“Hold there,” cried the Indian. “No, don’t do that,” for Head was trying might and main to draw himself up. As every swimmer knows, it is not the 83 easiest thing in the world to get into a light boat from the water, even when one has no clothes on and is not numbed to the very marrow with cold.
“What on earth are you trying to do?” he spluttered, as the other two Delawares also took up their paddles. What they were about to do was soon clear enough; they meant to tow him ashore, for suddenly the paddles flashed through the water and, despite the weight behind it, the canoe moved rapidly towards the bank.
“Wait a minute, you precious fools,” gasped the Major wrathfully; but they never so much as turned their heads. True, he had never seen a canoe move so swiftly in all his life, yet those forty or fifty yards to the bank were like miles, and when, springing ashore, two of the Indians bent over to help him out of the water, he could scarcely use his feet to scramble up the low bank.
“Why ever didn’t you pull me out straight away, or keep still till I got into the boat?” he asked, as he stood and shivered before the fire while his man gave him a rub down with a blanket. The Delawares looked grave and wise.
“You are a tall and a heavy man. You might have upset the boat—and then we should have lost all our fish.”
Sir George does not record the answer that he made to these curmudgeonly rascals who preferred endangering a man’s life to the risk of losing a few salmon. But perhaps they were only having their revenge on him for having spoilt their night’s work by driving away all the fish.
The next afternoon, fishing and paddling by turns, they came to a town or village of some pretensions—the last on the river. Head again tried to persuade the Indians to agree to go farther, but fruitlessly; and their utmost concession was that, as one of their number was going into the town to buy some goods while the others sold their fish at the wharf, he would make inquiries about procuring new guides. The Major sent his man across with the luggage to the only decent inn of the place, and himself idled about the jetty, talking to the remaining Indians and their customers.
“He has found a guide for you,” said one of the Delawares at last, pointing to a strange figure that came stalking along the quay behind the third Indian.
The new arrival was a middle-aged man of such ferocious aspect that Head fancied he could foresee trouble before they had gone far together. He was one of the Crees, and his personal beauty—probably never at any time great—was not improved by the scars and tattoo marks that covered his face, arms, and chest. Cold though the weather was becoming, he was naked, but for his moccasins and a sort of kilt or petticoat made of feathers and deer-skin. His hair, also decorated with feathers, extended to his waist, and he wore a string of odds and ends round his neck: glass beads, teeth, bits of metal, coins, and buttons. He carried a broad-bladed spear nearly eight feet high in one hand, and an enormous club in the other, while from his neck or shoulders hung bow, quiver, tomahawk, and two knives.