scots’ English

again, “but I’m thinkin’ they’ll find the cairts easy eneuch.”

“We’ll tak them _doon_ the coulee a bit,” Neil insisted, in the same

tongue. “If Murray finds the tracks he’ll maybe think we’ve gane doon ta

the Wild Rice and back across.”

The trader shook his head. “He’ll be findin’ your trail all richt, but ye

can maybe delay him for a bit. Weel, do what you’re goin’ ta do quick,

an’ be awa’ wi’ ye. I maun be gettin’ back or they’ll miss me.”

“You’re na comin’ wi’ us?” cried Neil.

“Na, na, I’m not rinnin’ awa’ yet.” He switched to French and took his

leave of the others. “Cross the Bois des Sioux and make speed for Lake

Traverse,” he advised. “Tell Renville I’ll be back there in a few days.

It was Renville sent me to find out what that rascal Murray was up to.

Good speed and God go with you.”

XXXVII

FLIGHT

Louis and Walter decided that Neil’s plan was worth trying. They muffled

the axles of the two carts with strips torn from a ragged blanket, and

carefully cased the vehicles over the edge of the coulee. The moon,

shining into the rift, lighted them down the steep slope. Along the bed

of the shallow brook that ran through the coulee to join the Wild Rice

River, they pushed and pulled the carts, and left them well hidden among

willows and cottonwoods where the ravine widened.

“There,” said Neil when the job was done, “if those Indians follow

straight up the coulee after us, they won’t find the carts at all. If

they come down here and find them, they may think we have gone back

across the river.”

“Probably,” Louis returned, “they will divide into two parties, one to go

up, the other down the coulee. But if they get all our things they may be

content to let us go.”

Hiding the carts had taken less than a half hour. In the meantime Mrs.

Brabant and the children had gone down into the coulee, Jeanne and Max

stumbling along, scarcely awake enough to realize what was happening.

While the horses were being led down, Walter remained behind as rear

guard. As he threw a last armful of fuel on the fire, a burst of hideous

noise came across the prairie from the Indian camp. Howls and yells, to

the thumping of many drums, proved that Murray’s medicine dance was in

full swing. A picture flashed through the boy’s mind; a picture of that

central space within the circle of tipis as it must look now, with scores

of naked, painted, befeathered savages, stamping, leaping, yelling around

the blazing fires. There was no time to lose.

Mrs. Brabant was impatient and anxious to be away. She had made no

protest at leaving the carts behind. All her household belongings were in

them, but what were blankets and copper kettles, and the precious wooden

chest of clothing and little things, compared with the safety of her

children? She and little Jeanne had been placed on one of the ponies.

There were only four horses for ten people. Mr. Perier took Max with him

on another, and the remaining two were given to Elise and Marie. Marie

could ride almost as well as her brothers, and Elise had learned since

leaving Pembina.

It was very dark at the bottom of the coulee among the willows that

fringed the stream. Speed was not possible, and the foot travelers could

easily keep up with the ponies. Yet there was no doubt in anyone’s mind

that this was the only route to take. On the open prairie, in the

moonlight, they would be plainly visible from every direction. Here they

were completely hidden. They hoped to be miles away before the Indians

discovered that they had gone.

Progress seemed heart-breakingly slow, however, as the little party

picked their way up the bed of the brook in the darkness. Louis, on foot,

went ahead as guide. Walter, Neil and Raoul brought up the rear. The

stream was not much over a foot deep at its deepest, with a sticky mud

bottom. Luckily the ponies were sure-footed and almost cat-eyed. One or

another slipped or stumbled now and then, but recovered quickly without

unseating the rider. The night remained oppressively warm. Not a breath

of breeze stirred the willows down below the level of the prairie. Pale

flashes lit up the narrow strip of sky overhead, and distant thunder

rumbled.

The coulee grew narrower and shallower. The brook dwindled to a rivulet,

the fringing willows were smaller and met above the stream. It was

difficult to push a way through. At last Louis called a halt.

“Wait a little,” he said. “I will go on and find a way.”

Strung out along the narrow streamlet, which scarcely covered the hoofs

of the horses, the rest waited for his return. The mosquitoes were bad,

and the tormented horses twisted, turned, pawed the mud, and slapped

their tails about. Walter made his way among the willows to Elise’s side

to be at hand if her mount should become unmanageable. But they exchanged

only a word or two. The oppression of the night and the danger lay too

heavy upon them both.

After what seemed a long time, Louis returned. “The coulee ends a little

way ahead,” he reported. “The stream comes from a wet marsh that we must

go around. I have found a place where we can climb the right bank.”

Without further words, he took hold of the bridle of his mother’s horse

and led it through the willows and up a dry gully. The gully was one of

the channels by which the marsh waters, during spring floods and rainy

periods, found their way into the coulee. The prairie at the head of the

gully was dry in July, the marsh being shrunken to dry weather

proportions.

