"Whom do you make them out to be, Ramsay?" he called. "Is not yon Le Borgne?"

I looked to the Indians. Le Borgne it was, thin and straight, like a mast-pole through mist, in conference with another man--a man with a beard, a man who was no Indian.

"Sir!" I shouted back. "Those are the inland pirates. They are leading the Indians against Ben Gillam, and not against us at all."

At that M. Radisson extends a handkerchief on the end of his sword as flag of truce, and the bearded man waves back. Down from the wall jumps M. Radisson, running forward fearlessly where Indians lay wounded, and waving for the enemy to come. But the two only waved back in friendly fashion, wheeled their forces off, and disappeared through the frost.

"Those were Ben Gillam's cut-throats trying to do for him! When they saw us on the walls, they knew their mistake," says M. de Radisson as he re-entered the gate. "There's only one way to find those pirates out, Ramsay. Nurse these wounded Indians back to life, visit the tribe, and watch! After Chouart's re-enforcements come, I'll send you and Jack Battle, with G.o.defroy for interpreter!"

To Governor Brigdar and his four refugees M. de Radisson was all courtesy.

"And how comes Your Excellency to be out so late with ten men?" he asked, as we supped that night.

"We heard that you were here. We were coming to visit you," stammered Governor Brigdar, growing red.

"Then let us make you so welcome that you will not hasten away! Here, Jack Battle, here, fellow, stack these gentlemen's swords and pistols where they'll come to no harm! Ah! No? But I must relieve you, gentlemen! Your coming was a miracle. I thank you for it. It has saved us much trouble. A pledge to the pleasure--and the length--of your stay, gentlemen," and they stand to the toast, M. de Radisson smiling at the lights in his wine.

But we all knew very well what such welcome meant. 'Twas Radisson's humour to play the host that night, but the runaway lieutenant was a prisoner in our guard-house.

CHAPTER XVI

WE SEEK THE INLANDERS

In the matter of fighting, I find small difference between white-men and red. Let the l.u.s.t of conquest but burn, the justice of the quarrel receives small thought. Your fire-eating prophet cares little for the right of the cause, provided the fighter come out conqueror; and many a poet praises only that right which is might over-trampling weakness. I have heard the withered hag of an Indian camp chant as spirited war-song as your minstrels of butchery; but the strange thing of it is, that the people, who have taken the sword in a wantonness of conquest, are the races that have been swept from the face of the earth like dead leaves before the winter blast; but the people, who have held immutably by the power of right, which our Lord Christ set up, the meek and the peace-makers and the children of G.o.d, these are they that inherit the earth.

Where are the tribes with whom G.o.defroy and Jack Battle and I wandered in nomadic life over the northern wastes? Buried in oblivion black as night, but for the lurid memories flashed down to you of later generations. Where are the Puritan folk, with their cast-iron, narrow creeds d.a.m.ning all creation but themselves, with their foibles of snivelling to attest sanct.i.ty, with such a wolfish zeal to hound down devils that they hounded innocents for witchcraft? Spreading over the face of the New World, making the desert to bloom and the waste places fruitful gardens? And the reason for it all is simply this: Your butchering Indian, like your swashing cavalier, founded his _right_ upon _might_; your Puritan, grim but faithful, to the outermost bounds of his tragic errors, founded his _might_ upon _right_.

We learn our hardest lessons from unlikeliest masters. This one came to me from the Indians of the blood-dyed northern snows.

"Don't show your faces till you have something to report about those pirates, who led the Indians," was M. Radisson's last command, as we sallied from the New Englanders' fort with a firing of cannon and beating of drums.

G.o.defroy, the trader, muttered under his breath that M. Radisson need never fear eternal torment.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because, if he goes _there_," answered G.o.defroy, "he'll get the better o' the Nick."

I think the fellow was smarting from recent punishment. He and Allemand, the drunken pilot, had been draining gin kegs on the sly and replacing what they took with snow water. That last morning at prayers G.o.defroy, who was half-seas over, must yelp out a loud "Amen" in the wrong place. Without rising from his knees, or as much as changing his tone, M. de Radisson brought the drunken knave such a cuff it flattened him to the floor.

Then prayers went on as before.

The Indians, whom we had nursed of their wounds, were to lead us to the tribe, one only being held by M. Radisson as hostage for safe conduct.

In my mind, that trust to the Indians' honour was the single mistake M.

Radisson made in the winter's campaign. In the first place, the Indian has no honour. Why should he have, when his only standard of right is conquest? In the second place, kindness is regarded as weakness by the Indian. Why should it not be, when his only G.o.d is victory? In the third place, the l.u.s.t of blood, to kill, to butcher, to mutilate, still surged as hot in their veins as on the night when they had attempted to scale our walls. And again I ask why not, when the law of their life was to kill or to be killed? These questions I put to you because life put them to me. At the time my father died, the gentlemen of King Charles's court were already affecting that refinement of philosophy which justifies despotism. From justifying despotism, 'twas but a step to justifying the wicked acts of tyranny; and from that, but another step to thrusting G.o.d's laws aside as too obsolete for our clever courtiers. "Give your unbroken colt tether enough to pull itself up with one sharp fall," M. Radisson used to say, "and it will never run to the end of its line again."

