“Then let the Abnaki dog go and ask Saint-Castin for an explanation. Or, since he is a woman and a snapping cur at French heels, let him summon his Canadian friends to make The Eagle a prisoner.”
Now the fury of the war-chief burst all bounds.
“The war-chief of the Abnakis does not need Canadians to help him lift the scalp of a thieving Englishman, who calls himself by a Mohawk name and speaks the French tongue!”
Bienville, perhaps comprehending Crawford’s purpose, attempted to interpose, but the furious chief turned upon him with a flat demand that he keep silent.
“This English thief has insulted me and holds in his hand the sacred calumet. This is not a matter for Canadians. His scalp is mine, and I claim it!”
Then, whirling upon Crawford, the chief whipped out a knife.
“Give me your scalp, English thief! It is mine.”
Now Bienville stood silent and perplexed, not knowing who Crawford might be, and astounded at his having come recently from Pentagoet; he could place Crawford for neither friend nor enemy. And Crawford, knowing that he must prevent any summons to the Canadians, took instant advantage of the boy’s perplexity.
“Keep out of it, Bienville,” he said rapidly, as he rose to his feet. “I have a message for Iberville which is imperative.” Then he looked at the Abnaki chief and smiled frostily. “Your manitou has deserted you,” he said, using the word esprit which translated the Indian term. “At the name of the Iroquois your manitou trembles and is afraid. That is a woman’s scalp at your belt, Caniba dog. Look, how your manitou causes it to shake and quiver with fright!”
For an instant the fury-red gaze of the chief dropped to the silky scalp at his waist—and in that instant Crawford was upon him. But his moccasins slipped in the soft snow around the fire; the blow failed, and Crawford, unable to regain balance, fell headlong.