Men followed, eager to toss the bags to their shoulders. They made a long procession back to the teepees, the women crowding around, laughing, gesticulating, and caressing the fat, dusty bags.
By Ambrose's orders the bags were piled up in an imposing array in the middle of the square. He knew the value of a dramatic display.
The half-breeds who had been on duty for thirty-six hours, scattered to their homes up and down the river. Simon Grampierre and Tole remained with Ambrose.
The york boat was left drawn up on the beach below the camp. To this fact Ambrose traced all the subsequent disasters. But he could not have foreseen what would happen. The Indians at the sight of so much food were as candid and happy as children.
When the last bag of flour topped the pile, Ambrose sought out Watusk. He found the head man as before, evidently awaiting an official communication, with his dummy councilors on either hand. Watusk's smooth, flabby face was as blank as a plaster wall.
"I have brought your flour," said Ambrose with a note of exultation justifiable under the circumstances.
Watusk was not impressed. "It is well," he said with a stolid nod.
Ambrose was somewhat taken aback. An instant told him that Watusk alone of all the tribe was not glad to see the flour. Ambrose scented a mystery.
"Where you get the flour?" asked Watusk politely.
"I borrowed Gaviller's mill to grind it," Ambrose answered in kind.