When his house was finished to Quagnant's satisfaction, Conrad had a few days of peace. Then for a day he was allowed no food; then for two days; then for three. He was taken to a distant point in the forest and required to find his way home. One bitter day he was dropped into a deep, icy pond in a near-by stream.
As he understood more of the language, he listened earnestly to the talk of the older Indians. Through all ran the consciousness of danger,—distant, perhaps, but real. Sometimes messengers from other tribes appeared suddenly in the village. Painted, armed, terrible, they talked always of the bow and the string, the long line of the French whom they called Onotio, and the shorter line of English whom they called Onas.
"Upon Onas Onotio will make war. When we walk in the forest we hear it shouted by the trees. We will all ally ourselves with Onas."
When there came to the village those who would exterminate all pale-faces, Quagnant hurried Conrad out of the way. In January five great chiefs came to visit Quagnant. Conrad gazed at them earnestly, hoping to see the King of Rivers. They looked back at him scowling and muttering, and Conrad retreated to his wigwam.
The chiefs went to Quagnant's house, and before them the women placed broiled venison and wild turkey. Afterwards long pipes were solemnly smoked. Then Quagnant gave a command to Little Squaw into whose eyes came a frightened look. Quagnant saw her hesitate.
"Go!" he shouted.
Hidden away in the cache of Quagnant, where there was now little else, there were a few black bottles, paid to him in return for many beautiful skins carried to Schenectady. Little Squaw fetched them as she was bidden.
In the middle of the night Conrad heard the sound of carousing and looked out. The fire-water had done its evil work, and the Indians sought some victim upon whom to spend their madness. There was a flash of steel and past Conrad's head flew a sharp axe. Other weapons flashed in the moonlight. Terrified, without blanket or other extra covering, Conrad fled into the forest.
Two days later in a blinding snowstorm he ventured to return. Whether Quagnant remembered his behavior it was difficult to tell. His visitors had gone, and he sat, sullen and miserable, beside the fire in the wigwam, making no answer to the complaints of Little Squaw.
"The cache is almost empty," said she. "All the summer I labored and now you have given large presents to the Oneidas. I saw them go heavily laden. Now we will have a great storm when no hunting can be done."