“One cannot tell. Savages are always distrustful and cautious when on a war-path; and these seem to be scenting about like so many hounds which are nosing for a trail. They are now gathering sticks to light a fire, which is better than burning the chiente.”
“THAT they will not be likely to do until they have no further need of it. Tell me, Bourdon, do any go near the thicket of alders where we have hidden our goods?”
“Not as yet; though there is a sudden movement and many loud yells among them!”
“Heaven send that it may not be at having discovered anything we have forgotten. The sight of even a lost dipper or cup would set them blood-hounds on our path, as sure as we are white and they are savages!”
“As I live, they scent the whiskey! There is a rush toward, and a pow-wow in and about the shed—yes, of a certainty they smell the liquor! Some of it has escaped in rolling down the hill, and their noses are too keen to pass over a fragrance that to them equals that of roses. Well, let them SCENT as they may—even an Injin does not get drunk through his NOSE.”
“You are quite right, Bourdon: but is not this a most unhappy scent for us, since the smell of whiskey can hardly be there without their seeing it did not grow in the woods of itself, like an oak or a beech?”
“I understand you, Margery, and there is good sense in what you say. They will never think the liquor grew there, like a blackberry or a chestnut, though the place IS called Whiskey Centre!”
“It is hard enough to know that a family has deserved such a name, without being reminded of it by those that call themselves friends,” answered the girl pointedly, after a pause of near a minute, though she spoke in sorrow rather than in anger.
In an instant the bee-hunter was at pretty Margery's side, making his peace by zealous apologies and winning protestations of respect and concern. The mortified girl was soon appeased; and, after consulting together for a minute, they went to the canoe to communicate to the husband and wife what they had seen.
“The whiskey after all is likely to prove our worst enemy,” said the bee-hunter as he approached. “It would seem that in moving the barrels some of the liquor has escaped, and the nose of an Injin is too quick for the odor it leaves, not to scent it.”