While Louis and Walter stared, amazed and apprehensive, the Black Murray rose to his feet and turned to the chief. He said a few words in Dakota; his all too familiar voice sending another chill up Walter’s spine, gathered his blanket about him, gave the boys one scornful glance, and strode around the fire and out of the tipi.

Louis drew a long breath to steady himself, and spoke to the chief again. Still uncertain whether the Indians understood any French, the boy thanked the young chief for receiving his comrade and himself. They had enjoyed the visit to the village, he said, but must return to their own camp now, as the hour was growing late. They hoped to see more of the chief and his people in the morning. At the close of this speech, Louis bowed slightly, and began to step backward around the fire.

Walter imitated his friend, carefully keeping his face turned towards the chief. That young man waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. Not one of the Indians made a move to hinder the two from leaving.

It was an enormous relief to be out of that tipi, yet both boys knew they were far from being out of danger. From the illuminated lodge in the center of the camp, the thumping of the drum and the clacking of rattles went on tirelessly. Fires had been kindled in a circle around the big tipi, and about them men and women were gathering.

“There is to be some kind of a dance,” Louis whispered. “Look!” he exclaimed suddenly. He gripped Walter’s arm and drew him back into the shadow of an unlighted lodge.

Crossing the open space, in the full light of the blazing fires, was the tall, stately form of Murray. A great, hairy buffalo robe fell loosely from his broad shoulders. His head was adorned with the strangest of headdresses, the shaggy head of a buffalo bull, horns and nose painted red. That stuffed buffalo head must have been exceedingly heavy, but under its weight Murray held his own head and neck proudly erect. Looking neither to right nor left, he strode between the fires, men and women making way for him. He stooped only to enter the big tipi.

The two boys, in the protecting shadow of the dark lodge, had stood apparently unnoticed through this show. After Murray disappeared Louis led Walter around to the side of the unlighted dwelling farthest from the fire.

“We must be away,” he whispered. “This is no place for us.”

Silently, cautiously, they made their way among the tipis. The whole band seemed to have gathered in the central space, yet the boys were not to escape notice. They were passing through the outer circle of dwellings, when a man suddenly appeared in front of them. It was the broad-shouldered warrior who had brought them to the camp. He spoke urgently, pointing again and again towards the inner circle of lodges, and making the hat-wearer sign.

Louis shook his head. “Non, non,” he replied emphatically. “We have seen enough of your white trader. A fine white man he is. Go on, Walter,” he ordered, and Walter obeyed.

If the Dakota did not understand the words, he could not mistake the boys’ actions. He tried to seize Louis by the arm. Louis dodged, jumping to one side nimbly, eluded the Indian, and ran after Walter, who also broke into a run. To their surprise, the man did not attempt to follow them. Perhaps the middle-aged, rather heavily built brave despaired of catching the light-footed lads. At any rate he let them go. There was no one else near by to stop them.

As soon as the boys were sure they were not being followed, they slowed to a walk.

“We are well out of that,” said Louis, drawing a long breath of relief.

“Yes. I can’t understand why Murray let us go so easily.”

“I fear we have not seen the last of le Murrai Noir yet,” was the sober reply. “If he had abused us, cursed us, threatened us, I should have less fear. I do not like his silence, the way he allowed us to go without raising a hand against us.”

“The Indians seem friendly. Perhaps they won’t let him touch us.”

“That may be. They may be afraid that any trouble with white men will bring vengeance upon them. Yet I do not like the looks of that young chief. And he did not offer us food. That is a bad sign, Walter. If he had invited us to eat, to smoke the calumet, but he did not.” Louis shook his head doubtfully.

“I can’t imagine,” Walter pondered, “why Murray went out and left us, and then sent that man after us again.”

Louis was equally puzzled. “It is all very strange. Le Murrai sent him for us. Surely that was what he meant. Then, when we reached the camp, another man came and took us away from him. And when we were leaving, the first fellow came again and wished us to go back.”

“Perhaps Murray wanted to see us alone, and the chief interfered,” Walter suggested.

“So he sent for us again? But we saw le Murrai going to join in the dance. The dance will take a long time, all night perhaps, and he is the chief figure in it I think.”

“He certainly looked as if he was. Louis, is there really any white blood in Murray at all?”

“That is another strange thing,” returned the troubled Louis. “It is strange that those Indians should speak of him as a hat-wearer, a white man. Rather he seems one of themselves.”

