The portage struck promptly to the right through a tall, leafy woods,
swam neck-high in the foliage of small growth, mounted a steep hill, and
meandered over a bowlder-strewn, moss-grown plateau, to dip again, a
quarter of a mile away, to the banks of the river. But you must not
imagine one of your easy portages of Maine or lower Canada. This trail
was faint and dim,--here an excoriation on the surface of a fallen and
half-rotted tree, there a withered limb hanging, again a mere _sense_ in
the forest's growth that others had passed that way. Only an expert
could have followed it.
The canoe loads were dumped out on the beach. One after another, even to
the little children, the people shouldered their packs. The long sash
was knotted into a loop, which was passed around the pack and the
bearer's forehead. Some of the stronger men carried thus upward of two
hundred pounds.
Unlike a party of white men, the Indians put no system into their work.
They rested when they pleased, chatted, shouted, squatted on their heels
conversing. Yet somehow the task was accomplished, and quickly. To one
on an elevation dominating the scene it would have been most
picturesque. Especially noticeable were those who for the moment stood
idle, generally on heights, where their muscle-loose attitudes and
fluttering draperies added a strangely decorative note to the landscape;
while below plodded, bending forward under their enormous loads, an
unending procession of patient toilers. In five minutes the portage was
alive from one end to the other.
To Dick and Sam Bolton the traverse was a simple matter. Sam, by the aid
of his voyager's sash, easily carried the supplies and blankets; Dick
fastened the two paddles across the thwarts to form a neck-yoke, and
swung off with the canoe. Then they returned to the plateau until their
savage friends should have finished the crossing.
Ordinarily white men of this class are welcome enough to travel with the
Indian tribes. Their presence is hardly considered extraordinary enough
for comment. Sam Bolton, however, knew that in the present instance he
and Dick aroused an unusual interest of some sort.
He was not able to place it to his own satisfaction. It might be because
of Bolton's reputation as a woodsman; it might be because of Dick
Herron's spectacular service to Haukemah in the instance of the bear; it
might be that careful talk had not had its due effect in convincing the
Indians that the journey looked merely to the establishment of new
winter posts; Sam was not disinclined to attribute it to pernicious
activity on the part of the Ojibway. It might spring from any one of
these. Nor could he quite decide its quality;--whether friendly or
inimical. Merely persisted the fact that he and his companion were
watched curiously by the men and fearfully by the women; that they
brought a certain constraint to the camp fire.
Finally an incident, though it did not decide these points, brought
their ambiguity nearer to the surface.
One evening old Haukemah received from the women the bear's robe fully
tanned. Its inner surface had been whitened and then painted rudely
with a symbolical representation of the hunt. Haukemah spoke as follows,
holding the robe in his hand:
"This is the robe of makwá, our little brother. His flesh we all ate of.
But you who killed him should have his coat. Therefore my women have
painted it because you saved their head man."
He laid the robe at Dick's feet. Dick glanced toward his companion with
the strange cast flickering quizzically in his narrow eyes. "Fine thing
to carry along on a trip like ours," he said in English. "_I_ don't know
what to do with it. They've worked on it mighty near a week. I wish to
hell they'd keep their old robe." However, he stooped and touched it in
sign of acceptance. "I thank my brother," he said in Cree.
"You'll have to bring it along," Sam answered in English. "We'll have to
carry it while we're with them, anyway."
The Indian men were squatted on their heels about the fire, waiting
gravely and courteously for this conference, in an unknown tongue, to
come to an end. The women, naturally interested in the disposal of
their handiwork, had drawn just within the circle of light.
Suddenly Dick, inspired, darted to this group of women, whence he
returned presently half dragging, half-coaxing a young girl. She came
reluctantly, hanging back a little, dropping her head, or with an
embarrassed giggle glancing shyly over her shoulder at her companions.
When near the centre of the men's group, Dick dropped her hand.
Promptly she made as though to escape, but stopped at a word from
Haukemah. It was May-may-gwán, the Ojibway girl.
Obediently she paused. Her eyes were dancing with the excitement of the
adventure, an almost roguish smile curved her mouth and dimpled her
cheek, her lower lip was tightly clasped between her teeth as she stood
contemplating her heavily beaded little moccasin, awaiting the
explanation of this, to her, extraordinary performance.
