Gordon understood. "Yes," he said, "and I will not take your hand until you have done right."
The grave old chief drew his blanket about his shoulders with a shrug. "Now listen," he said. "If one of your soldiers had approached a party of my soldiers and had killed all their horses, and so crippled them and escaped, your people would have made him a big captain. It is so. My young man is very brave. He did as he was told. You can not come here and take my country—not yet. I have watched your advance and complained to your soldiers at White River. When I saw they did not go out and catch you as our Great Father has said they should do, I sent my young man to stop you. You will find your soldiers at the three forks of White River. Now go!"
And without another word, Red Cloud turned upon his heel and stalked away.
This time Gordon was glad enough to obey the injunction to "go." Three days later his little party filed in at the military camp on White River, and when, some time afterward, their boxes of freight had been recovered, not so much as a blanket or a pound of sugar had been taken by Red Cloud's Sioux.
VII. McDOUGAL AND HIS KIND INDIAN NEIGHBOR.
One James McDougal, a native of Argyleshire, having emigrated to upper Canada, from anxiety to make the most of his scanty capital, purchased a location where the price of land was merely nominal, in a country sparsely settled, and on the extreme verge of civilization. His first care was to construct a log house in which to live, and a barn for his few domestic animals, consisting of cattle, sheep and hogs. This task finished, he busily employed himself in bringing a few acres of ground under cultivation, and, though his task was hard and slow, yet he became in a rough way fairly comfortable, as compared with the poverty he had left behind.
His greatest discomforts were distance from his neighbors, the church, the markets and even the mill; and along with these the suspension of those endearing charities, and friendly offices, which lend such a charm to social life.
On one occasion, Mr. McDougal found it necessary to take a sack of grain to the nearest mill, about fifteen miles distant, over a rough country. He got an early start, hoping to make the journey and return by sunset of the same day. In his absence, the care of the cattle devolved on his wife, and as they did not come up to the barn as usual at the close of day the careful matron went in quest of them.
Beyond the mere outskirts of the cleared land there was a forest, which to her, unpracticed in woodcraft, became a terra incognita; tall trees arose on every side—"a boundless contiguity of shade"—and with neither compass nor notched trees to guide her, it is not surprising that she soon found herself completely lost. Having wandered aimlessly until almost exhausted and completely discouraged, she dropped down by a large tree and wept bitterly.
At this moment the noise of approaching footsteps was heard. Her heart almost ceased beating with terror, for she knew that fierce wild beasts roamed through that forest. It proved to be neither bear nor panther, but what has been designated as "The still wilder Red Man of the Forest." An Indian hunter stood before her, a veritable "stoic of the woods, a man without fear."