“Let Baroma’s slave keep his place among the squaws,” was the reply.
That autumn the north wind came a moon before the Crees expected it; the reindeer took their annual march farther south; the moose herded warily in open groves; the whitefish did not run, and the seven-year pest depleted the rabbits.
When the first snow fell Baroma called a council and then sent his hunting braves far and wide.
One by one they straggled back to camp, footsore and hungry, and each with the same story. It was too late.
A few moose were in the forest, but they were wild and kept far out of range of the hunter’s arrows, and there was no other game.
A blizzard clapped down upon the camp, and sleet and snow whitened the forest and filled the trails. Then winter froze everything in icy clutch. The old year drew to a close.
The Crees were on the brink of famine. All day and all night they kept up their chanting and incantations and beating of tom-toms to conjure the return of the reindeer. But no reindeer appeared.
It was then that the stubborn Baroma yielded to his advisers and consented to let Siena save them from starvation by means of his wonderful shooting stick. Accordingly Baroma sent word to Siena to appear at his wigwam.
Siena did not go, and said to the medicine men: “Tell Baroma soon it will be for Siena to demand.”