Discussing and pondering the bewildering events of the past few hours, the boys made their way across the prairie towards their own camp. The moon had risen and lighted their way. The camp fire, a flickering point of light, guided them and assured them that all was well with their companions. Had there been no spark of fire at all, or had a great column of flame sprung up, the two would have been running at full speed. Their puzzlings led to no solution of their strange treatment at the hands of Murray and the chief.

“I am certain of but one thing,” Louis asserted finally. He spoke emphatically and in a louder tone than he had been using. “There is mischief brewing in that camp to-night, and le Murrai Noir is the center of it.”

“Aye, you are right there.”

The words, in a strange voice, came from behind them. With one impulse the boys sprang apart, and turned. Louis’ hand was on the hilt of his hunting knife.

Close to them, leading a horse, was a tall form, a very tall form. Taller he seemed than Murray himself, though perhaps that was because he was so gaunt and thin. In the moonlight the boys could see that his buckskin clothes hung loosely upon his long frame. He wore a cap, and had a bushy beard.

“You were too busy with your talk,” the strange man went on rebukingly. “The whole band might have stolen up on you.” He spoke easy, fluent Canadian French, but with a peculiar accent that reminded Walter of Neil’s manner of speech.

“Who are you?” demanded Louis, his hand still on his knife.

“I’m the hat-wearer that sent for you.”

“You are the white trader? Then it wasn’t le Murrai?”

“It was not. But you’re right in thinking he’s the center of the mischief over there. I sent Shahaka to your camp. He was to bring you straight to my lodge, but someone, Murray or Tatanka Wechacheta, interfered. Then I told Shahaka to wait for you at the edge of the village, but you wouldn’t go back with him. I wanted to warn you of what was going on. I thought it wiser not to go to your camp myself. My influence with that young fool of a chief is not so strong as it was before the big medicine man Murray came along.”

“He claims to be a medicine man?” asked Louis.

“Aye, a mighty one, with all sorts of wakan. He is teaching a picked few rascals of them a new medicine dance. They will dance and powwow till near the dawn, then Murray will feast them and fill them full of rum.”

“But why?”

“Why? He’s a free trader, that Murray, a clever one and not particular about his methods, his boasts that he got his start by stealing pemmican from the Hudson Bay Company and then selling it back to them, through a friend, for trade goods. If he can make those foolish savages look up to him and fear him as a great witan wishasha, he can do anything he likes with them in the way of trade. He has sold them a lot of medicines already, charms against evil spirits and injury in battle, charms to give them power over their enemies and the beasts they hunt.” The tall man changed the subject abruptly. “You have horses and carts and goods with you?” he demanded.

“No trade goods, except a few little things for presents. But we have two carts loaded with our personal things, and four good horses, and an Eskimo dog.”

“You will have none of them by sunrise,” was the grim response, “if you stay here. Murray is not the man to let all that slip through his fingers.”

“Then why did he let us leave the camp?”

“And why not? He can put his hand on you whenever he likes. In a few hours he will have plenty of drunken savages to do his will.”

Walter shivered. He was thinking, not of himself, but of Elise and Mrs. Brabant and the children.

As they drew near the camp, Neil, gun in hand, sprang up from the ground, where he had been lying, watching their approach. He had been worried because, instead of two only, he could make out three men and a horse.

Entering the circle around the fire, Louis introduced the stranger. “This is the man who sent for us, the trader.”

The tall man pulled off his fur cap and ducked his head to Mrs. Brabant. “I’m Duncan McNab, at your service, Madame,” he said. He caught sight of Neil’s freckled face and blue bonnet. “Ye’re a Scot,” he said accusingly in English.

“I am that, and sa are you,” Neil retorted promptly.

“Aye. Ye’ll be fra Kildonan na doot, but there’s na time ta be talkin’ aboot that.” He turned to Louis and spoke in French again. “You are camped on the edge of a coulee. Did you pick this spot on purpose?”

The boy nodded.

“Then you know what to do. The coulee leads towards the Bois des Sioux. Leave your fire burning. The savages will think you’re still here.”

“Our carts make so much noise,” interposed Walter. “If any of their scouts or camp guards should hear that squeaking – ”

“Leave the carts behind,” McNab interrupted. “I doubt if you could take them up the coulee.”

“We can go faster without them anyway,” Louis agreed, “and get more out of our horses.”

