“Then it can hardly be a good place for settlers if the Indians fight over it,” Walter said doubtfully.
“There are only Saulteux and Crees on the lower river now. The Sioux no longer dare venture here. The upper river is the dangerous country.”
Where the marsh gave way to firmer ground, in an open space on the low bank of a creek coming in from the west, stood a group of Indian lodges. As the boat passed, the Swiss boy looked with interest at the low, round topped structures of hides and rush mats.
“Those are Saulteur wigwams,” Louis explained.
“No one seems to be at home to-day.”
“No, but they intend to come back or they would have taken down the lodges. There was a fight in this place many years ago. A band of Crees came down that stream, and the old people and children camped here, while the young men went to Fort York with their furs. That was before the Hudson Bay Company had posts in this part of the country. While the braves were all away, the Sioux came and killed the old people and took the children captive. So the stream is called Rivière aux Morts—the river of the dead.”
“What a fiendish thing to do,” Walter exclaimed, “and cowardly.”
Louis shrugged expressively. “It is the Indian way of fighting. The Sioux are not cowards, but fiends, yes. And so are the Crees and the Saulteux in war. I say it though my grandmother was an Ojibwa.”
“Have you Indian blood, Louis?” Walter asked in surprise. “I supposed you were pure French.”
“I am bois brulé, as we mixed bloods are called from our dark skins, and I am not ashamed of it. My father, he was pure French, and my mother is half French, but her mother was Ojibwa, Saulteur. Perhaps I do not look so Indian as le Murrai Noir.” Louis lowered his voice. “They say he is at least half Sioux.”