II

Walking Moose did not devote all his time in the summer months to the

catching and smoking of salmon and trout. He wandered about the country,

in seeming idleness, but in reality his brain was busy with ambitious

plans. And always his eyes were open and his ears alert. He did not

expect another attack from the Mohawks before the time of the hunter’s

moon, but he continued to place his outposts far and near, and to visit

them at unexpected moments. Though his village had doubled in size

within the year, and leapt into fame, he was not satisfied. He wanted to

drive the Mohawks far to the westward and break them so that they would

never again venture into the fringes of the Maliseet country, and he

dreamed of the day when all the scattered clans and villages of the

Maliseets would name him for their head chief.

One morning in July he followed the edge of Woolastook’s rocky valley

for a distance of about five miles above the village, then clambered

down the bank and crossed the brawling stream—for at this point old

Woolastook, the father of Maliseet rivers, was no more than a lively

brook. Beneath the farther bank was a flat rock and an amber pool. He

laid aside his shield and bow, and reclined on the rock to dream his

ambitious dreams. So he lay for an hour, and the sunlight slanted in

upon him and gilded his dreams.

Suddenly Walking Moose sprang to his feet and turned, his shield on his

left arm and his bow in his right hand. His glance flashed to the

overhanging fringe of spruce branches above his head. He saw a girl’s

face looking timidly out, and a pair of dark eyes gazing shyly down upon

him. He did not know the face. It was not that of any girl of his own

village.

“What do you want?” he asked, watchful for some sight or sound to betray

the presence of some hidden menace.

Hawk-in-the-Tree answered him in his own tongue, for she had learned it

from a prisoner when she was a child. Until recently, the Mohawks had

never lacked opportunity of acquiring the Maliseet language.

“I sometimes fish in that pool, chief. But I will go away and fish

somewhere else,” she replied, modestly.

“Do not go,” he said. “Come down and fish here if you want to. The pools

of the river are free to all honest Maliseets.”

Without more ado, the girl crawled forward, turned, and slid down to the

flat rock beside Walking Moose. In her left hand she held a short coil

of transparent fish-line made from the intestines of some animal. Her

small face was flushed. She stood beside Walking Moose with downcast

eyes. The young man gazed at her with frank interest.

“You are a stranger,” he said. “You do not belong to my village.”

She met his glance for a second.

“Have you ever seen me before, chief?” she asked.

“I am not sure,” he replied, puckering his brows in reflection. “But I

know that you do not live in my village. You do not look like those

young women.”

“They are more pleasant of appearance, perhaps?”

He smiled at that.

“Perhaps you say the truth, but I think your cheeks are pinker and your

eyes brighter than the young women I know.”

The girl turned her face away from him.

“I must fish,” she said, “else my poor old grandfather will go hungry.”

Walking Moose, feeling an interest that was new to him, and prompted by

a little devil that had never troubled him before, dropped his bow and

put out his hand and took the coiled fish-line from the girl. Their

fingers touched—and he was astonished at the thrill which he felt.

“You must tell me who you are, and where you come from,” he said, and

his voice had a foolish little break in it. This vocal tremor was not

lost on the girl.

“I belong to a small village on the great river, three days’ journey

from here,” she said. “My old grandfather is my only friend. His name is

Never Sleep. Because of his sharp tongue he became disliked by the

people of the village, and so we journeyed to this place, and built a

little hidden lodge. Never Sleep is very old, and spends all his days in

brewing healing liquors from roots and barks. It is my work to keep the

pot boiling.”

Walking Moose was impressed.

“You are a good girl to take such care of your old grandfather,” he

said. “But why have you not brought him into my village to dwell?”

“The noises of a village disturb him,” she replied. “And though his

heart is kind, his tongue is bitter. He fears no one when he is angered,

and rushes out of his lodge and calls people terrible names. He fears a

great chief no more than a giggling papoose.”

The young man smiled.

“Then it is well that he should continue to live in quiet,” he said.

“But you have not told me your name,” he added.

She glanced at him swiftly, and as swiftly away again, and the glow

deepened in her cheeks.

“My name is poor and unknown,” she said. “It is for mighty chieftains

such as Walking Moose to give names to their people.”

At this Walking Moose, who planned greatness and fought battles without

disturbing a line of his thin face, looked delighted and slightly

confused.

“Sit down,” he said, “while I catch some fish for you and your

grandfather; and while I am fishing I may think of a name for you.”

The girl sat down, smiling demurely. Walking Moose uncoiled the

transparent line, placed a fat grasshopper on the hook, and cast it

lightly upon the surface of the pool. He stepped close to the edge of

the rock and, with his right hand advanced, flicked the kicking bait

artfully. The sun was in front of him, so his shadow did not fall upon

the pool. Suddenly there was a movement in the amber depths as swift as

light, and next instant the grasshopper vanished in a swirl of bubbling

water. The line, held taut, cut the surface of the pool in a half-circle

like a hissing knife-blade. The line was strong, and in those days men

fished for the pot and gave little thought to the sport. So Walking

Moose pulled strongly, to judge the resistance, then took a lower hold

with his right hand and gave a quick and mighty jerk on the line. The

big trout came up like a bird, described a graceful curve in the

sunlight, and descended smack upon the rock. He was dispatched in a

moment by a blow at the base of the head.

