Tegakwita stood by him, and without a word they stooped and set to work, side by side, scraping the earth with their fingers over the body. Tegakwita found a dozen little ways to delay. Menard steadily lost patience.
“Tegakwita has forgotten,” said the Indian, standing up; “he has not offered the present to his sister’s Oki.”
“Well?” said Menard, roughly.
Tegakwita’s voice trembled, as if he knew that he was pressing the white man too far.
“The grave must be opened. It will not take long.”
It came to Menard in a flash. The many delays, 302 the anxious glances toward the thicket,––these meant that others were coming. Something delayed them; Tegakwita must hold the Big Buffalo till they arrived. With never a word Menard sprang over the grave; but the Indian was quicker, and his hand was the first on the musket. Then they fought, each struggling to free his hands from the other’s grasp, rolling over and over,––now half erect, tramping on the soft mound, now wrestling on the harder ground below. At last Menard, as they whirled and tumbled past the weapons, snatched the knife. Tegakwita caught his wrist, and then it was nigh to stabbing his own thigh as they fought for it. Once he twisted his hand and savagely buried the blade in the Indian’s side. Tegakwita caught his breath and rallied, and the blood of the one was on them both. At last a quick wrench bent the Indian’s wrist back until it almost snapped,––Menard thought that it had,––and the stained blade went home once, and again, and again, until the arms that had clung madly about the white man slipped off, and lay weakly on the ground.
Menard was exhausted. The dirt and blood were in his hair and eyes and ears. He was rising stiffly to his knees when the rush of 303 Indians came from the bushes. He could not see them clearly,––could hardly hear them,––though he fought until a musket-stock swung against his head and stretched him on the ground.
When he recovered they were standing about him, half a score of them, waiting to see if he still had life. He raised a bruised arm to wipe his eyes, but a rough hand caught it and drew a thong tightly about his wrists. Slowly his senses awakened, and he could see indistinctly the silent forms,––some standing motionless, others walking slowly about. It was strange. His aching head had not the wit to meet with the situation. Then they jerked him to his feet, and with a stout brave at each elbow and others crowding about on every side, he was dragged off through the bushes.
For a long time the silent party pushed forward. They were soon clear of the forest, passing through rich wild meadows that lifted the scent of clover, the fresher for the dew that lay wet underfoot. There were other thickets and other forests, and many a reach of meadow, all rolling up and down over the gentle hills. Menard tried to gather his wits, but his head 304 reeled; and the struggle to keep his feet moving steadily onward was enough to hold his mind. He knew that he should watch the trail closely, to know where they were taking him, but he was not equal to the effort. At last the dawn came, gray and depressing, creeping with deadly slowness on the trail of the retreating night. The sky was dull and heavy, and a mist clung about the party, leaving little beads of moisture on deerskin coats and fringed leggings and long, brown musket barrels. The branches drooped from the trees, blurred by the mist and the half dark into strange shapes along the trail.
The day was broad awake when Menard gave way. His muscles had been tried to the limit of his endurance during these many desperate days and sleepless nights that he had thought to be over. He fell loosely forward. For a space they dragged him, but the burden was heavy, and the chief ordered a rest. The band of warriors scattered about to sleep under the trees, leaving a young brave to watch the Big Buffalo, who slept motionless where they had dropped him in the long grass close at hand. On every side were hills, shielding them from the view of any chance straggler 305 from the Onondaga villages, unless he should clamber down the short slopes and search for them in the mist. A stream tumbled by, not a dozen yards from Menard and his yawning guardian.