“Who are you?” I asked.
“I am Miskwandib, and wish to be your friend,” answered the Indian. “At present I am hungry, and should be glad of food. Had I been an enemy I could have killed you both with my arrows at a distance, and taken what I require.”
“Much obliged to you, friend Miskwandib, for your kindness,” said Pat. “Sit down, and make yourself at home, and you shall have some of our supper.” Pat spoke partly in English and partly in the Cree language.
The Indian understood him, and coming round to our side of the fire sat down next to Pat. We immediately handed him some of the venison, which he ate ravenously, while I put on a fresh piece to roast. It greatly diminished our stock of provisions, but we could not withhold it from the starving Indian.
“Have you any friends in the neighbourhood, Misther Miskwandib?” asked Pat.
“I have my squaw and children encamped at the farther end of the wood,” he answered. “They, too, are starving and want food. They nearly perished in the snowstorm which occurred some time back, and since then I have been unable to kill any game for their support. You with your firearms will be able to obtain what you may require.”
We, of course, did not wish to say that we had no powder, or that I had not even a gun. Pat and I, after a short consultation, agreed that humanity demanded we should share our provisions with the starving Indians.
While we were talking, the Indian’s eye fell upon the roots by Pat’s side.
“What are these for?” he asked.
“Shure! to cook and ate,” answered Pat.