There was a certain relief in being up on the open plain again. For one

thing there was more light. The western sky was banked with clouds. Over

there lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, but the moon remained

uncovered. Looking back to the northwest across the flat prairie, Walter

could see, against the dark clouds, the glow of the fires in the Indian

camp. A flash of lightning showed the pointed tips of the tipis black

against the white light.

It seemed a long time since the fugitives had gone down into the coulee.

The boy was disappointed and alarmed to find that they had not come

farther. Had the Indians discovered their absence yet? He scanned the

prairie for moving figures. To his great relief he could see not one. Not

even a buffalo or a wolf appeared to be abroad on that wide, moonlit

expanse. Only an occasional puff of breeze stirred the tall grass.

The party were gathered together at the head of the gully. Louis was

speaking, and Walter turned to listen.

“We can go faster now, but one must go ahead to keep the course and——”

“You must do that, Louis,” Neil interrupted. “You are guide. It is your

place. The two girls will have to ride one horse.”

Louis hesitated. “It is not right for me to ride away and leave you three

to follow on foot.”

“It is the only way,” put in Walter. “The ponies can’t carry us all. The

others can’t go on without a guide. You will have to do it, Louis. We

won’t be far behind.”

“Neil can guide as well as I can,” Louis began.

“I can’t and I won’t,” retorted the Scotch boy stubbornly. “You have your

mother and sisters to take care of, and you are going on ahead.”

“One of you boys can take my horse,” Mr. Perier proposed. “I am the least

experienced and the least useful of all.” He started to dismount.

“No, no,” cried Louis. “You will be too slow with your crippled foot. You

will hold the others back. You must ride.”

“There are the children to think of,” Walter added earnestly. “You must

go with them. Neil and Raoul and I can go much faster on foot than you

could.”

“Stop talking and get away,” exclaimed Raoul impatiently. “Marie, come

off that horse.”

For once in her life Marie obeyed her next older brother. She took his

hand and slipped quickly to the ground. Raoul helped her up in front of

Elise. Louis, without further argument, mounted and took the lead. He

knew as well as anyone that they had already wasted too much time in

argument.

As Raoul drew back from helping Marie up, his mother bent down from her

horse to throw her left arm about his neck. “God guard you, my son,” she

said softly.

“And you,” muttered Raoul huskily.

At first the lads on foot kept almost at the heels of the ponies. The

prairie grass grew high and rank, and there was no beaten path. The

animals could not go fast, and all three boys were good runners. But

running through tall grass is not like running on an open road or even on

a well-trodden cart track. They soon tired, and had to slow their pace

and fall behind. The ponies were double burdened and far from fresh, but

they were tough, wiry beasts, capable of extraordinary endurance. When

they struck firmer ground beyond the marsh, they made better speed. The

rear guard fell still farther behind. They tried to keep in the track

made by the horses, but it was not always easy to do so, especially when

flying clouds covered the moon and left them in darkness.

No rain fell, however. The storm that had been threatening for so long

was working around to the north. The rumblings of thunder grew fainter,

the lightning flashes less bright. Before dawn they had ceased

altogether. A fresh, cool breeze sprang up, billowing the grass and

putting new life into the tired boys, as they plodded on, carrying their

heavy muskets. They no longer tried to run, but they kept up a steady

walking pace.

Dawn showed a line of trees ahead that did not appear to be much over a

half mile away. Those trees, the boys felt sure, must mark the course of

the Bois des Sioux. It was from one of the groves on its bank that the

stream took its name. The foot travelers had lost the horse track some

time before, but Neil and Raoul had managed, with the aid of the stars,

to keep a general course towards the east. The rest of the party were

nowhere in sight. Probably they had crossed the river long ago.

Though the trees seemed such a short distance away, the sun was rising

above them before the lads reached the river. Wet, marshy ground had

forced a detour. The stream, where they came out upon it, proved larger

and wider than they had expected.

“If we cross here we will have to swim,” said Neil, as he looked down at

the muddy water. “I think we are too far down. See there.” He pointed to

the opposite shore up stream. “Either the river makes a sharp bend there,

or another one comes in.”

“It is the Ottertail,” suggested Raoul. “That must be where the two come

together to make the Red.”

“It looks like it,” Walter agreed. “Anyway this doesn’t seem to be a good

place to cross. We know nothing about the current. We had better go on up

and look for a ford.”

The boys did not have to go far along the west bank of the united rivers

to convince themselves that the stream coming in from the east was indeed

the Ottertail. They could see plainly enough that it was larger than the

branch from the south. Single file, with Walter in the lead, they were

making their way along the bank opposite the mouth of the Ottertail, when

from the willows directly in front of them an Indian appeared.

“_Bo jou_,” he said, and added a few words in his own language.

Walter, startled, had half raised his musket, but Raoul, who was close

behind him, seized his arm.

“That’s a Saulteur, not a Sioux,” the younger boy whispered, then

answered the man in his own tongue.

