Montlivet Part 35

Pierre rubbed his sleeve across his face. "The master will not listen.

I do not know about Labarthe. I saw him at camp yesterday morning.

The master saw him at the same time. Then the master went to the swamp, and I went, too, with my Indian. But I kept behind. By and by I saw the canoe upside down, and the master's cloak floating on the water; by that I knew that the master was drowned or had got away. I thought he had gone to the Malhominis, and I wanted to go, too. So I killed my Indian, and hid him in the gra.s.s. I came by land."

I rose on my elbow, careless of my shoulder. "How could you kill the Indian? You had no weapon."

Pierre stretched out his arms, knotted like an oak's branches, and ill.u.s.trated. "I hugged him. Once I broke the ribs of a bear."

I lay and wagged my head like an old man who hears of warlocks and witch charms, and knows the tales to be true. The stupefying simplicity of it! If you want a thing, take it. Pierre wanted to follow me, so he killed his guard and came. That was all there was of it. I looked at him long, my head still wagging. He had done this sort of thing before. I had never understood it. It was this that I meant when I had called Pierre, dull of wit as he seemed, the most useful of my men.

I lay all day on my pallet, and Outchipouac served me with his own hands.

"It is thus that we treat those whom we delight to honor," he said, and he held the gourd to my lips and wiped my face with a square of linen that some trader had left in camp. He would give me no solid food, but dosed me with brewed herbs and great draughts of steaming broth. The juggler looked into the lodge and would have tried his charms on me, but Outchipouac sent him away.

A storm rose toward night, and I heard the knocking of the rain on the skin roof above me, and thought of the woman traveling northward in the Iroquois canoes. Starling was with her. I lay with tight-clenched hands.

The storm swelled high. I asked that the mat be dropped from before the door that I might see the lightning, and while I watched it Outchipouac slipped in. He felt me over, and patted my moist skin approvingly. Then he sat by my side and began to talk.

His talk at first was a chant, a saga, a recitation of the glories of his ancestors. The Malhominis had been a proud race,--now they were dwindled to this village of eighty braves. He crooned long tales of famine, of tribal bickerings, of ambuscade and defeat; his voice rustled monotonously like wind in dried gra.s.s.

Then his tone rose. He spoke of the present, its possibilities. The Iroquois league was a scourge, a pestilence. Could it be abolished, the western nations would return to health. Security would reign, and tribal laws be respected. The French would be friends, partners,--never masters,--and a golden age would descend upon the west. It was the gospel that I had cried in the wilderness, but phrased in finer imagery than mine. I felt the wooing of his argument, even as I had wooed others, and I listened silently and watched the lightning's play.

But I dreaded the moment when his argument should leave theory and face me in the concrete. The change came suddenly, as in music a tender melody will merge abruptly into a summons to arms. He called me to witness. The Iroquois were at the gates. They outnumbered the Malhominis, but the Sacs, the Chippewas, and the Winnebagoes were all within a day's journey, and would come at my call. The time for the alliance of which I had told them was at hand. My body was crippled but my brain was whole. To-morrow he, the chief, at my bidding, and with my watchword, would send runners through the tribes. Within the week a giant force could be gathered and an attack made. The Iroquois camp would be exterminated, and then I, at the head of the force, could march where I willed. Never had the western tribes followed a white man, but I had called their hearts from their bodies, and they would go.

But one thing I was to remember. He, Outchipouac, the chief, was my brother in arms. He had rescued me, clothed me, furnished me the means of war. My victories were his victories. These were his conditions.

All Iroquois slaves that might be captured were to belong to the Malhominis to be incorporated in their tribe. The other tribes could divide the plunder, but the Malhominis needed new blood for adoption.

I must agree to that.

He stopped. I was too sick of mind to speak, and my distemper was not of my wound. I had builded for this moment for two years, and now that it had come I was going to turn my back on it. More, I was going to refuse aid to a man who had succored me, had shown me genuine kindness.

Self-pity is contemptible, but I felt it now.

"I cannot lead you," I said dully. "Gather your troops if you like, and make the attack without me. I cannot be here. To-morrow I must start for Michillimackinac. You will give me a canoe and a man?"

The lightning filled the tent and lit our faces, and I saw the chief start back under the blow of my words. He was shocked out of all his inherited and acquired phlegm. He did not speak, but he rose and peered into my eyes and I saw bewilderment go and contempt rise to take its place. To feel the righteous disdain of an Indian! That is an unusual experience for a white man.

