Crawford soon found himself hard taxed to keep the pace set by the old Mohegan chief, who glided among the trees like a shadow, making no more sound than a shadow, and whose flitting figure had all the mottled impermanence of a shadow as it passed from opening to opening. These Mohegans were beyond question friends; probably hunters or traders who had wandered up from the French posts on Lake Superior or the Mississippi.
When it came to fighting or trailing, two of them would be worth more than a score of Crees.
Presently the old chieftain lifted his head and flung up a sharp wolf-howl.
“That is my brother Chaudière Noire,” he grunted, as a response came from farther ahead. “Black Kettle waits at the fire of our father Metaminens.”
Three Mohegans, then! So much the better, thought Crawford, knowing what grim warriors were these men whom even the Mohawks deemed worthy of adoption and alliance. Their very presence in this wilderness was proof of their worth.
Presently they came to a rivulet which ran thigh-deep with icy water. Plunging through this torrent of melted snow, Le Talon came to an abrupt halt on the farther brink. From the bushes above him emerged a figure, stripped to the waist, scalplock greased, face painted; this was Black Kettle, a younger man than his companion. He spoke briefly to Le Talon.
“The sickness is on Metaminens. He sleeps. Be careful not to waken him.”
Crawford made a sign of assent, then followed Black Kettle and Le Talon into a marshy thicket of spruce saplings, where the muskeg quivered like jelly underfoot. In the midst of this thicket, perfectly screened from all discovery, was a brush shelter covering a blanketed figure. Caribou meat hung drying over a small fire. Packs of goods were near by.
All four halted to gaze at the sick man. Crawford stepped forward—then repressed an exclamation of amazement. This man, whom the Mohegans in their own fashion of speech had termed “father,” was a white man! Now, in the midst of his amazement, Crawford caught a mutter of feverish delirium from the invalid, and turned. He drew Le Talon to one side and spoke quietly, swiftly, Frontin joining them.
“What does this mean? Who is this man?”