"What is your name, little sister?" asked Dick in Cree.
She dropped her head lower, but glanced from the corner of her eye at
the questioner.
"Answer!" commanded Haukemah.
"May-may-gwán," she replied in a low voice.
"Oh, yes," said Dick, in English. "You're an Ojibway," he went on in
Cree.
"Yes."
"That explains why you're such a tearing little beauty," muttered the
young man, again in English.
"The old-men," he resumed, in Cree, "have given me this robe. Because I
hold it very dear I wish to give it to that people whom I hold dearest.
That people is the Crees of Rupert's House. And because you are the
fairest, I give you this robe so that there may be peace between your
people and me."
Ill-expressed as this little speech was, from the flowery standpoint of
Indian etiquette, nevertheless its subtlety gained applause. The Indians
grunted deep ejaculations of pleasure. "Good boy!" muttered Sam Bolton,
pleased.
Dick lifted the robe and touched it to the girl's hand. She gasped in
surprise, then slowly raised her eyes to his.
"Damn if you ain't pretty enough to kiss!" cried Dick.
[Illustration: "Pretty enough to kiss!" cried Dick]
He stepped across the robe, which had fallen between them, circled the
girl's upturned face with the flat of his hands, and kissed her full on
the lips.
The kiss of ceremony is not unknown to the northern Indians, and even
the kiss of affection sometimes to be observed among the more
demonstrative, but such a caress as Dick bestowed on May-may-gwán filled
them with astonishment. The girl herself, though she cried out, and ran
to hide among those of her own sex, was not displeased; she rather liked
it, and could not mis-read the admiration that had prompted it. Nor did
the other Indians really object. It was a strange thing to do, but
perhaps it was a white man's custom. The affair might have blown away
like a puff of gunpowder.
But at the moment of Dick's salute, Sam Bolton cried out sharply behind
him. The young woodsman instantly whirled to confront the Chippewa.
"He reached for his knife," explained Sam.
The ejaculation had also called the attention of every member of the
band to the tableau. There could be absolutely no doubt as to its
meaning,--the evident anger of the red, his attitude, his hand on the
haft of his knife. The Chippewa was fairly caught.
He realised the fact, but his quick mind instantly turned the situation
to his profit. Without attempting to alter the malice of his expression,
he nevertheless dropped his hand from his knife-hilt, and straightened
his figure to the grandiose attitude of the Indian orator.
"This man speaks crooked words. I know the language of the saganash. He
tells my brothers that he gives this robe to May-may-gwán because he
holds it the dearest of his possessions, and because his heart is good
towards my brother's people. But to the other saganash he said these
words: 'It is a little thing, and I do not wish to carry it. What shall
I do with it?'"
He folded his arms theatrically. Dick Herron, his narrow eyes blazing,
struck him full on the mouth a shoulder blow that sent him sprawling
into the ashes by the fire.
The Chippewa was immediately on his feet, his knife in his hand.
Instinctively the younger Crees drew near to him. The old race
antagonism flashed forth, naturally, without the intervention of
reason. A murmur went up from the other bystanders.
Sam Bolton arose quietly to take his place at Dick's elbow. As yet there
was no danger of violence, except from the outraged Chippewa. The Crees
were startled, but they had not yet taken sides. All depended on an
intrepid front. For a moment they stared at one another, the Indians
uncertain, the Anglo-Saxons, as always, fiercely dominant in spirit, no
matter what the odds against them, as long as they are opposed to what
they consider the inferior race.
Then a flying figure glided to the two. May-may-gwán, palpitating with
fear, thrust their rifles into the white men's hands, then took her
stand behind them.
But Haukemah interfered with all the weight of his authority.
"Stop!" he commanded, sharply. "There is no need that friends should
bear weapons. What are you doing, my young men? Do you judge these
saganash without hearing what they have to say? Ask of them if what the
Chippewa says is true."
"The robe is fine. I gave it for the reason I said," replied Dick.
The Cree young men, shaken from their instinctive opposition, sank back.
It was none of their affair, after all, but a question of veracity
between Dick and his enemy. And the Chippewa enjoyed none too good a
reputation. The swift crisis had passed.
Dick laughed his boyish, reckless laugh.
"Damn if I didn't pick out the old idiot's best girl!" he cried to his
companion; but the latter doubtfully shook his head.