“See,” said he to the Indians, “I will cut out this ball, but before doing so I will tell how I think it is marked.”
He then related the incident in the trading store, with which the reader is already acquainted, and afterwards extracted the ball, which, although much flattened and knocked out of shape, showed clearly the deep marks made by the Indian’s teeth. Thus, the act which had been done slyly but boastfully before the eyes of a comrade, probably as wicked as himself, became the means whereby Darkeye’s guilt was clearly proved.
At once a party of his own tribe were directed by their chief to go out in pursuit of the murderer.
It were vain for me to endeavour to describe the anguish of poor Marie on being deprived of a kind and loving father in so awful and sudden a manner. I will drop a veil over her grief, which was too deep and sacred to be intermeddled with.
On the day following the murder, a band of Indians arrived at Fort Erie with buffalo skins for sale. To the amazement of every one Darkeye himself was among them. The wily savage—knowing that his attempting to quit that part of the country as a fugitive would be certain to fix suspicion on him as the murderer—resolved to face the fur-traders as if he were ignorant of the deed which had been done. By the very boldness of this step he hoped to disarm suspicion; but he forgot the bitten ball.
It was therefore a look of genuine surprise that rose to Darkeye’s visage, when, the moment he entered the fort, Mr Pemberton seized him by the right arm, and led him into the hall.
At first he attempted to seize the handle of his knife, but a glance at the numbers of the white men, and the indifference of his own friends, showed him that his best chance lay in cunning.
The Indians who had arrived with him were soon informed by the others of the cause of this, and all of them crowded into the hall to watch the proceedings. The body of poor Laroche was laid on a table, and Darkeye was led up to it. The cunning Indian put on a pretended look of surprise on beholding it, and then the usual expression of stolid gravity settled on his face as he turned to Mr Pemberton for information.
“Your hand did this,” said the fur-trader.
“Is Darkeye a dog that he should slay an old man?” said the savage.