“There may be truth in that—more than in the report that the woods are full of savages. It is usually a bad sign when an Indian quits his tribe; and this runner of ours is certainly an Onondago; that I know, for the fellow has twice refused rum. Bread he will take, as often as offered; but rum has not wet his lips, since I have seen him, offered in fair weather or foul.”
“T'at is a bad sign”—put in Guert, a little dogmatically for him. “T'e man t'at refuses his glass, in good company, has commonly something wrong in his morals. I always keep clear of such chaps.”
Poor Guert!—How true that was, and what an influence the opinion had on his character and habits. As for the Indian, I could not judge him so harshly. There was something in his countenance that disposed me to put confidence in him, at the very moment his cold, abstracted manners—cold and abstracted even for a red-skin in pale-face company—created doubts and distrust.
“Certainly, nothing is easier than for a man in his situation to sell us,” I answered, after a short pause, “if he be so disposed. But, what could the French gain by cutting off a party as peaceably employed as this? It can be of no moment to them, whether Mooseridge be surveyed into lots this year, or the next.”
“Quite true; and I am of opinion that Mons. Montcalm is very indifferent whether it be ever surveyed at all,” returned Traverse, who was an intelligent and tolerably educated man. “You forget, however, Mr. Littlepage, that both parties offer such things as premiums on scalps. A Huron may not care about our lines, corners, and marked trees; but he does care, a great deal, whether he is to go home with an empty string, or with half-a-dozen human scalps at his girdle.”
I observed that Dirck thrust his fingers through his bushy hair, and that his usually placid countenance assumed an indignant and semi-ferocious appearance. A little amused at this, I walked towards the log on which Susquesus was seated, having ended his meal, in silent thought.
“What news do you bring us from the red-coats, Trackless?” I asked, with as much of an air of indifference as I could assume. “Are they out in sufficient numbers to eat the French?”
“Look at leaves; count 'em;” answered the Indian.
“Yes, I know they are in force; but, what are the red-skins about? Is the hatchet buried, among the Six Nations, that you are satisfied with being a runner, when scalps may be had near Ticonderoga?”
“Susquesus Onondago”—the red-man replied, laying a strong emphasis on the name of his tribe. “No Mohawk blood run in him. His people no dig up hatchet, this summer.”