Neil pushed forward to join in the conversation. He also knew a little of

the Saulteur or Ojibwa language, though he did not speak it so readily as

Raoul, who had played with Indian and half-breed lads since babyhood.

Walter, unable to understand more than an occasional word or two—picked

up at Pembina and among the hunters—stood back and looked on.

The sudden appearance of this lone Saulteur near the southern limits of

the debatable ground surprised him greatly. What puzzled him most,

however, was the man’s familiar face. Surely he had seen that scarred

cheek, where the skin drew tight over the bone, before, but where? On the

way from York Factory, at Fort Douglas, at Pembina, at the Company post

when the hunters were bringing in their winter’s catch? Then he

remembered. It was at the post he had seen the Ojibwa; not in the spring,

but in the autumn. This was the hunter who had been beaten and robbed, as

he was loading his canoe to return to his hunting grounds at Red Lake.

What was he doing here?

The Indian was speaking rapidly, in a low voice. Walter caught two words

he knew, “_Murrai Noir_.” Neil swung around, excitement in his eyes.

“Walter,” he exclaimed, “this fellow says Murray is his enemy. He is

after Murray to get revenge. Is he——”

“Yes.” Walter did not wait for Neil to finish the question. “He is the

man Murray and Fritz Kolbach attacked. I know that scar on his cheek. At

the post they said a grizzly bear once clawed him in the face. How did he

learn that Murray was in this part of the country? Ask him.”

Raoul put the question and translated the answer. “He was at Pembina just

after the hunt left. Fritz Kolbach and two other DeMeurons were there at

the same time. Scar Face attacked Kolbach, but the other fellows

separated them. Then Kolbach declared it was Murray who hit Scar Face

over the head, and offered to put him on Murray’s trail. He told Scar

Face that Murray was near Lake Traverse trading with the Dakotas and

pretending to be a medicine man. Some men going from Traverse to Pembina

with carts had seen him. So Scar Face is trailing him.”

“Alone?” queried Walter.

“No, he has some young braves with him who want to get a reputation by

raiding enemy country. They came down the Ottertail River.”

“Where are they?”

“Near here somewhere. I don’t know how he learned that Murray was with

Tatanka Wechacheta’s band, but he knew it before I told him.”

“Did you tell him that we are running away from them?”

“Yes. Wait a minute.”

The Indian was speaking. He pointed up the river and his manner was

earnest and emphatic. When Scar Face paused, Raoul turned to the others

again.

“He says he has heard that there is a good ford a little way up the

river. That is probably where our people crossed. He thinks that Murray

and the Sioux will follow the horse tracks to the ford. If Scar Face and

his braves lie in wait there, they can get a shot at Murray when he tries

to cross. They will take us to the ford in their canoes.”

Before Raoul had finished this explanation, the Indian was showing signs

of impatience. He turned now and led the way in among the willows. There,

where the river current had taken a crescent-shaped bite out of the mud

bank, two birch canoes were pulled up. Five young braves, arrayed in

feathers and war paint, came out from hiding places among the bushes,

where they had been waiting for their leader, who had been for a look

across the prairie west of the river.

They were a wild and fearsome looking little band. Had the boys not known

that they were, for the time being at least, on the Saulteur side of the

quarrel, they might have hesitated to trust themselves with the war

party. But they had given Scar Face and his comrades information of

value, and had nothing to fear from them.

XXXVIII

THE FIGHT AT THE BOIS DES SIOUX

The Indians wasted few words and little time. Walter and Raoul were

assigned to one canoe, Neil to the other. Riding as passengers, they took

the opportunity to munch the chunks of pemmican they had brought with

them, but had not paused to eat.

The Bois des Sioux, above the Ottertail, proved to be an insignificant

stream. It had no valley, but meandered crookedly through a mere trench

in the flat prairie. Willows and other bushes fringed its muddy waters.

Its banks were sometimes open, sometimes wooded with groves or thin lines

of cottonwood, poplar, wild cherry, and other trees. It would be possible

to ford the stream almost anywhere, Walter thought, if one did not stick

fast in the mud. He watched the shores anxiously for signs that horses

had recently been across.

The Indians had been paddling for not more than a half hour, when Scar

Face, who was in the bow of the canoe that carried Walter and Raoul, gave

a little grunt, and pointed with his paddle blade to the low west bank.

Undoubtedly animals had gone up or down there. The willows were broken,

the mud trampled. The Indians swerved the canoe close in. The broken

bushes were still fresh.

“_Mistatim_,” said Scar Face, his keen eyes on the tracks.

“That’s the Cree word for horse,” Raoul explained to Walter, “but we

can’t be sure. They may have been buffalo.”

“If they were, there were only a few of them,” Walter returned. “A big

band would have done more damage.”

“Yes. I believe myself our own people crossed here.”

The canoe was brought to the bank, and Scar Face stepped lightly out.

Walter and Raoul followed. The Saulteur examined the trampled ground

carefully. He gave a low grunt of satisfaction. He had found the print of

a moccasined foot, where a rider had dismounted. But he was not satisfied

yet. He followed the trail through the willows, examining it intently.