“Travel light, a little pemmican, your weapons and ammunition, nothing else. It is hard to lose all your things, Madame,” the trader said bluntly to Mrs. Brabant, “but better than to run the risk of your children falling into the hands of Tatanka Wechacheta and the Black Murray.”

“Murray?” cried Mr. Perier.

“You know him?”

“We all know him. We have good cause to,” said Walter.

“That makes it all the worse, if he has anything against you. No, don’t tell me the story now. We have no time to exchange tales.”

“If we must leave the carts behind,” Neil suggested, “why not hide them in the coulee? Then the Indians may think we have taken them along. Later we can come back from Lake Traverse and get them.”

“It micht work oot that wa’,” returned McNab, falling into Scots’ English again, “but I’m thinkin’ they’ll find the cairts easy eneuch.”

“We’ll tak them doon the coulee a bit,” Neil insisted, in the same tongue. “If Murray finds the tracks he’ll maybe think we’ve gane doon ta the Wild Rice and back across.”

The trader shook his head. “He’ll be findin’ your trail all richt, but ye can maybe delay him for a bit. Weel, do what you’re goin’ ta do quick, an’ be awa’ wi’ ye. I maun be gettin’ back or they’ll miss me.”

“You’re na comin’ wi’ us?” cried Neil.

“Na, na, I’m not rinnin’ awa’ yet.” He switched to French and took his leave of the others. “Cross the Bois des Sioux and make speed for Lake Traverse,” he advised. “Tell Renville I’ll be back there in a few days. It was Renville sent me to find out what that rascal Murray was up to. Good speed and God go with you.”

XXXVII
FLIGHT

Louis and Walter decided that Neil’s plan was worth trying. They muffled the axles of the two carts with strips torn from a ragged blanket, and carefully cased the vehicles over the edge of the coulee. The moon, shining into the rift, lighted them down the steep slope. Along the bed of the shallow brook that ran through the coulee to join the Wild Rice River, they pushed and pulled the carts, and left them well hidden among willows and cottonwoods where the ravine widened.

“There,” said Neil when the job was done, “if those Indians follow straight up the coulee after us, they won’t find the carts at all. If they come down here and find them, they may think we have gone back across the river.”

“Probably,” Louis returned, “they will divide into two parties, one to go up, the other down the coulee. But if they get all our things they may be content to let us go.”

Hiding the carts had taken less than a half hour. In the meantime Mrs. Brabant and the children had gone down into the coulee, Jeanne and Max stumbling along, scarcely awake enough to realize what was happening. While the horses were being led down, Walter remained behind as rear guard. As he threw a last armful of fuel on the fire, a burst of hideous noise came across the prairie from the Indian camp. Howls and yells, to the thumping of many drums, proved that Murray’s medicine dance was in full swing. A picture flashed through the boy’s mind; a picture of that central space within the circle of tipis as it must look now, with scores of naked, painted, befeathered savages, stamping, leaping, yelling around the blazing fires. There was no time to lose.

Mrs. Brabant was impatient and anxious to be away. She had made no protest at leaving the carts behind. All her household belongings were in them, but what were blankets and copper kettles, and the precious wooden chest of clothing and little things, compared with the safety of her children? She and little Jeanne had been placed on one of the ponies. There were only four horses for ten people. Mr. Perier took Max with him on another, and the remaining two were given to Elise and Marie. Marie could ride almost as well as her brothers, and Elise had learned since leaving Pembina.

It was very dark at the bottom of the coulee among the willows that fringed the stream. Speed was not possible, and the foot travelers could easily keep up with the ponies. Yet there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that this was the only route to take. On the open prairie, in the moonlight, they would be plainly visible from every direction. Here they were completely hidden. They hoped to be miles away before the Indians discovered that they had gone.

Progress seemed heart-breakingly slow, however, as the little party picked their way up the bed of the brook in the darkness. Louis, on foot, went ahead as guide. Walter, Neil and Raoul brought up the rear. The stream was not much over a foot deep at its deepest, with a sticky mud bottom. Luckily the ponies were sure-footed and almost cat-eyed. One or another slipped or stumbled now and then, but recovered quickly without unseating the rider. The night remained oppressively warm. Not a breath of breeze stirred the willows down below the level of the prairie. Pale flashes lit up the narrow strip of sky overhead, and distant thunder rumbled.

The coulee grew narrower and shallower. The brook dwindled to a rivulet, the fringing willows were smaller and met above the stream. It was difficult to push a way through. At last Louis called a halt.

“Wait a little,” he said. “I will go on and find a way.”

