“Yes, Shinguakonse.”
“Suppose voyageur come to Keego on snow-shoes, 1832. He see hole in ice and red on ice and know it good place to fish. He walk up bank and see woodpile and two three barrel salt fish. He see bark lodge, nice clean blanket for door, lift up, go in. He see this room, everything like this. Old head-dress of eagle feathers; nice mats of cedar; big cedar bag full of wooden spoons; many nice moccasins; nice chest painted red. He see much dry deermeat, one barrel meal, one bag dry blueberries, one mokkuk maple sugar. He see three kettles, one rifle, one shotgun, one bullet-pouch, one shot-pouch, one powder-horn.
“Bien! He see man and woman, young, no baby. Man say ‘Bo-jou, neejee, sit down, eat!’ All kind fish, deermeat, corncake, blueberry, sugar. He stay all night, sleep fine, in morning eat again. No charge. Indian glad.
“Next spring that Indian come out of lodge with big pack furs. He go to post to sell. Trader give him glass of cider. Bien, Indian ask for more. That trader put long straw in another barrel. ‘Come, Chief, it is whole barrel of cider.’ But that cider—you unders’and. It is wassamowin, the lightning.
“Two more years. Voyageur come back to Keego, look round in lodge. No mat, no chest, no moccasins. Nothing to eat. No gun. Chief drunk on ground. Woman tough—dress all open—baby drinking—milk no good. Bien, that baby my grandfather.
“Is it strange my father Ojeeg is caught in a trap? Is it strange he is sick? But I cannot cure him. I am not big medicine. The Sioux are the weaklings, but they have the big medicine. They have the winner, Dr. Ohiyesa Eastman. Once we lick ’em bad, the Bwan, now they lick us.”
The Little Pine folded his arms, and Jean spoke.
“My brother, I don’t believe that even Dr. Eastman could cure your father. Some day you will find him frozen, and you may as well get ready to face it.”
“My sister, I will not let my father die. I will sell my gun. I will go on the fire-jemaun to Chicago. I will be a doctor.”
“You can’t do it. Let me think.”