“Me, I do not like this,” he exclaimed. “If the trail were covered, it were better. Prime your gun, cap’n.”
Crawford half turned. His moccasined foot slipped on the ice, and he fell heavily on hands and knees. Maclish grunted with swift malice.
“A bad omen for ye.” Then the words died in a gasp of surprise.
Crawford rose. He fumbled at his breast, where a splendid thing now glittered. That fall had shaken from inside his coat the star which he wore there on a thong. He held it up, examining it to see if the jewel had suffered; the raw gold, the massy emeralds, glinted and glimmered in the afternoon sunlight. Maclish stared in speechless wonder; it was his first sight of the thing, his first indication that Crawford bore such a treasure.
Maclish was not the only one to stare. From the islet ahead rang out a sharp exclamation, and the three men looked up. They saw a queer creature standing there on the rocks gazing at them—a tall Indian, over whose head was flung the skull and robe of a bison, the fur cloaking his body. At that grotesque and horned apparition all three gazed, transfixed.
“Come!” To their still greater astonishment, the crested figure spoke in French. “Smoke the calumet. Come!”
Crawford could not tell whether this were an invitation or not, but he comprehended that sight of the star at his throat had brought the apparition.
“Kola! Friend!” said that singular creature perched against the blue sky, and flung out empty hands. “The Star Woman sent us to meet you. Come.”
Then the figure vanished. The islet was bare and empty again.
“No spirit, but a trap,” said Frontin, first to recover speech. “There are our messengers—and have a care, cap’n!”