With such thoughts running through his head, the time dragged painfully. Late in the afternoon, the younger Indian renewed the fire and hung over it an iron pot of water. Into the pot he put several handfuls of wild rice and rabbit meat cut into small pieces. The odor was tempting to Hugh’s nostrils, but he strove to keep his hunger from showing in his face.
Sunset came. The stew was ready, but the pot was not unslung. The three Indians sat about the fire, the younger one whiling away the time by playing on a crude native flute with three holes. The sounds produced were mournful and monotonous and did not inspire cheerfulness. The other two savages sat idle, eying the seething mixture in the kettle, but none made a move to dip into it. They were certainly waiting for the return of the rest of the band. Unusually well disciplined savages, Hugh thought them, to postpone their own supper until their chief arrived.
The squat man turned his head, gave a little grunt, rose and walked away towards the beach. The young fellow ceased his flute playing and followed, the other remaining to watch the stew. Hugh heard a canoe grate lightly on the gravel, a few words exchanged. He rolled over on his side, and saw, striding towards him—Ohrante. There could be no mistaking that huge form, looking more gigantic than ever as it towered over the prostrate lad.
For an instant Hugh forgot all else in wonder at the Indian’s size. Ohrante was not less than seven feet in height, with proportionate breadth of shoulder and depth of chest. Then, as he gazed into the face looking down on him, a veritable panic of fear shook the lad. It was not an ugly face. In its outlines and proportions, its strongly cut, regular features, it was unusually handsome for an Indian. But there was an inhuman hardness about it, a fiercely piercing quality in the eyes, cruel lines about nostrils and lips, a general expression of bitter and vindictive malevolence that appalled the boy. A shudder passed through him, yet, fascinated, he could not take his eyes from the dark, piercing ones.
Ohrante spoke, and Hugh gave a start of surprise. It was not the words that amazed him. All the Indian said was, “Who are you, white man? How come you here?” A simple question in curiously accented English. It was the voice that surprised Hugh. Weak, high pitched, almost squeaking, such a voice as the boy had never heard in an Indian before, it was ludicrously incongruous with the size and appearance of the evil giant. Instantly the spell in which Ohrante had held him was broken. So great was the revulsion of feeling that Hugh actually wanted to laugh. Luckily he realized that to take any notice of the giant’s weak point would surely arouse his bitterest hatred. Self-possession regained, Hugh controlled his features and answered steadily. He had had plenty of time that long afternoon to plan the story he was to tell.
“I am Hugh McNair. I came here by accident. High winds drove me out of my course and against the great rocks yonder.” He jerked his head in the direction of the mouth of the bay. “My canoe was wrecked, all my winter supplies lost, my comrade drowned.” He paused, rather surprised at the readiness with which he told his false tale. Ordinarily Hugh was truthful, inclined to regard a lie as a coward’s refuge, but he had no intention of divulging his true name and purpose to his father’s bitterest enemy.
Ohrante seemed to consider the reply. Then he spoke again. “Minong far from mainland,” he said in his bad English. He was suspicious of the tale, but the boy was prepared for doubt.
“We were going from the New Fort at the Kaministikwia,” Hugh went on to explain. “We had sold our furs and had all our supplies for the winter. Also we were very sleepy. We had drunk deep and we did not take care where we went. Then came the wind.”
Hugh was watching Ohrante’s face closely, but he could not tell whether the Iroquois believed the story or not, or indeed how much of it he understood. He made no reply except a queer little sound in his throat. Because of his high-pitched voice, that sound could not be called a grunt, and Hugh was at a loss to know whether it meant assent, disbelief or contempt. Before he could add anything more to his story, the giant turned abruptly away, walked over to the fire and seated himself on a log.
Immediately one of his followers removed the pot, and, with a long-handled, crudely carved wooden spoon, ladled out a generous portion of the stew into a birch bark dish. The chief received the dish in silence and commenced to eat, picking out the bits of meat on the point of his knife, and taking up the rice on the flat of the blade. After he had finished the more solid part of the food, he drank the soup and passed the dish back to be refilled.