Brothers of Peril: A Story of old Newfoundland

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

At last, creeping on all fours, they peered from the screen of brush into a tiny clearing on the north bank of Little Thunder. The stream was not ten yards across at this point. On its white surface ran several trails of snow-shoes. The smoke which had attracted them to the place curled up from the apex of a large, bark-roofed wigwam. As the travellers watched, an old woman appeared in the doorway of the lodge. Ouenwa recognized her as a wise herb-doctor who had been a friend and adviser of Soft Hand. He whispered the information to Black Feather.

"Then we may show ourselves," said the other, "for if this woman was the great chief's friend you may be sure that death has only strengthened her loyalty. It is so with women—with the wise and the foolish alike. A man will stand close to his comrade in the days of his glory and in the press of battle; but it is the squaw who keeps the fallen shield freshly painted and the cause of the departed ever before the matters of the present day. A man must have the reward of his friend's praise and the joy of his companionship; but a woman makes a god of the departed spirit and looks for her reward beyond the red gates."

Ouenwa had nothing to say to his friend's sage reflections, for all he knew of women was that a radiant creature far back in Fort Beatrix had his heart in thrall. So he led the way from cover, and down the bank, in silence.

The old squaw in the doorway of the lodge caught sight of them immediately. She turned into the dark interior of the wigwam, but appeared before they were half-way across the frozen stream, with a bow in her hand and an arrow on the string. Black Feather and the lad raised their right hands, palms forward, above their heads, and continued to advance. The old hag lowered her weapon, but did not relax her attitude of vigilance. Close to the rise of the bank the travellers paused, and the lad called out that he was Ouenwa, grandson of Soft Hand, and that his companion was Black Feather, the adopted son of Montaw, the arrow-maker. At that the guardian of the wigwam forsook her post and advanced to meet them.

The herb-doctor, who had been one of Soft Hand's advisers, was not attractive to the eye. She was bent hideously, though still of surprising bodily strength. Her head was uncovered, save for the matted locks of hair that clung about it and fell over her ears and neck like a wig of gray tree-moss. Her eyes were deep and black and fierce. One yellow fang stood like a sentinel in the cavity of her mouth. Her hands were claws. Her skin was no lighter in hue and no finer in texture than was the tanned leather of her high-legged moccasins. Her garments were unusually barbaric—lynx-skins shapelessly stitched together and hung about with belts and charms, and a great knife of flint nearly as long as a cutlass. Her corded, scraggy arms hung naked at her sides, as indifferent to the nip of the frost as to the regard of strange eyes.

"Child," she said, "I heard that you were killed—that Panounia's men had slain you and a party of English; but that I knew to be false, for I saw not your spirit with the spirits of your fathers. So I believed that you had crossed the great salt water with the strangers."

Ouenwa told his story, to which the old woman listened with the keenest interest and many nods of the head.

"It is well," she said. "They are scattered now, some in hiding, some sullenly obedient to Panounia, and some in captivity. Your need will bring them together and awake their sleeping courage. I know of a full score of stout warriors who will draw no bow for Panounia, and who are all within a day's journey of this spot, but sadly scattered,—yea, scattered in every little hollow, like frightened hares."

"Do you live in this great lodge all by yourself?" inquired Black Feather.