Presently he straightened up and spoke to Raoul who was close behind.

“They came to the river,” he said.

“You mean,” the boy questioned, “that they came from there,”—he nodded

towards the west,—“and went”—he pointed east across the stream.

Scar Face grunted assent.

“It must have been our people,” Raoul said to Walter. “They are safe

across the river.”

“That is where we had better be, as soon as we can get there,” was

Walter’s reply.

But the Saulteur was not quite ready to cross. He went on through the

belt of small trees beyond the willows. Walter and Raoul hesitated an

instant, then followed. They too wanted a view of the open ground.

Their first glance across the prairie was reassuring. Except for a few

birds on the wing, the only living creature in sight was one lone animal;

a buffalo from its size and humped shape.

“No Sioux yet,” exclaimed Raoul. “I don’t believe they are coming after

us at all. Nothing to be seen, except that one old buffalo.”

Scar Face knew the French word _boeuf_, commonly used by the Canadians

for buffalo. “Not buffalo,” he said, pointing to the creature moving

through the tall grass. “Man on horse.”

“What?” cried Raoul.

“Man on horse, buffalo skin over him,” the Indian insisted. “See,” he

added, pointing to the northwest. “More come.”

Walter had understood the dialogue and gestures well enough to guess that

Scar Face found something wrong with the distant buffalo and that he saw

or thought he saw something else beyond. Following the Indian’s pointing

finger, the boy strained his eyes. He believed he could make out

something,—moving objects.

“More buffalo,” said Raoul.

Scar Face shook his head doubtfully. The three stood gazing across the

prairie. The lone buffalo was drawing nearer. There was something queer

about it, Walter concluded. Its head was too small. Its shape was wrong.

“He is right,” exclaimed Raoul. “That is a man on horseback, stooped

over, a buffalo hide thrown over him.”

Walter recalled Murray’s queer costume of the night before. What about

those far-away figures? Were _they_ buffalo?

The day was bright and clear. There was not a trace of haze in the air,

now that the sun was climbing higher. And the land was so flat one could

see for miles. There was no longer any doubt in Walter’s mind that there

was something else coming from the northwest, far away still, far beyond

the lone buffalo or horseman, but drawing nearer. Whether that something

was a band of buffalo or of mounted men he could not tell, though he

strained his eyes to make out.

Scar Face had made up his mind that this was no place for him to stay

longer. Abruptly he turned back among the trees. Neil and Raoul asked no

questions. With Walter they heeded the silent warning and followed the

Indian back to the river.

With scarcely a word spoken, the Ojibwas paddled across the stream to the

spot where the party that had taken the ford had left the water. Scar

Face motioned to the boys to get out. He spoke earnestly to Raoul and

Neil, and the latter translated to Walter.

“He wants us to go on, out of the way. He and his braves are going back

to that little island.” Neil pointed to a low, willow-covered islet that

parted the current just above where they had crossed and nearer to the

west bank. “If it is Murray coming they will have a good chance at him

from there.”

Taking for granted that there could be no objection to this manœuvre,

Neil started along the trail, his comrades after him. The Indians stepped

back into their canoes. Walter felt surprised that the hot-headed Neil

should be so willing to run away from a fight. In a moment, however, he

found that Neil had no intention of running away. Instead of seeking the

open, the Scotch boy turned aside among the bushes. After searching a

little, he found a spot that suited him.

“This will do,” he said, crouching down behind a spreading osier dogwood.

Joining Neil and looking between the red stems of the bush, Walter had an

almost clear view of the river. He could see the lower end of the tiny

islet and the spot on the opposite shore where the trail came to the

water.

“You’re going to stay and see what happens?” he asked.

“Of course. We may have to take a hand in the fight. Murray and his

Dakotas must not cross the river, Walter. We must see to that.”

Walter nodded. Even if the Periers and Brabants had passed the Bois des

Sioux before daybreak, they could not have reached Lake Traverse yet.

They had a long way to go with tired horses. It was not impossible for

the Indians, riding hard on fresh ponies, to overtake them. Murray and

his savages must not cross.

The Ojibwas were concealed among the willows of the low island. The lads

could get no glimpse of them. The canoes were visible in part from where

the boys were, but must be completely hidden from the opposite shore.

Crouched among the bushes, the three waited, silent and almost

motionless. Walter had about made up his mind that the horseman with the

buffalo robe,—if it actually was a horseman,—was not coming to the ford,

when Neil laid a hand on his arm and pointed across the river.

The willows were stirring,—not with wind. An animal of some kind was

coming through. It was a horse. Walter could see its head, as it pushed

through the growth. Then the rider came into view; a tall man with a

buffalo hide wrapped about him. He was no longer trying to conceal

himself under the robe. He had let it slip down as he straightened up in

the saddle.

