An hour went by, when a new light began to touch the sky and the woods. Out from the lodge of La Salle the tall figure of the leader stepped into the cold morning air. He looked about in surprise. Not one of his men was to be seen on guard. With quick, fierce stride he visited one after another of the lodges. In one of them he found only a single Frenchman, whose companions had not taken him into their plot.
Tonty, awaking, found his leader beside him with serious news upon his lips. Six of their men—cowards and knaves—had preferred the dangers of exposure and starvation to the dangers which Nicanopé had described. They had taken advantage of their position as guards to desert their leader in the hope of reaching the village from which Monso had come.
CHAPTER VIII
THE FORT CALLED CRÈVECŒUR
For ten days the air was snapping with cold, and the river beside the Peoria village remained frozen. In the hearts of the Peorias lingered the chill of fear, for in spite of his denunciation of Monso they could not banish their doubts of the French chief; and the dreaded Iroquois invasion, which had haunted them for years, was very present in their thoughts as the Frenchmen passed among them.
When Indians once see fear betrayed in public, they never forget; and now for some of La Salle’s men the Peorias had only contempt, for not all of those who had shown fear at the words of Nicanopé had fled to the woods. Others of the French, such as Ako, the coureur de bois, were of a different breed. Bold, strong, experienced in woodcraft by many years in the wilds, they commanded at least consideration from the Indian warriors.
As for the three gray-robed friars, they did no harm and there was a curious mystery about their ceremonies that pleased the Indians’ childlike hearts. One of these friars—Father Hennepin—looked far more like a man who loved the world and the joys of life. He strutted about the village with all priestly meekness smothered by his interest in his surroundings. Very conscious was he of his own greatness, and well satisfied that without him the little band of French would be in sore straits.
It was with different feelings that the Peorias looked upon La Salle and Tonty. They feared them greatly and still retained their suspicions, but with their fear and suspicion there was also respect and awe. They recognized in them the qualities an Indian loves—strength, utter fearlessness, and a determination that breaks down all obstacles. About each of these men there was mystery which baffled the wits of the Indians and excited their interest even more than did the medicine men of their own tribes.
Of the past of these two remarkable men the Indians knew nothing; they could not read the tale of danger and hardship that had marked the years of La Salle, or the story of the pitfalls and snares laid by his enemies for his destruction. They could not know that at Fort Frontenac, when La Salle was on his way to their country, one of his men had put poison in his food. Nor did they know of the incident at the Miami portage, where one of his followers, walking behind, had raised his gun to shoot his leader in the back and was prevented only by the quick arm of a comrade. They knew that six of the men had deserted and gone off into the woods, but they did not know that on that same day in their own village another of his treacherous knaves had again tried to poison him.
They knew nothing of the early experiences of Henry de Tonty, of the seas he had sailed and the fights he had fought by land and water in the service of the King of France. Nor did they yet know the faith with which he served his leader and friend La Salle. But a sure instinct told the red men that here were two men whom they would love as friends or fear as enemies.