"Your dreams must have unsettled your wits, my friend," replied Wolf Slayer, "or you would not talk so loud before a chief of the tribe."
Just then, in answer to the cry that had sounded so dismally across the dawn a few moments before, five more warriors, armed with bows, appeared on the top of the cliff—for the cry was the hunting-call of the tribe.
"Do you fish with war-bows?" shouted Ouenwa. "And why do you summon to trade with the cry of the hunt?"
"You ask too many questions, even for a seeker of wisdom," replied the other youth, mockingly.
"Does Soft Hand, the great bear, slumber, that the foxes bark with such assurance?" retorted Ouenwa.
By this time the Pelican was ready to put out of the cove. Both anchors were up, and Harding and Clotworthy held her off with the oars. Old Tom Bent was also in the boat, busy with something beside the mast. Suddenly a bow-string twanged, and an arrow buried its flint head in the sand at Kingswell's feet. Another struck a stone and, glancing out, rattled against Harding's oar. Kingswell and Ouenwa backed hastily into the water. Above them, silhouetted against the lightening sky, they saw bending bows and downward thrust arms. Then, with a clap and a roar, and a gust of smoke, old Tom Bent replied to the warriors on the cliff. The echoes of the discharge bellowed around and around the rock-girt harbour. Ouenwa and Kingswell sprang through the smoke and climbed aboard, and the seamen pushed into deep water and then bent to their oars. But the Pelican proved a heavy boat to row, with her blunt bows and comfortable beam. She surged slowly beyond the cloud of bitter smoke that the musket had hung in the windless air. Clear of that, the voyagers looked for their treacherous assailants—and, behold, the great warriors were not to be seen. Kingswell and the three seamen laughed, as if the incident were a fine joke; but Ouenwa was hot with shame and anger. He stood erect and shouted abuse to the deserted cliff-top. He called upon Wolf Slayer and Panounia to show their cowardly faces. He threatened them with the displeasure of Soft Hand and with the anger of the English. A figure appeared on the sky-line.
"You speak of Soft Hand," it cried. "Know you, then, that Soft Hand set out on the Long Trail four suns ago, when he marched into my village to dispute my power. I, Panounia, am now the great chief of the people. So carry yourself accordingly, O whelp without teeth and without a den to crawl into. Whose hand has overthrown the lodge of the totem of the Black Bear? Mine! Panounia's! Soft Hand has fallen under it as his son, your father, succumbed to it when you were a squalling babe." He paused for a moment, and held out a gleaming knife, with its point toward the Pelican. "The totem of the Wolf now hangs from the great lodge," he cried.
Quick and noiseless as a breath, the edge of the cliff was lined with warriors. Like a sudden flight of birds their arrows flashed outward and downward.
"Lie down!" cried Kingswell. With a strong hand he snatched Ouenwa to the bottom of the boat. Harding and Clotworthy sprawled forward between the thwarts. Only Tom Bent, crouched beside the naked mast, did not move. The arrows thumped against plank and gunwale. They pierced the cargo. They glanced from tiller and sweep and mast. One, turning from the rail, struck Bent on the shoulder. He cursed angrily, but did not look for the wound. His match was burning with a thread of blue smoke and a spark of red fire. His clumsy gun was geared to the rail by an impromptu swivel of cords. He lay flat and elevated the muzzle.
"Steady her," he said, softly. "She's driftin' in."