“There is a fine trout for your cooking-pot,” said Walking Moose,

boyishly delighted with his success. “Now I’ll see if there is another

in the pool.”

“But you have not made a name for me yet,” said the girl.

“True,” replied the young man. “Catching fish is easier.” He looked

shyly at the girl, then very steadily at the gleaming dead trout. “You

are like a trout,” he said, with hesitation. “You are bright—and

slender—and the beads on your skirt are red and blue like the spots

along the trout’s sides. I might name you Beautiful Trout, or Little

Trout—but your eyes——” He paused and glanced at her uncertainly.

She did not return his glance, but sat with her head bent and her hands

clasped loosely in her beaded lap. Her hair, in two dusky braids, was

drawn in front of her slender shoulders, and hung down her breast.

“They are not like a trout’s,” he said. “No, they are not at all like

the eyes of a fish.”

“What are they like?” she asked, her voice small and shy.

Walking Moose fiddled with the line in his fingers and shuffled his feet

uneasily. “How should I know? I cannot see them.”

“But you have seen them. Can’t you remember?”

“I remember. They are like—like things that have never been seen by any

man alive, for they are like black stars.”

The girl laughed, and the sound was like the music of thin water

flittering over small pebbles.

“Is Walking Moose a poet as well as the conqueror of the Mohawks, that

he makes a fool of a poor young woman with talk of black stars?” she

asked, turning her gaze full upon him for a moment with a look of tender

mockery.

His heart expanded, then twitched with a pang of doubt. This mention of

the Mohawks was grateful to his vanity, but it was disturbing too. Here

he had been talking to a girl and catching a trout, when his mind should

have been intent on plans against the enemy. He felt ashamed of himself.

What would be the end of his good fighting and great dreams if he spent

any more time in such foolishness?

“I am not a poet,” he said. “A man who pushes his shield between the

lodges of the Mohawks has no time for the making of songs.”

Already his air was preoccupied. Hawk-in-the-Tree noticed this.

“Or for the making of names, chief,” she said. “I do not wonder that

your mind is uneasy and that fear tingles in your heart, for the Mohawks

are mighty enemies.”

Walking Moose stared at her, then smiled.

“Yes, they are mighty against those who run away,” he said. “The hare

that jumps from the fern strikes as much terror in my heart as all the

Mohawks who stand in moccasins.” He laughed softly, gazing down at the

amber water of the pool. “But I have a name for you,” he added. “Shining

Star is your name in my country.”

Then he put the line into her hand, took up his bow and shield, and

crossed the stream. He climbed the short, steep ascent and forced his

way through the tangled branches. So he advanced for about ten yards,

making a good deal of stir. Then he halted, turned, and crawled

noiselessly back to the edge of the bank. He lay motionless for several

minutes, peering out between the drooping spruces. He had no suspicion

of the girl, but it was a part of his creed to look twice and carefully

at everything that was new to him. He watched her bait the hook and cast

it on the pool. She skipped it here and there across the calm surface;

and presently a fish rose and took it, and was deftly landed upon the

rock for his trouble. Walking Moose was satisfied that the girl had no

intentions against anything but the trout. He crawled noiselessly back

through the brush, then got to his feet, and returned to the bank

without any effort at concealment. She looked up as he appeared above

the stream.

“I have come back,” he said, “to accompany you to your lodge. I must see

your grandfather, Never Sleep. It is my duty as chief to know all my

people and the whereabouts of every lodge.”

The girl coiled the wet line and took up the two trout. Her head was

bowed, so the young man did not see the smile on her red lips. It was in

her thoughts that something more than a poor fish had risen to her hook;

but Walking Moose really thought that he was but doing his duty as chief

of the clan of the White Salmon. As this couple had come to his country

from the lower river, it was clearly his place to know something of

their position so that he might protect them in time of need.

Walking Moose climbed the steep bank first and then reached down a

helping hand to the girl whom he had named Shining Star. This was an

unusual attention from a brave to a squaw. On reaching the top the girl

took the lead. She walked swiftly and gracefully, and the twigs and

branches that sprang into place behind her switched the warrior; but so

intent was he in following this Shining Star that he paid no attention

to the switchings. She led straight to the south, over hummocks, and

across open places and tangled valleys. So for about a mile; and then

she halted and turned a glowing face to her follower.

“I must let Never Sleep know that I am bringing a stranger,” she said,

“or he will be in a terrible rage. He is not agreeable when he is angry.

If I whistle twice, he will know that I am not alone.”

“He must be an unpleasant old man to live with,” said Walking Moose; and

because of the foolishness that was brewing in his heart he felt no

suspicion. He stood inert, gazing down at Shining Star’s glossy head,

while she gave vent to two long, shrill whistles.

“That will let him know that a visitor is coming,” she said. “It will

give him time to get a pleasant smile on his face.”

