“Then White Buffalo may go?”
“If you want to go, certainly. But—but—haven’t you anything else to do?”
At this the Indian chief shook his head sadly.
“No, White Buffalo has nothing much left. His tribe is split and broken. Some have gone to the French, many are dead, or wounded, or sick. Six warriors only remain, but they are of the best, and they have sworn by the Great Spirit to stay with their chief to the finish. Let us go with you, and if we meet unfriendly Indians, or the French, we will do what we can to defend you.”
“Now ye air talkin’ right from the heart!” cried Sam Barringford, as he caught White Buffalo’s hand. “Come on by all means. Ye air the whitest Injun I ever seed!” And his face glowed with satisfaction, which pleased White Buffalo greatly.
The journey was resumed as soon as the sun was fairly up. White Buffalo now took the lead, in company with Heppy, and the others followed on behind in close order.
White Buffalo had been over this ground but a short time before, and knew even a better trail than did the messengers from General Murray. He also knew where the snow was lightest, and took them along a ridge where the walking was by no means bad.
For several days the journey proceeded without interruption. Not a sign of Indians or French was seen, and the landscape at times looked utterly deserted. Occasionally when they passed through a patch of woods, or through the forest, they would stir up some wild animal, and they were never without game for a meal all the time they were on the trip.
Half the journey to Quebec was accomplished when there came a light fall of snow, followed by a wind that for twenty-four hours constantly increased in violence. For several hours they kept on in this wind, but as last both the whites and the Indians called a halt.
“White Buffalo knows of shelter close to this spot,” said the Indian chief. “We had best go there, and wait until the mighty wind has fallen.”