Strung out along the narrow streamlet, which scarcely covered the hoofs of the horses, the rest waited for his return. The mosquitoes were bad, and the tormented horses twisted, turned, pawed the mud, and slapped their tails about. Walter made his way among the willows to Elise’s side to be at hand if her mount should become unmanageable. But they exchanged only a word or two. The oppression of the night and the danger lay too heavy upon them both.

After what seemed a long time, Louis returned. “The coulee ends a little way ahead,” he reported. “The stream comes from a wet marsh that we must go around. I have found a place where we can climb the right bank.”

Without further words, he took hold of the bridle of his mother’s horse and led it through the willows and up a dry gully. The gully was one of the channels by which the marsh waters, during spring floods and rainy periods, found their way into the coulee. The prairie at the head of the gully was dry in July, the marsh being shrunken to dry weather proportions.

There was a certain relief in being up on the open plain again. For one thing there was more light. The western sky was banked with clouds. Over there lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, but the moon remained uncovered. Looking back to the northwest across the flat prairie, Walter could see, against the dark clouds, the glow of the fires in the Indian camp. A flash of lightning showed the pointed tips of the tipis black against the white light.

It seemed a long time since the fugitives had gone down into the coulee. The boy was disappointed and alarmed to find that they had not come farther. Had the Indians discovered their absence yet? He scanned the prairie for moving figures. To his great relief he could see not one. Not even a buffalo or a wolf appeared to be abroad on that wide, moonlit expanse. Only an occasional puff of breeze stirred the tall grass.

The party were gathered together at the head of the gully. Louis was speaking, and Walter turned to listen.

“We can go faster now, but one must go ahead to keep the course and – ”

“You must do that, Louis,” Neil interrupted. “You are guide. It is your place. The two girls will have to ride one horse.”

Louis hesitated. “It is not right for me to ride away and leave you three to follow on foot.”

“It is the only way,” put in Walter. “The ponies can’t carry us all. The others can’t go on without a guide. You will have to do it, Louis. We won’t be far behind.”

“Neil can guide as well as I can,” Louis began.

“I can’t and I won’t,” retorted the Scotch boy stubbornly. “You have your mother and sisters to take care of, and you are going on ahead.”

“One of you boys can take my horse,” Mr. Perier proposed. “I am the least experienced and the least useful of all.” He started to dismount.

“No, no,” cried Louis. “You will be too slow with your crippled foot. You will hold the others back. You must ride.”

“There are the children to think of,” Walter added earnestly. “You must go with them. Neil and Raoul and I can go much faster on foot than you could.”

“Stop talking and get away,” exclaimed Raoul impatiently. “Marie, come off that horse.”

For once in her life Marie obeyed her next older brother. She took his hand and slipped quickly to the ground. Raoul helped her up in front of Elise. Louis, without further argument, mounted and took the lead. He knew as well as anyone that they had already wasted too much time in argument.

As Raoul drew back from helping Marie up, his mother bent down from her horse to throw her left arm about his neck. “God guard you, my son,” she said softly.

“And you,” muttered Raoul huskily.

At first the lads on foot kept almost at the heels of the ponies. The prairie grass grew high and rank, and there was no beaten path. The animals could not go fast, and all three boys were good runners. But running through tall grass is not like running on an open road or even on a well-trodden cart track. They soon tired, and had to slow their pace and fall behind. The ponies were double burdened and far from fresh, but they were tough, wiry beasts, capable of extraordinary endurance. When they struck firmer ground beyond the marsh, they made better speed. The rear guard fell still farther behind. They tried to keep in the track made by the horses, but it was not always easy to do so, especially when flying clouds covered the moon and left them in darkness.

No rain fell, however. The storm that had been threatening for so long was working around to the north. The rumblings of thunder grew fainter, the lightning flashes less bright. Before dawn they had ceased altogether. A fresh, cool breeze sprang up, billowing the grass and putting new life into the tired boys, as they plodded on, carrying their heavy muskets. They no longer tried to run, but they kept up a steady walking pace.

Dawn showed a line of trees ahead that did not appear to be much over a half mile away. Those trees, the boys felt sure, must mark the course of the Bois des Sioux. It was from one of the groves on its bank that the stream took its name. The foot travelers had lost the horse track some time before, but Neil and Raoul had managed, with the aid of the stars, to keep a general course towards the east. The rest of the party were nowhere in sight. Probably they had crossed the river long ago.