Neil uttered a low exclamation, and Walter started up from his hiding

place. The whole width of the Bois des Sioux at this place was not fifty

yards. The man on the opposite shore was in full sunlight at the edge of

the water. He was tall, like Murray, but he was fully clothed and he wore

a beard.

Raoul pulled Walter down again. “Don’t yell,” he warned in a whisper.

“There may be others behind him. Scar Face can see it is not Murray. I

told him how a white man warned us. He’ll let him cross. He knows he will

lose his chance if he fires before he sees Murray himself.”

There was reason in what the younger boy said. Walter and Neil kept

silence, but they held their breaths for fear the Ojibwas might make a

mistake.

McNab’s horse took to the stream, picking its way carefully. The water

was shallow, the current sluggish, and the rider was not obliged to

dismount or the horse to swim. Not a leaf moved on the willow-covered

islet. Not a sound, except the peaceful twittering of a bird, came from

it, as Duncan McNab, unconscious of any peril from that direction, rode

past the tip, and on across the stream. Intent upon finding the ford, he

did not even glance back, so caught no glimpse of the birch canoes.

Before McNab reached shore, Neil had left his post and slipped through

the bushes to meet him. In a few moments he was back again, the trader,

without his buffalo robe and horse, following. He squatted down beside

Walter and looked at the island and the bark canoes. Neil had told him of

Scar Face and his companions.

“Are the Sioux after _you_?” Walter whispered.

“That I don’t know,” was the response in French. “I suspect Murray would

set them on me if he could. When he and some of the young fools started

for your camp this morning, I thought it was time for me to be away. So I

took short leave of Chief Tatanka Wechacheta. I struck your trail at the

head of the coulee.”

“But they are coming, aren’t they? We thought that——”

“Aye, they’re coming, on your trail. It was no band of buffalo you saw. I

had a buffalo hide over me and the hind quarters of my horse, but I don’t

know whether I fooled them or no.” His keen eyes were fastened on the

break in the bushes, watching.

Walter asked no more questions. Silence was best. But while he waited he

stole more than one glance at the trader, whose strange appearance had

aroused his curiosity the night before. A queer figure indeed was this

tall, lank, big-boned man of almost skeleton thinness; seeming to consist

entirely of bone and gristle. His name was Scotch and so was his tongue,

but Walter suspected that he was far from being wholly white. The coarse,

straight black hair that hung below his fur cap, the dark bronze of his

long face, the high-bridged nose, and prominent cheek bones, betrayed the

Indian. Yet his beard was uneven in color, rusty in places, and the eyes

he turned on the Swiss boy were steel gray, startlingly light in his dark

face. A singular man surely, with a grim, shrewd face, no longer young,

as its many lines and wrinkles betrayed. In spite of the suspense of

waiting, Walter found himself wondering about Duncan McNab and his

history.

The wait was not a long one. McNab suddenly raised his head, like a hound

listening. Then the ears of the others caught the sounds too,—the

crackling of twigs, the clatter of accouterments, as mounted men came

through the strip of poplars and willows on the low opposite bank of the

stream. Duncan looked to the priming of his musket and dropped a ball

into the muzzle. Walter felt for his own weapon. Even in the midst of his

excitement, the thought of shooting unwarned men from ambush sickened

him. But if Murray and his Sioux were really on the trail, they must not

cross. Fear for Elise and for Louis’ mother and sisters steeled the boy’s

nerves.

The willows were moving. A horse’s head appeared, then the rider, a

slender, bronze figure, brave in red paint and feathered head-dress. It

was not Murray. He halted at the edge of the water and turned his head to

look back. Another horse was coming, a white one.

“Himsel,” muttered McNab under his breath.

The rider came in view, tall, stately, his painted body naked to the

waist, his black head bare. There was nothing about him except his size

to distinguish him from any other Indian. The two talked together for a

moment. The slender warrior seemed, from his gestures, to object or

protest.

The waving and rustling of the willows, the sounds that came across the

water, proved that other men were following. But the track was narrow,

and they were obliged to check their horses until the leaders should take

to the water.

“How many?” Neil whispered to McNab.

“Eight or ten,” was the equally low reply.

The discussion ended in Murray’s going first. When the white horse

stepped into the water, a cold shudder passed over Walter. He had every

cause to hate and fear the Black Murray. He hoped Scar Face would not

miss. Yet, quite unreasonably, he wished the rascally mixed blood might

have a chance to fight for his life. He looked a fine figure of a man on

his big, white horse.

He came deliberately enough, letting his horse pick its way, as McNab had

done. From the willows on the islet there was no move, no sound. He was

opposite the tip now. He was past it. He was coming on. Had Scar Face

weakened? Had he lost his courage?

The silence was broken by a sudden menacing sound, not loud but strangely

blood-chilling; the Ojibwa war whoop. On the near side of the islet a

figure leaped into view. At the same instant, it seemed, Murray swung

about on his horse’s back, musket raised. He was a breath too late. Scar

Face had fired.