This appeared to Walking Moose as the most excellent wit. Again they

advanced, and soon they came to a little lodge of birchbark set in a

grove of young firs. A faint haze of smoke crawled up from the hole in

the roof. The door-flap of hide was fastened open, showing a shadowy

interior and the glow of a fallen fire. The girl laid her fish on the

moss beside the door, and peered into the lodge.

“Walking Moose, the mighty chief, has come to see you,” she said.

“Walking Moose is welcome to my poor lodge,” returned a feeble voice.

“Let him enter and speak face to face with old Never Sleep.”

The girl drew back and nodded brightly to the chief.

“You go first,” said he, his native caution flickering up for a moment.

“The lodge is so dark, that I am afraid that I might step upon the old

man.”

She read the reason for his hesitation, and the blood tingled in her

cheeks, but she entered without a word. He paused at the door for long

enough to accustom his eyes to the dark within. He could see no one but

Shining Star, and a robed, stooped figure seated on the ground. He

stepped inside.

“The thong of my moccasin became unfastened,” he said, by way of

explaining his hesitation at the door.

A dry chuckle came from the robed figure.

“He is a wise man who halts and sets his feet and eyes to rights at the

threshold of a strange lodge,” said the feeble voice of Never Sleep.

Walking Moose felt absurdly young and transparent. He stood beside the

fire and stared over it at the old man. He could see little but the

living gleam of the face and a hint of two watchful eyes.

“What do you want of me, great chief?” asked Never Sleep.

“I met your granddaughter at the river, where she was fishing,” replied

the warrior. “She told me her story, and so I came home with her to mark

the position of your lodge. All who dwell in my country are in my care.

It is well for me to know where to find every one of my people, in case

of need.”

“You will find me of small use to you in time of need,” returned the

other, “for I am old and weak, and my fighting days are over. Only in

one way can I serve you, chief. I brew potent liquors for the cure of

all bodily ills.”

“It is well,” said Walking Moose, with a full recovery of his usual

manner. “But you twist the truth of my words. I do not ask for your

help, old man; but you and your granddaughter may need mine, some time.

Brew your liquor in peace—and in danger send word to Walking Moose.”

With that he turned on his heel and left the lodge.

Next morning found the chief of the people of the White Salmon again

reclined on the flat rock above the amber pool; and again his dreams of

ambition and plans of warfare were disturbed by the girl whom he had

named Shining Star. Again she slid down to the rock, with the coiled

fish-line in her hand. Again he took the line from her and caught a

trout for her dinner. So it happened for six days, and by that time the

dreams of Walking Moose were all of Shining Star instead of ambition. He

even made a song, and it seemed to please Shining Star. But of these

strangers he said nothing in the village. It would be time to speak of

them when he had won the prize.

On the seventh morning the chief waited on the rock above the amber pool

for an hour. After that he spent another hour in walking up and down the

bed of the stream for a distance of several hundred yards each way. He

flushed hot and cold with anxiety.

“Has something happened to her?” he asked of the lonely stream. “Or have

they both gone away as quietly as they came?”

Unable to stand the torment of anxiety any longer, he ascended the bank

above the pool, and set off swiftly towards Never Sleep’s lodge. He

found the old man crouched before the door.

“The girl has a fever,” said the old man. “But I have given her a potent

liquor that will drive it out of her blood.”

Such fear gripped the young chief’s heart at these words as he had never

felt before. His staring face showed it to the sharp eyes of Never

Sleep.

“She rests quietly now,” said the old man. “She must not be disturbed.

In the morning she will be well, I think. But, in the meantime, the pot

is empty.”

So Walking Moose went into the forest to hunt for flesh for Never

Sleep’s cooking-pot. He walked slowly, for his feet felt as heavy as

stones when turned away from the lodge where Shining Star lay sick. His

eyes were dim, and the sunlight on the trees and the azure sky above

looked desolate and terrible to him. He stumbled as he walked. He

wandered aimlessly for more than an hour before the thought returned to

him that Never Sleep’s pot was empty, and that his mission was to fill

it. But the thought flashed away again as swiftly as it had returned,

and so he continued his aimless wanderings.

“I love that girl—that Shining Star!” he murmured. “I must tell her of

it soon, in plain words—to-morrow, when the fever is gone from her.”

It was close upon sunset when Walking Moose at last got back to the

lodge of Never Sleep. He carried two young ducks at his belt. The old

man came to the door of the lodge.

“Has the fever gone?” whispered the chief.

“She still sleeps,” replied the other. “The fever is passing. But you

are weary, my son. Drink this draught to refresh your sinews and lighten

your spirit. Then sleep, and when you awake you will find that the fever

has passed away from the girl.”

Walking Moose took the stone cup in a trembling hand and swallowed the

bitter-sweet liquid it contained. Then he lay down on the warm moss

beside the lodge. How light his body felt! What beautiful, faint music

breathed in his ears! His lids slid down, but he raised them with an

effort.

“I must sleep—for—a—little——” His voice trailed away to silence. Again

his lids fluttered down.

Never Sleep stooped above him, but the face was no longer that of a

feeble old man, but of the Mohawk chief—the father of Hawk-in-the-Tree.

“The liquor has done its work,” he said.

Then the girl to whom Walking Moose had given the name of Shining Star

came out of the lodge.