The thoughtless triumph of the young Englishman recalled the memory of his obstinate refusal to accept the proffered aid of the sportsmen to the mind of the poor Indian. Such a look of utter disappointment took the place of his joy at the successful shot, that La Salle could scarcely contain his sympathy.
"So it is always. White man win, Indian lose; white man get food, Indian starve; white man live, Indian die. Once, all this Indian land. No white people were here, and many Indians hunt and find enough. Now, the Indian must buy the wood which he makes into baskets. He cannot spear a salmon in the rivers. The woods are cut down, and the many ships and guns frighten off the game."
He looked a moment at the dead fox, smoothed its glossy fur with a hand that trembled with suppressed emotion, and then, with a curt "good evening," turned to go.
"I wish, Peter, you would come down to the house and skin this beast for me," said La Salle. "If you will do so carefully, and stretch it for drying in good style, I'll give you a pair of boots."
Without a word the Indian seized the dead animal and strode ahead of them, like one who seeks in bodily fatigue a refuge from anguish of spirit.
"What will you give for such a skin, Davies?" asked La Salle.
"I will give you one hundred and fifty dollars for that one. It is the largest, finest, and blackest that I ever saw."
"You have another gun like your own in your store at C.—have you not?"
"Yes, exactly like my own. I can only tell them apart by this curl in the wood of the stock."
"What is she worth?"