The Crossing [89]
until I came to the long log house that was called the garrison. Here our men were stationed, where formerly a squad from an English regiment was quartered. I found Captain Bowman, delivered the letter, and started back again through the brown, dusty street, which lay in the shade of the great forest trees that still lined it, doubling now and again to avoid an idling brave that looked bent upon mischief. For a single mischance might set the tide running to massacre. I was nearing the gate again, the dust flying from my moccasined feet, the sight of the stalwart Tom giving me courage again. Suddenly, with the deftness of a panther, an Indian shot forward and lifted me high in his arms. To this day I recall my terror as I dangled in mid-air, staring into a hideous face. By intuition I kicked him in the stomach with all my might, and with a howl of surprise and rage his fingers gripped into my flesh. The next thing I remember was being in the dust, suffocated by that odor which he who has known it can never forget. A medley of discordant cries was in my ears. Then I was snatched up, bumped against heads and shoulders, and deposited somewhere. Now it was Tom's face that was close to mine, and the light of a fierce anger was in his blue eyes.
``Did they hurt ye, Davy?'' he asked.
I shook my head. Before I could speak he was at the gate again, confronting the mob of savages that swayed against the fence, and the street was filled with running figures. A voice of command that I knew well came from behind me. It was Colonel Clark's.
``Stay where you are, McChesney!'' he shouted, and Tom halted with his hand on the latch.
``With your permission, I will speak to them,'' said Monsieur Gratiot, who had come out also.
I looked up at him, and he was as calm as when he had joked with me a quarter of an hour since.
``Very well,'' said Clark, briefly.
Monsieur Gratiot surveyed them scornfully.
``Where is the Hungry Wolf, who speaks English?'' he said.
There was a stir in the rear ranks, and a lean savage with abnormal cheek bones pushed forward.
``Hungry Wolf here,'' he said with a grunt.
``The Hungry Wolf knew the French trader at Michilimackinac,'' said Monsieur Gratiot. ``He knows that the French trader's word is a true word. Let the Hungry Wolf tell his companions that the Chief of the Long Knives is very angry.''
The Hungry Wolf turned, and began to speak. His words, hoarse and resonant, seemed to come from the depths of his body. Presently he paused, and there came an answer from the fiend who had seized me. After that there were many grunts, and the Hungry Wolf turned again.
``The North Wind mean no harm,'' he answered. ``He play with the son of the Great White Chief, and his belly is very sore where the Chief's son kicked him.''
``The Chief of the Long Knives will consider the offence,'' said Monsieur Gratiot, and retired into the house with Colonel Clark. For a full five minutes the Indians waited, impassive. And then Monsieur Gratiot reappeared, alone.
``The Chief of the Long Knives is mercifully inclined to forgive,'' he said. ``It was in play. But there must be no more play with the Chief's son. And the path to the Great Chief's presence must be kept clear.''
Again the Hungry Wolf translated. The North Wind grunted and departed in silence, followed by many of his friends. And indeed for a while after that the others kept a passage clear to the gate.
As for the son of the Great White Chief, he sat for a long time that afternoon beside the truck patch of the house. And presently he slipped out by a byway into the street again, among the savages. His heart was bumping in his throat, but a boyish reasoning told him that he must show no fear. And that day he found what his Colonel had long since learned to be true that in courage is the greater safety. The power of the Great White Chief was such that he allowed his son to go forth alone, and feared not for his life. Even so Clark himself walked among them, nor looked to right or left.
Two nights
``Did they hurt ye, Davy?'' he asked.
I shook my head. Before I could speak he was at the gate again, confronting the mob of savages that swayed against the fence, and the street was filled with running figures. A voice of command that I knew well came from behind me. It was Colonel Clark's.
``Stay where you are, McChesney!'' he shouted, and Tom halted with his hand on the latch.
``With your permission, I will speak to them,'' said Monsieur Gratiot, who had come out also.
I looked up at him, and he was as calm as when he had joked with me a quarter of an hour since.
``Very well,'' said Clark, briefly.
Monsieur Gratiot surveyed them scornfully.
``Where is the Hungry Wolf, who speaks English?'' he said.
There was a stir in the rear ranks, and a lean savage with abnormal cheek bones pushed forward.
``Hungry Wolf here,'' he said with a grunt.
``The Hungry Wolf knew the French trader at Michilimackinac,'' said Monsieur Gratiot. ``He knows that the French trader's word is a true word. Let the Hungry Wolf tell his companions that the Chief of the Long Knives is very angry.''
The Hungry Wolf turned, and began to speak. His words, hoarse and resonant, seemed to come from the depths of his body. Presently he paused, and there came an answer from the fiend who had seized me. After that there were many grunts, and the Hungry Wolf turned again.
``The North Wind mean no harm,'' he answered. ``He play with the son of the Great White Chief, and his belly is very sore where the Chief's son kicked him.''
``The Chief of the Long Knives will consider the offence,'' said Monsieur Gratiot, and retired into the house with Colonel Clark. For a full five minutes the Indians waited, impassive. And then Monsieur Gratiot reappeared, alone.
``The Chief of the Long Knives is mercifully inclined to forgive,'' he said. ``It was in play. But there must be no more play with the Chief's son. And the path to the Great Chief's presence must be kept clear.''
Again the Hungry Wolf translated. The North Wind grunted and departed in silence, followed by many of his friends. And indeed for a while after that the others kept a passage clear to the gate.
As for the son of the Great White Chief, he sat for a long time that afternoon beside the truck patch of the house. And presently he slipped out by a byway into the street again, among the savages. His heart was bumping in his throat, but a boyish reasoning told him that he must show no fear. And that day he found what his Colonel had long since learned to be true that in courage is the greater safety. The power of the Great White Chief was such that he allowed his son to go forth alone, and feared not for his life. Even so Clark himself walked among them, nor looked to right or left.
Two nights