The mind of Europe spun the tissue of foolish philosophy. The savage of the wilderness went the full tether; and I leave you to judge whether the _might_ that is _right_ or the _right_ that is _might_ be the better creed for a people.

But I do not mean to imply that M. Radisson did not understand the savages better than any man of us in the fort. He risked three men as p.a.w.ns in the game he was playing for mastery of the fur trade.

Gamester of the wilderness as he was, Pierre Radisson was not the man to court a certain loss.

The Indians led us to the lodges of the hostiles safely enough; and their return gave us entrance if not welcome to the tepee village. We had entered a ravine and came on a cl.u.s.ter of wigwams to the lee side of a bluff. Dusk hid our approach; and the absence of the dogs that usually infest Indian camps told us that these fellows were marauders.

Smoke curled up from the poles crisscrossed at the tepee forks, but we could descry no figures against the tent-walls as in summer, for heavy skins of the chase overlaid the parchment. All was silence but in one wigwam. This was an enormous structure, built on poles long as a mast, with moose-hides scattered so thickly upon it that not a glint of firelight came through except the red glow of smoke at the peak. There was a low hum of suppressed voices, then one voice alone in solemn tones, then guttural grunts of applause.

"In council," whispered G.o.defroy, steering straight for the bearskin that hung flapping across the entrance.

Bidding Jack Battle stand guard outside, we followed the Indians who had led us from the fort. Lifting the tent-flap, we found ourselves inside. A withered creature with snaky, tangled hair, toothless gums, eyes that burned like embers, and a haunched, shrivelled figure, stood gesticulating and crooning over a low monotone in the centre of the lodge.

As we entered, the draught from the door sent a tongue of flame darting to mid-air from the central fire, and scores of tawny faces with glance intent on the speaker were etched against the dark. These were no camp families, but braves, deep in war council. The elder men sat with crossed feet to the fore of the circle. The young braves were behind, kneeling, standing, and stretched full length. All were smoking their long-stemmed pipes and listening to the medicine-man, or seer, who was crooning his low-toned chant. The air was black with smoke.

Always audacious, G.o.defroy, the trader, advanced boldly and sat down in the circle. I kept back in shadow, for directly behind the Indian wizard was a figure lying face downward, chin resting in hand, which somehow reminded me of Le Borgne. The fellow rolled lazily over, got to his knees, and stood up. Pushing the wizard aside, this Indian faced the audience. It was Le Borgne, his foxy eye yellow as flame, teeth snapping, and a tongue running at such a pace that we could scarce make out a word of his jargon.

"What does he say, G.o.defroy?"

"Sit down," whispered the trader, "you are safe."

This was what the Indian was saying as G.o.defroy muttered it over to me:

"Were the Indians fools and dogs to throw away two fish for the sake of one? The French were friends of the Indians. Let the Indians find out what the French would give them for killing the English. He, Le Borgne, the one-eyed, was brave. He would go to the Frenchman's fort and spy out how strong they were. If the French gave them muskets for killing the English, after the ships left in the spring the Indians could attack the fort and kill the French. The great medicine-man, the white hunter, who lived under the earth, would supply them with muskets----"

"He says the white hunter who lives under the earth is giving them muskets to make war," whispered G.o.defroy. "That must be the pirate."

"Listen!"

"Let the braves prepare to meet the Indians of the Land of Little White Sticks, who were coming with furs for the white men--" Le Borgne went on.

"Let the braves send their runners over the hills to the Little White Sticks sleeping in the sheltered valley. Let the braves creep through the mist of the morning like the lynx seeking the ermine. And when the Little White Sticks were all asleep, the runners would shoot fire arrows into the air and the braves would slay--slay--slay the men, who might fight, the women, who might run to the whites for aid, and the children, who might live to tell tales."

"The devils!" says G.o.defroy under his breath.

A log broke on the coals with a flare that painted Le Borgne's evil face fiery red; and the fellow gabbled on, with figure crouching stealthily forward, foxy eye alight with evil, and teeth glistening.

"Let the braves seize the furs of the Little White Sticks, trade the furs to the white-man for muskets, ma.s.sacre the English, then when the great white chief's big canoes left, kill the Frenchmen of the fort."

"Ha," says G.o.defroy. "Jack's safe outside! We'll have a care to serve you through the loop-holes, and trade you only broken muskets!"

A guttural grunt applauded Le Borgne's advice, and the crafty scoundrel continued: "The great medicine-man, the white hunter, who lived under the earth, was their friend. Was he not here among them? Let the braves hear what he advised."

The Indians grunted their approbation. Some one stirred the fire to flame. There was a shuffling movement among the figures in the dark.

Involuntarily G.o.defroy and I had risen to our feet. Emerging from the dusk to the firelight was a white man, gaudily clothed in tunic of scarlet with steel breastplates and gold lace enough for an amba.s.sador.

His face was hidden by Le Borgne's form. G.o.defroy pushed too far forward; for the next thing, a shout of rage rent the tent roof. Le Borgne was stamping out the fire. A red form with averted face raced round the lodge wall to gain the door. Then G.o.defroy and I were standing weapons in hand, with the band of infuriated braves brandishing tomahawks about our heads. Le Borgne broke through the circle and confronted us with his face agleam.

"Le Borgne, you rascal, is this a way to treat your friends?" I demanded.

"What you--come for?" slowly snarled Le Borgne through set teeth.