However, the next few days passed peacefully. Giles Hosset’s fears began to die away. The Indians were apparently as friendly as ever, and the whole tragic event seemed to have been forgotten. But it was not. There were friends of the chief who remembered and blamed the pale faces for his death, and whose hearts were full of hatred and revenge.
One morning the little ship Walrus drew up its anchor and sailed down the bay and out into the ocean to look for whales. There were said to be a great many along the coast, and an Indian had brought them news of one that had been spouting outside at dawn.
The colonists were gathering in their crops, and the little cluster of cabins lay peaceful and deserted in the golden autumn sunlight. Two people only were left in the strong house. One was a man who was sick and so unable to work; the other was a stout, strong fellow who stayed there on guard. A great brindled mastiff was chained to the wall by a strong staple. He lay asleep, sometimes rousing himself to snap lazily at the flies. The guard was sharpening some farm implements; the man on the bed lay watching him, and now and then they chatted idly.
Suddenly the great mastiff lifted its head and listened. Then it sprang to its feet, struggling against the chain and growling ominously.
“What is it?” asked the sick man.
The guard went to the door and looked out.
“Indians,” he answered.
“Indians?” repeated the sick man, “I like not that they should come here when all the others are away and out of call.”
However, it seemed that these Indians had come on a matter of barter. They had with them a stack of beaver skins, which they wished to exchange for cloth or provisions. They spread them out on the floor, and the white men grew quite interested in examining them.