The distance was too short, the target too good for the Ojibwa hunter to

miss. Even as his own gun went off, Murray swayed forward. The white

horse leaped and plunged. More shots came from the island. Horse and

rider went down, and the muddy water flowed over them.

On the farther bank, the slender Dakota’s horse was hit. As it fell, the

man leaped clear, and darted back among the willows. There followed an

exchange of shots between shore and islet, without a man visible in

either place. Only the puffs of smoke betrayed the hiding places.

Gray eyes gleaming, Duncan McNab turned to Neil. “Get you awa’,” he

ordered. “Ta Traverse as fast as your legs can carry ye.”

“And you?” the boy asked.

“I’ll o’ertak ye. I’ll be seein’ the end o’ this, ta mak sure there’s na

followin’. On your wa’, all o’ ye.”

XXXIX

SAFE

Not one of the three boys thought of disobeying Duncan McNab’s stern

command. On hands and knees, for fear some Indian might catch a glimpse

of them and send a shot in their direction, they crawled through the

bushes. Not until they were out of sight as well as out of range, did

they stand upright.

They tried to follow McNab’s instructions and make good speed towards

Lake Traverse, but all three suddenly found themselves very tired. The

night before, after a hard day’s journey, they had had not a wink of

sleep. It had been a night of continuous physical exertion and intense

strain. Then came the meeting with Scar Face, and the anxious waiting for

Murray and the Dakotas, capped by the excitement of the brief fight. The

time had seemed long, yet in reality events had followed one another so

swiftly that the sun even now was scarcely more than half-way up the sky.

“If I didn’t know we were going in the right direction, I should think we

were headed north, not south,” said Walter, as he plodded wearily along.

“It seems as if the sun must be on the way down, instead of up.”

Neil nodded. “I’m dead sleepy,” he admitted, “but we must try to keep on

going till McNab overtakes us.”

“The firing has stopped,” put in Raoul. “The fight must be over.”

“Or else the noise doesn’t reach us here.”

If the fight was over, who had won? The answer to that question might

mean life or death to the fugitives. Murray had fallen, but if the

Dakotas had destroyed the Ojibwas, they might, even without his

leadership, cross the river and continue the pursuit. The boys felt they

must go on as long as they possibly could. They trudged doggedly on,

casting many a glance behind them.

At last Neil, turning to look back, gave a cry of joy. A single horseman

was on their trail, coming at good speed. He raised one long arm in the

friendship sign. The three stopped short and dropped down to rest and let

him overtake them. They were almost asleep when he reached them.

McNab reined in his horse and looked down at the weary figures with a

grim smile. “Weel,” he said slowly, in his peculiar Scots’ English with

its guttural suggestion of Dakota, “ye disappeart sa quick I thocht the

prairie had swallowed ye.”

“Did the Saulteux win?” Neil roused himself to ask.

“Aye, an’ withoot losin’ a man. Scar Face himsel got a shot in the thigh,

but it’s only a flesh wound. The ither side didna ken the number o’ the

enemy, an’ they were mair nor a little upset by Murray’s fa’. When they

found they coudna drive the Ojubwas fra the wee isle, they turnt tail

theirsel an’ were awa’. If ye can mak it, we’d best be gettin’ ta that

bit _île des bois_ ower yon, where ye can be sleepin’ in the shade.”

The clump of small trees was only a short distance away. There, shaded

from the heat of midday, the boys slept, utterly relaxed, until the sun

was far on its downward course. Duncan McNab kept watch. He had had no

more sleep than they the night before, but he was more used to going

without and needed less than growing boys required.

Neil’s first words, when he woke to find the sun low in the west, were,

“How far have we got to go to Lake Traverse?”

“Ta the post thirty mile or mair,” was the reply.

Neil groaned and stretched. “And we’ve got to walk it,” he muttered.

“Weel, ye may be glad ye’ve got twa soond legs left ta walk it wi’,”

McNab returned with his grim smile. There were no more complaints.

McNab, old campaigner that he was, carried cooking utensils, pemmican,

and a packet of tea in his saddle bags. A hot meal put new courage into

the lads. Before the sun was down they were on their way again. The night

was clear and light, and they kept up a steady pace till midnight. Then

they stopped for a brief rest and more tea.

Luckily for the boys they did not have to walk the whole distance to the

trading post. Dawn had not yet come, when McNab made out a party of

horsemen coming towards them. The foremost rider waved his arms and

shouted. The boys knew that voice. Louis had come back to seek them.

Unashamed to display his feelings, Louis sprang from his pony to hug his

brother and his friends. “Thank the good God,” he cried. “I felt like a

coward and a traitor to leave you behind.”

“It was the only thing to do,” Walter and Neil exclaimed together. “Are

the others safe?”

“All safe, but we did not reach the fort till after sunset. After we

crossed the Bois des Sioux we had to rest our horses a little, and the

children slept. We dared not stop long. The ponies did their best, but

they could not carry double all the time. My mother and M’sieu Perier and

I walked much of the way, and sometimes Marie and Elise walked also.”

