“Do you hear the miscreant,” cried Bois-Rose, using in indignation an image fit for the Indians, “he takes jaguars far jackals. Ah! if Fabian were not here, a bullet would be my answer.”
Meanwhile, the Indian feeling certain of the presence of the hunters in the island, began to lose patience—for the orders of the chiefs had been peremptory to attack the whites—but he, having his own opinions, wished to prove them right. He knew that the American or Canadian rifle never misses its aim, and three such allies seemed to him not to be despised. He therefore continued to speak:
“The buffalo of the prairies is not more easy to follow than the white man; the track of the buffalo tells the Indian his age, his size, and the time of his passing. There are behind the reeds of the floating island a man as strong as a bison, and taller than the tallest rifle, a warrior of mingled north and south blood, and a young warrior of the pure south, but the alliance of these two with the first, indicates that they are enemies of the southern whites—for the weakest ever seek the friendship of the strongest and espouse their cause.”
“The sagacity of these dogs is admirable,” said Bois-Rose.
“Because they flatter you,” said Pepé, who seemed somewhat annoyed at what the Indian had said.
“I await for the answer of the whites,” continued the Blackbird. “I hear only the sound of the river, and the wind which says to me, ‘the whites imagine a thousand errors; they believe that the Indian has eyes behind his back, that the track of the bison is invisible, and that reeds are ball proof.’ The Blackbird laughs at the words of the wind.”
“Ah!” said Bois-Rose, “if we had entered but two miles higher up the river!”
“A friend disdained becomes a terrible enemy,” continued the chief.
“We say something similar among us,” muttered Pepé.
The Blackbird now signed to the captive to approach. The latter advanced, and the chief pointed out to him the little island, and said, “Can the rifle of the pale-face send a ball into the space between those bushes?”