And still he did not reply. He sat down and pulled his blanket over him. He was sorting out the evidence against me and giving judgment.

It seemed at least an hour that he sat silent. And when he did speak he brought no manna.

"You have sold yourself to the Iroquois wolf. You are a child. You see only what is in front of your nose and forget what may come later.

You are a fox. You hand us over to the wolf, but what do you expect?

Has a wolf grat.i.tude? No, but he has hunger. Fox meat is poor and stringy, but the wolf has a large stomach. Let the fox beware."

I pulled myself to my feet, though my shoulder cried to me for mercy.

I jerked the chief's blanket aside.

"Outchipouac, I have listened. You have used an old trick. When a man wishes to be rid of a dog he cries that it is mad; then he can kill it, and no one will call him to account. So you. If you wish to break the covenant between us, now is your time. You can call me a fox, you can say that I have sold my honor to the Iroquois wolf. No one will check you, for I am naked and ill, and you are powerful. But you will have lied. This is my answer. I have called you 'brother;' I have kept the bond unbroken. If there is a fox here it is the man who calls me one."

I waited, and my mind was heavy. If the chief called me "brother" in turn, I was ready to embrace him as of my kin. For he was full of vigor of mind and honesty, and I respected him. He had been kind to me. Would he trust me against the evidence,--the evidence of his ears and of my reluctant tongue?

He temporized. "The Frenchman has a tongue like a bobolink,--pleasant to hear. Whether it says much,--that is a different matter. Can the Frenchman tell me why he wishes to go to Michillimackinac? Can he tell me why he spends time from the moon of breaking ice to the moon of strawberries building a lodge of promises, and then when he is just ready to use the lodge blows it down with a breath?"

What could I tell him? That I was following a woman? That I had given her my name, and that I must protect her? It would sound to him like a parrot's laughter. This was no court of love. It was war. A troubadour's lute would tinkle emptily in these woods that had seen ma.s.sacre and knew the shriek of the death cry. Again I set my teeth and rose.

"Outchipouac, war is secret. I cannot tell you why I go to Michillimackinac. But trust me. I go on business; I shall return at once, within ten days, unless the wind be foul. Will you furnish me a canoe and a man to paddle?" I stooped and pulled rushes from my pallet, plaited them, and bound them in a ring. "Take this ring; keep it. It is firm, like my purpose, and unending, like my endeavor. I shall replace it with a chain of bright silver when I come to you again. I give it to you in pledge of my friendship."

The chief took the ring and handled it loosely. I thought he was about to throw it away, but he did not. He put it in his blanket.

"It is well," he said, and left the lodge. I was held on probation.

I had a good night and woke with new sinews. I saw that the sun was shining and the sky untroubled. A squaw brought me broth, and I drank it hungrily and tried to see no evil augury in the fact that I was served by a woman. I flattered her, and asked her to summon Pierre.

She brought him at once. He thrust himself into the entrance, and I saw dismay written large upon him.

"There is a canoe waiting to take the master away," he cried. "I am going, too."

Now I was prepared for this battle. "Pierre, you are to stay here.

You are to keep near the Seneca camp to help Labarthe and Leclerc. If they escape, go, all of you, to our camp on Sturgeon Cove and guard the stores till I send you word. You understand?"

"But the master is sick. I go with him."

"You stay here."

"I go with the master."

"I will not allow it."

"Then I follow behind."

"You have no canoe, no provision."

"I have legs. I can walk. I can eat tripe de roche."

The giant was trembling. I could not but respect this rebellion. He had broken the chains of three centuries in his defiance. The thought of his filling his cavernous stomach with tripe de roche--which is a rock lichen, slimy and tasteless--moved me somewhat.

"You dare disobey me, Pierre?"

"But the master is sick."

I shrugged, but the logic held. "Then tell the chief," I capitulated.

"And see that I have something to wear."

Water was brought by one squaw, and another fetched more broth and bound my shoulder with fresh dressings. Then leggings, robe, and girdle of wolfskin were left for me. I put them on with difficulty, and went to find Outchipouac.

I stepped out into a glare of sunshine and stood blinking. The braves were gathered in a group, and a line of squaws barred me from them. I started toward them, but the squaws waved me back; they pointed me to the sh.o.r.e and the waiting canoe. Pierre rolled forward, uneasy and scowling.

"The braves will not speak to us; they say our talk means nothing."

"Who said that?"