“And you started right back to find us?” cried Walter.

“I rested a while first, but I could not sleep. M’sieu Renville gave me a

fresh horse, and these men offered to come with me. I thought you would

follow our trail. If I kept to it, I would find you; if _le Murrai_ had

not overtaken you.”

The _bois brulés_ from the trading post gladly gave up their horses to

the weary boys, and went afoot. So Lake Traverse and the shelter of the

Columbia Fur Company’s fort was reached at last. There, in one of the log

buildings within the stockade on the shore of the lake, the rest of the

little party were waiting anxiously. The boys, almost dropping from their

saddles with sleep and weariness, were embraced and shaken by the hand,

and cried over, and questioned, until the trader, Joseph Renville,

intervened. He led them away to bunks where they could sleep undisturbed

for as many hours as they cared to.

When the boys had had their sleep out, the two sections of the party

exchanged stories. Afterwards Duncan McNab had something to add. He had

returned to the Indian camp two nights before to find the dance in full

swing. Within the medicine lodge, Murray was instructing the chosen

initiates in some sort of mystic rites. From time to time one of them

would come out to chant or howl a few words or syllables and to go

through the steps and posturings of the new dance. The men around the

fires would repeat the lesson over and over, until another of the chosen

ones appeared to teach them something new.

“As near as I could mak oot,” said Duncan, “it was something like the

medicine dance the Mdewakanton Dakota on the Mississippi mak ta their god

Unktahi, that Murray was teachin’ yon Wahpetons, but he was puttin’ in

some stuff of his ain. Some o’ the words o’ the sangs soundit like

Gaelic, but made na sense as far as I could ken, an’ I hae a bit o’ the

Gaelic mysel. I’m thinkin’ he picked the words for their mysterious sound

like.”

When the excitement had reached the right pitch, Murray began to serve

out liquor. “I dinna ken where he got sa mickle,”—McNab shook his head.

“He had a cairt loadit wi’ goods an’ kegs an’ what a’. He must be in wi’

ither free traders, some o’ the men on the Missouri most like, or mayhap

he stole the stuff fra them. It’s the wrang time o’ year ta be buyin’

furs. It was the good will o’ the sauvages an’ power ower ’em he was

after, sa they’d be sure an’ bring him their next winter’s catch.”

As the liquor flowed more freely, the performance grew frenzied. It was a

wild night in Tatanka Wechacheta’s village, and McNab spared his

listeners the details. He feared every moment that the Indians would raid

the neighboring camp, and discover too soon that the white men had gone.

But the Black Murray overdid the celebration. He supplied liquor so

lavishly that his followers were soon entirely overcome by it. Perhaps he

dared not try to withhold what they knew he had. And he failed to curb

his own immoderate thirst, but overindulged until, inert in the medicine

lodge, he slept as heavily as they. “I’m thinkin’ it was the rascal’s

owerfondness for _minnewakan_ that saved a’ your lives,” said McNab. “If

he hadna slept sa late, he wad sure hae owertaken the lads on foot an’

maybe the rest o’ ye.”

When Murray finally roused himself, in ugly mood, he gathered together

eight or ten reckless young braves who could still sit their horses, and

started for the white men’s camp. Up to that time McNab had not felt

himself in any great danger, as long as he kept to his own lodge. He was

a man of influence among the Dakotas, and back of him was the authority

of the Columbia Fur Company and of Joseph Renville. Renville himself was

half Dakota and powerful and respected among his mother’s people. But the

young chief, still partially drunk, was in almost as savage a mood as

Murray that morning, and McNab did not know what might happen.

As soon as Murray had gone, McNab took his leave. On the other side of a

tiny clump of trees, he threw his buffalo robe over his horse and

himself, hoping that, seen from behind, horse and rider might be taken

for a lone bull. He made for the head of the coulee, intending to follow

the fugitives and lend his aid if they were attacked. Finding that Murray

and his men were coming, he urged his horse to its best speed, to get

across the Bois des Sioux before them.

After he had sent the boys on their way, McNab remained to watch the

outcome of the fight. It was soon over. The fall of Murray had struck

panic into the hearts of his followers. “There was reason for that,”

Duncan explained. “Yon Wahpetons are na cowards, but Wechacheta’s chief

medicine man was against Murray. The auld fellow claimed Murray was na

medicine man at a’ an’ had na _wakan_ or _tonwan_, na magic powers. When

Murray was gatherin’ men ta plunder the white men, the auld man tauld ’em

they’d gang ta destruction sure. Murray’s time was come, he said. Afore

the sun gaed doon, he wad be deed, an’ likewise a’ that followt him. Sa

it was na wonder the young braves was scairt when Murray was shot doon at

the ford.”

“You’re sure he was killed?” questioned Renville. “From what I have heard

of the fellow, he seems to have as many lives as a cat.”