Though the trees seemed such a short distance away, the sun was rising above them before the lads reached the river. Wet, marshy ground had forced a detour. The stream, where they came out upon it, proved larger and wider than they had expected.

“If we cross here we will have to swim,” said Neil, as he looked down at the muddy water. “I think we are too far down. See there.” He pointed to the opposite shore up stream. “Either the river makes a sharp bend there, or another one comes in.”

“It is the Ottertail,” suggested Raoul. “That must be where the two come together to make the Red.”

“It looks like it,” Walter agreed. “Anyway this doesn’t seem to be a good place to cross. We know nothing about the current. We had better go on up and look for a ford.”

The boys did not have to go far along the west bank of the united rivers to convince themselves that the stream coming in from the east was indeed the Ottertail. They could see plainly enough that it was larger than the branch from the south. Single file, with Walter in the lead, they were making their way along the bank opposite the mouth of the Ottertail, when from the willows directly in front of them an Indian appeared.

“Bo jou,” he said, and added a few words in his own language.

Walter, startled, had half raised his musket, but Raoul, who was close behind him, seized his arm.

“That’s a Saulteur, not a Sioux,” the younger boy whispered, then answered the man in his own tongue.

Neil pushed forward to join in the conversation. He also knew a little of the Saulteur or Ojibwa language, though he did not speak it so readily as Raoul, who had played with Indian and half-breed lads since babyhood. Walter, unable to understand more than an occasional word or two – picked up at Pembina and among the hunters – stood back and looked on.

The sudden appearance of this lone Saulteur near the southern limits of the debatable ground surprised him greatly. What puzzled him most, however, was the man’s familiar face. Surely he had seen that scarred cheek, where the skin drew tight over the bone, before, but where? On the way from York Factory, at Fort Douglas, at Pembina, at the Company post when the hunters were bringing in their winter’s catch? Then he remembered. It was at the post he had seen the Ojibwa; not in the spring, but in the autumn. This was the hunter who had been beaten and robbed, as he was loading his canoe to return to his hunting grounds at Red Lake. What was he doing here?

The Indian was speaking rapidly, in a low voice. Walter caught two words he knew, “Murrai Noir.” Neil swung around, excitement in his eyes.

“Walter,” he exclaimed, “this fellow says Murray is his enemy. He is after Murray to get revenge. Is he – ”

“Yes.” Walter did not wait for Neil to finish the question. “He is the man Murray and Fritz Kolbach attacked. I know that scar on his cheek. At the post they said a grizzly bear once clawed him in the face. How did he learn that Murray was in this part of the country? Ask him.”

Raoul put the question and translated the answer. “He was at Pembina just after the hunt left. Fritz Kolbach and two other DeMeurons were there at the same time. Scar Face attacked Kolbach, but the other fellows separated them. Then Kolbach declared it was Murray who hit Scar Face over the head, and offered to put him on Murray’s trail. He told Scar Face that Murray was near Lake Traverse trading with the Dakotas and pretending to be a medicine man. Some men going from Traverse to Pembina with carts had seen him. So Scar Face is trailing him.”

“Alone?” queried Walter.

“No, he has some young braves with him who want to get a reputation by raiding enemy country. They came down the Ottertail River.”

“Where are they?”

“Near here somewhere. I don’t know how he learned that Murray was with Tatanka Wechacheta’s band, but he knew it before I told him.”

“Did you tell him that we are running away from them?”

“Yes. Wait a minute.”

The Indian was speaking. He pointed up the river and his manner was earnest and emphatic. When Scar Face paused, Raoul turned to the others again.

“He says he has heard that there is a good ford a little way up the river. That is probably where our people crossed. He thinks that Murray and the Sioux will follow the horse tracks to the ford. If Scar Face and his braves lie in wait there, they can get a shot at Murray when he tries to cross. They will take us to the ford in their canoes.”

Before Raoul had finished this explanation, the Indian was showing signs of impatience. He turned now and led the way in among the willows. There, where the river current had taken a crescent-shaped bite out of the mud bank, two birch canoes were pulled up. Five young braves, arrayed in feathers and war paint, came out from hiding places among the bushes, where they had been waiting for their leader, who had been for a look across the prairie west of the river.

They were a wild and fearsome looking little band. Had the boys not known that they were, for the time being at least, on the Saulteur side of the quarrel, they might have hesitated to trust themselves with the war party. But they had given Scar Face and his comrades information of value, and had nothing to fear from them.