Then Ralph went on.
“We have come on the ‘long trail’ through the mountains. And we seek the White Squaw of the Moosefoot Indians.”
The chief remained quite calm, but his bleared old eyes shot a sidelong gleam at the speaker in which there was little friendliness. No other movement was allowed to give evidence of disquiet. It is part of the upbringing of the neche to eschew all outward signs of emotion. The Sun Dance, when the braves are made, is the necessary education in this direction. Ralph saw the look but failed to take its meaning. The squaw watched the white men with keen interest. Nick was groping about in the depths of a gunny-sack.
Ralph plunged into the fantastic story which he and Nick had prepared. The language of the Cree helped him, for the natural colouring of the Indian tongues is as flowery as that of any Eastern race.
“We come from beyond the mountains, from the hunting-grounds of forest and river where the great fathers of the Moosefoot Indians dwelt. We come to tell the White Squaw that the land cries out for her, and the return of the children of the Moose. We come to speak with her of these things, for the time has come when she must leave her forest home and return to her own land. Man-of-the-Snow-Hill must show us the way. We have many presents which we will give him.”
“It is well,” said the great man, closing his eyes while the water oozed from between the compressed lids. “The white men are the friends of the Moosefoot people, and they have many presents. Have they fire-water?”
Nick produced some bottles and the great man reached for them greedily. But the other withheld them.
“What will Man-of-the-Snow-Hill do for the fire-water?” Ralph asked.
The interpreter passed the word.
“He will send his favourite squaw to guide the white men,” he answered at once. “He can do no more.”