“I made sure afore ever I left the Bois des Sioux,” McNab replied

quietly. “An’ there’s his medicine bag ta prove it.” He handed Renville a

curious looking pouch made of rattlesnake skin. “An’ a fine lot o’ trash

there is in it,—birds’ claws, an’ dried roots, a copper nugget, a snake’s

fang, a man’s finger bone, an’ a wee packet o’ black, sticky stuff. Do na

handle that, it micht be poison.”

“It is poison,” asserted Walter, and told the story of his infected hand.

XL

CONCLUSION

As guests of Joseph Renville, French _bois brulé_, and Colonel Jeffries,

Scotchman, partners of the Columbia Fur Company, the Brabant-Perier party

remained at Lake Traverse for more than a week. Guided to the spot by

Louis, Renville himself went to find the abandoned carts. The vehicles

were where the boys had left them, but empty and so badly wrecked that

the remains were good for nothing but firewood. Tatanka Wechacheta’s band

was gone. From the appearance of the camp ground, the Wahpetons’

departure had been a hurried one. Scar Face and his Ojibwas had vanished

also. No doubt they had returned full speed to their own country,

satisfied with their revenge and a scalp or two.

Stripped of practically all of their belongings, the Brabants and Periers

were obliged to run in debt to the traders for supplies and equipment for

the rest of the journey. The boys agreed,—if they could pay the debt no

other way,—to work it out the next winter. With that arrangement the

partners seemed satisfied.

Of the remainder of the long journey overland and down the St. Peter,—as

the Minnesota River was called in those days,—to the Mississippi, there

is no room here to tell. The trip was not without hardship and adventure.

Fort St. Anthony,—later to be renamed Fort Snelling,—at the junction of

the St. Peter with the Mississippi, was reached at last. There a

disappointment awaited the immigrants. St. Antoine, in his talks with

them, had not overstated the beauty and attractiveness of the country,

but his assurance that they might take possession of whatever land they

chose was an error. The country was not yet open to settlement. They

might squat on or near the military reservation, they found, but could

not obtain title to the land or be sure of undisturbed possession. They

were treated with kindness at the fort, but were not encouraged to settle

near by. Instead, they were advised to go on down the Mississippi.

Neil had a chance to join a party just setting out for the Red River.

After parting with him, the others went on again, traveling by river in

an open boat not unlike the York boats that had taken them from Fort York

to Fort Douglas. At Prairie du Chien, on the east side of the river, they

disembarked. Prairie du Chien was in what was then Michigan Territory,

but later became Wisconsin. The little settlement resembled Pembina in

that many of its people were French Canadians and _bois brulés_. There

were, however, some Americans who had come from farther east. There were

good farms and a military post. It was not necessary at Prairie du Chien

to depend entirely on hunting for a living.

There the weary immigrants decided to try to make homes for themselves.

They made friends at once, who helped them to get a start, and prospects

seemed more encouraging than in the Red River Colony. The Brabants showed

no desire to return, and certainly the Periers and Walter did not want

to. When, late in the autumn, Louis and Walter left the settlement to

work out the family debts to the Columbia Fur Company, they went well

assured that those left behind would be comfortable and well cared for.

Other families of the Swiss had already left the Red River and more

followed, including the Scheideckers, in the next and succeeding years.

Like the Periers, they took the long journey to the Mississippi, and

settled at the junction of that river with the St. Peter or lower down

its course in what was to become Wisconsin and Illinois.

The Brabants and the Periers had their ups and downs, but on the whole

they prospered. In time Mr. Perier’s dream of an apothecary shop in the

new land came true. He even had his herb garden, started from the few

packets of seeds he had carried in his pockets during all his wanderings.

Walter became a successful farmer on his own land and married Elise, as

he had dreamed of doing. Little Max was ambitious to be a physician. He

helped in his father’s shop and went to school, until he was old enough

to go east to study medicine.

Louis and his mother were land owners also, but farming was less to

Louis’ taste than following the river. He found employment on a

Mississippi steamboat, became a skilled pilot, and in time owned the boat

he captained. Of all the boys Raoul was the only one to follow the fur

trade. As a clerk and trader with the American Fur Company, he traveled

and traded over much of the northwest. The Brabant girls grew into

bright, attractive women. Marie married a Canadian settler, Jeanne, a

merchant and trader.

Of Neil the others heard nothing for several years. Then, after the

disastrous Red River flood of 1826 that almost destroyed the Selkirk

Colony, he appeared at Prairie du Chien. His father still refused to

leave Kildonan, but Neil had decided to emigrate to the United States. He

took up land in Wisconsin, and afterwards, when the Indian lands of

Minnesota were opened to settlement, moved to the Minnesota valley.

The bonds of friendship and understanding which had been knit by the long

journey together and the perils and hardships undergone, remained firm

and strong between the Periers, and Rossels, and Brabants, and MacKays.

Even after all had their separate homes and families, they enjoyed many a

reunion when they recalled the old days and told children and

grandchildren of the long and perilous journey from the Red River to the

Mississippi.