“Sequitah is great chief,” he said quietly, “a warrior of many battles, the friend of La Salle. We have smoked the peace-pipe together, and walked side by side on the war-trail. Sequitah knows who speaks?”
“The French warrior they call De Artigny.”
“Right; ’tis not the first time you and I have met the Iroquois! The wolves are here again; they have burned the villages of the Illini, and killed your women and children. The valley is black with smoke, and red 376 with blood. What says the war chief of the Mascoutins––will his warriors fight? Will they strike with us a blow against the beasts?”
The chief swept his hand in wide circle.
“We are warriors; we have tasted blood. What are the white man’s words of wisdom?”
Briefly, in quick, ringing sentences, De Artigny outlined his plan. Sequitah listened motionless, his face unexpressive of emotion. Twice, confused by some French phrase, he asked grave questions, and once a courier de bois spoke up in his own tongue, to make the meaning clear. As De Artigny ceased the chief stood for a moment silent.
“We leap upon them from cover?” he asked calmly, “and the white men will sally forth to aid us?”
“’Tis so we expect––M. de Tonty is never averse to a fight.”
“I believe in the Iron Hand; but ’tis told me others command now. If they fail we are but few against many.”
“They will not fail, Sequitah; they are Frenchmen.”