The idiot grinned. How he recognized Crawford was a mystery; yet, at the creature’s girdle, Crawford saw one of his own old and cast-off moccasins, and caught that sniffing gesture again. Did this imbecile, then, have some remarkable gift of scent? Perhaps.
“Here is my message for you.” Singing Loon fumbled beneath his snake-skins and produced a roll of birchbark. “I smell another man hidden, but he will not hurt me. You should have seen how the Stone Men ran away when they saw me yesterday! Now I shall go and frighten them again.”
Giving the birch roll into Crawford’s hand, the chuckling idiot turned and disappeared at a shambling but rapid run.
Crawford stood transfixed, gripped by the wonder of it—the way this creature had come straight to him amid the wilderness! It was almost past his comprehension; but to the Mohegan it was not at all incredible. Black Kettle came into sight, crossed himself twice like the good Christian he was, and stepped forward.
“I did well not to fire. That man has a powerful spirit. What did he say?”
“He brought me a message.”
“His spirit knew where to find you. Good.”
Crawford unrolled the stiff bark. Words had been scrawled on the inner surface of the bark, scrawled there with a sharpened bullet. They were not easy to decipher, some of them were lost; but he knew that Art Bocagh had been one of Phelim Burke’s Irishmen, able to read and write in English.
“The Kriqs have us saff. The Saxons are dead. The Scots red men slue themm. Fower of us live. Wee goe to Ft. Nue Sevann. Art Bocagh.”
Keen news, this, from Art the Lame! Instead of sending Crawford’s men to the coast, Maclish had ordered the Assiniboines to slaughter them. Four of the Irish had somehow escaped and were safe among the Crees, on their way to New Severn—one of the two posts remaining to the English on the bay. Art Bocagh had sent this word that Crawford might be warned against Maclish, and might know where to find the remnant of his men if ever he returned.