“Siena’s tribe is poor,” replied the lad; “sometimes they starve too. But Siena will divide his fish and wants no trade.”
His mother, seeing the white men intended no evil, came out of her fright and complained bitterly to Siena of his liberality. She spoke of the menacing winter, of the frozen streams, the snow-bound forest, the long night of hunger. Siena silenced her and waved the frightened braves and squaws back to their wigwams.
“Siena is young,” he said simply; “but he is chief here. If we starve—we starve.”
Whereupon he portioned out a half of the fish. The white men built a fire and sat around it feasting like famished wolves around a fallen stag. When they had appeased their hunger they packed the remaining fish in the boat, whistling and singing the while. Then the leader made offer to pay, which Siena refused, though the covetous light in his mother’s eyes hurt him sorely.
“Chief,” said the leader, “the white man understands; now he offers presents as one chief to another.”
Thereupon he proffered bright beads and tinseled trinkets, yards of calico and strips of cloth. Siena accepted with a dignity in marked contrast to the way in which the greedy Ema pounced upon the glittering heap. Next the paleface presented a knife which, drawn from its scabbard, showed a blade that mirrored its brightness in Siena’s eyes.
“Chief, your woman complains of a starving tribe,” went on the white man. “Are there not many moose and reindeer?”
“Yes. But seldom can Siena creep within range of his arrow.”
“A-ha! Siena will starve no more,” replied the man, and from the boat he took a long iron tube with a wooden stock.
“What is that?” asked Siena.