He began to perceive why this man, despite his great deeds, was still simple Sieur Perrot instead of being a great seigneur. Here was a man of action, yes; but behind that a dreamer, a visionary. He had now conceived a vague scheme not half so coherent as that which Maclish was pursuing. Perrot was a fanatic on the question of winning the west to France; and those who sat in high places, having all the wilderness country they could well handle already, wanted none of his plans. So now, driving off into the northwest, Perrot was only too eager to grasp at the work which he conceived to be awaiting his hand.
Suddenly and without a sound, Black Kettle appeared in the clearing and set down the hind quarters of a caribou. He stood erect, his eyes flickering to Perrot, and grunted.
“My father Metaminens is awake—good! I crossed the trail of three Stone Men and heard them talking. One they call Red Bull is following, with three-score young men. They have English muskets. They are going to take the Star Woman as a wife for Red Bull.”
To this Perrot sat up. “Give me food, for to-morrow we must abandon our packs and travel.”
Crawford shrugged, deeming travel on the morrow an impossibility.
Yet, incredible as it seemed, Sieur Nicholas Perrot was on his feet the next morning; before breakfast he was shaven, dressed and ready to depart. Crawford held his peace, for he realized that Perrot would regard no reason, and in this he was right. He was not right in thinking Perrot’s ambitious scheme impossible, however. Crafty old Perrot knew the redskins better than any other white man alive, knew his own ability, and was entirely competent to bring his dream to fruition if he had the chance.
For thirty years Perrot had been encountering men like Maclish, and had one by one left them defeated behind him. For thirty years Metaminens had ruled the western tribes, compelling them from war to peace. No other man was like him or would be like him again, in this singular influence which he exerted.
The packs were cached away and the three men set forth, carrying only arms and food. Perrot started off gaily enough, but within two hours he was staggering from exhaustion. Deaf to all protests, he drove ahead by dint of his iron will alone. The woods were silent and deserted, no sign of life appeared, but now Crawford knew that Maclish and the Stone Men were not many miles distant.
It was close to noon when Perrot silently collapsed in his tracks. And now Crawford, aiding the Mohegan to cut pine boughs and make camp, felt his last hope gone. For days to come the old rover could only nurse back strength, and was out of the game. Even did Standing Bull send help, even did Frontin and Le Talon reach the Star Woman, what could be expected from them? Nothing. Crawford felt that in this vast wilderness three wandering men could not be located. The immensity of the country smote him and weighed him down. And meantime, he knew, Maclish was sweeping the war-party forward.
So, when he had done what he could for Sieur Perrot, Crawford lighted his pipe and stared gloomily through the smoke, being tempted of the devil to leave his companions and plunge into the wilderness alone. He had no sympathy with Perrot’s ambitions. He wanted to be on his way to Frontin, pushing his quest for the Star Woman; to sit here doing nothing was maddening. The spur of freedom was goading him roughly. When he was playing a lone hand, dependent only on himself, he was happiest—there was his tragedy, if you like. Yet he could not gainsay the urge, and this news of Maclish was like a thorn in his flesh.