Crow Wing was evidently a man of importance in his tribe now, and his gravity was far beyond his years. While they ate Enoch asked a question or two about his people, and if the decimated tribe, which had never recovered numerically from a scourge of smallpox, still resided near Lake George. He learned then that the Indians had struck their lodges and were journeying toward the northern wilderness. The old chief, Crow Wing’s father, was dead, and the youth himself aspired to be the leader of his people. From a word or two he let drop and from his manner of speaking, Enoch judged that the older men of the tribe had some doubt of Crow Wing’s ability to govern the braves; but evidently the youth had strong hopes of gaining their confidence–and that by some act in the near future. What his plan for advancement was, Enoch could not get his friend to tell.
“Why do your people leave the shores of the pleasant water?” asked the white boy.
“Injin not ’lone there now. Red-coat come; then white farmer. Push, push; crowd, crowd; no game. Injin starve.”
“And where are you going?”
“To the hunting grounds of the Hurons.”
“But then there will be war between your people and the Hurons.”
“No; no war. Hurons be squaws–children; Iroquois master ’em. Then, war-hatchet buried between Hurons and Six Nations. Buried when French and Yenghese bury hatchet–long time ’go.”
Enoch, with more than curiosity, yet speaking in a careless manner, continued his questioning: “What would the people of Crow Wing do if there was another war?”
The Indian flashed a sudden sharp glance at him. “How could be?” he asked, craftily. “Yenghese got many red-coats–much gun. French no fight more.”
“Suppose we should fight the red-coats?”