Somewhat to the boys’ surprise, Nangotook showed no signs, during all those days of suffering, of the sullen moroseness that had characterized his behavior in former periods of misfortune. The Ojibwa was no physical coward, and now that his companions had ceased to defy the spirits of the lake and had turned towards home, he displayed no more fear or hesitation. He was unusually talkative and cheerful, and helped to pass the long hours by relating the interesting experiences of his varied and adventurous life and all the Ojibwa tales and myths he knew, many of them devoted to the adventures and mishaps of the great Nanabozho.

The three made use of every device they could think of to keep up their spirits, but when, at last, the sleet and snow ceased, and morning dawned clear and bright, the two lads were weak with hunger, and Ronald, though more heavily dressed than Jean, had a racking cough that shook him from head to foot. Nangotook showed the effects of privation less than the other two, though he had scarcely eaten his share of the scanty food they had been able to collect.

The wind still blew a gale, a bitterly cold gale from the north, and even the little bay was too rough for travel. Icy snow lay several inches deep in the woods and loaded the evergreens. All that day the three searched the woods and ridges for game, but obtained nothing but a squirrel and two blue jays. There was little indeed to the jays, once their feathers were off. Nangotook put them into the bark pot with the squirrel, and added a handful of hazelnuts and some tubers he had dug, which he called “bear potatoes.” The resulting broth was hot and comforting, if not a very nourishing meal for three starved men.

All the next day the wind continued to blow so hard that the canoe could not be launched or the net set, but Nangotook and Jean went through the woods and over the ridges to the trout stream, and caught good strings of fish. The soup of the night before had made Ronald, in his half starved condition, ill, and he was so weak and coughed so hard that the Indian bade him remain in camp and keep warm and dry.

In spite of the cold wind, the snow had melted rapidly where the sun reached it, and had softened in the woods. By that night the rocks and open places were bare again. The hunters scanned the softened snow eagerly for tracks, but found no signs of hare or caribou, nothing but a few squirrel prints.

All three slept soundly that night, after their meal of broiled trout. By morning the wind had gone down and the waves had subsided so that the canoe could be launched. The voyageurs put out from shore at once. After setting their net in a favorable place, they tried line fishing. While paddling around a group of three small islands that lay in a direct line with the point, they caught two good lake trout. They promptly decided to go ashore, and have breakfast at once. So many rocks sprinkled the water about the islands that they were difficult to approach. A safe landing was made, however, on a shelving rock beach, near an upright heap of boulders with bushes projecting from cracks and crannies.

While Jean was cleaning the fish, Etienne and Ronald, seeking for fire-wood, rounded the heap of rocks, and came suddenly on the remains of a camp. Branches slanted against the rock formed a rude shelter, and near it were the ashes of a fire. Glancing down at the blackened embers, Ronald touched with the toe of his moccasin a charred bone.

“Those fellows had more meat than we’ve seen lately,” he said. “They must have killed a caribou.”

The Indian was staring down at the bone. He stooped and picked it up, examined it a moment, and then held it out to Ronald.

“No addick ever had bone like that,” he said.

“What was it then, a moose?” asked the boy, holding out his hand for it. As he looked at it, his expression of curiosity changed to horror. He glanced up at Nangotook, and saw his own feelings reflected on the Ojibwa’s face. “The leg bone of a man,” the lad said chokingly.

Nangotook nodded, then glanced behind him swiftly, as if expecting to see some evil thing creeping up on him. “Windigo,” he said significantly. It was the name for the mythical, man-eating giants that figure in Ojibwa and other Algonquian legends, a name the Indians have extended to apply to all cannibals or men driven by starvation to feed on other human beings.

There was no mistaking the fact. Among the ashes and strewn about on the ground were other bones that told the story only too plainly. Moreover the deed was a recent one, for the fire had been burning in that spot since the storm cleared, and the charred bones had not lain there long. It was easy enough to see how the tragedy had occurred. A canoe had been cast upon the barren island by the storm, or had run against it in the fog that preceded. There was nothing on the island to eat. Even fuel had been scarce, for only the stumps of the few trees remained and most of the bushes had been cut. One of the men had died, or perhaps another one, crazed with hunger and misery, had murdered him, and the unfortunate had been cooked and eaten.

The horror of the place destroyed the lads’ appetite, and they were in haste to get away, but Nangotook was not ready to leave until he had examined the little rock island from end to end. He may have expected to find the cannibal in hiding somewhere. He did not find the guilty man, but he found further traces of him and of his victim. When the Ojibwa rejoined the boys, who, feeling no desire to see more of the island, had remained near the spot where they had landed, his face wore a look of disgust and loathing such as they had never seen there before. He had identified the victim of the cannibal feast.

“Cree killed Awishtoya and ate him,” he announced positively.

“Awishtoya, Le Forgeron,” cried Jean. “How do you know it was Le Forgeron?”

“Found his head.”

“His head?” gasped both boys.

Nangotook nodded. “Not dead long, only two or three days,” he added. “Found some of his clothes too, all soaked with blood. Cree killed him with knife. Windigo. Have to watch out for him now.” The Ojibwa shared the belief common among his people that a man who had once tasted human flesh acquired a desire for it, and would never be satisfied with anything else. Such men were considered to be only partly human, in league with evil spirits. They were outlaws, to be feared and abhorred and killed on sight, like the deadliest snake or the most dangerous of wild beasts.

Sickened at what they had discovered, the two boys were glad to get away from the ill-omened place. Le Forgeron Tordu was an evil man and their enemy. They knew that he would not have hesitated to destroy them in the most brutal manner, and they could not honestly feel sorrow that he was dead. But the manner of his death had shocked and nauseated them. Not to the worst man on earth could they have wished such a fate. Even stronger was their feeling of horror at the Indian who had done the thing. Nangotook had said that Le Forgeron abused the Cree. Evidently the latter had turned at last and had avenged himself. He had not struck in mere self-defense, however, for the blood-soaked shirt Nangotook had found proved that the Frenchman had been stabbed in the back.

The Ojibwa was deeply concerned over the escape of the murderer. He must have gone away by water, so it was evident that he still had a canoe, probably the one Le Forgeron had stolen from Jean and Ronald, when he set fire to the woods. Apparently then it had not been the loss of their boat, but merely the fury of the storm that had held him and his master prisoners on the little island. If, however, they had been so near to starvation as the Cree’s deed seemed to prove, they must in some way have lost both the caribou meat the Blacksmith had taken from the boys’ cache, and the remainder of their own stock of provisions. Probably they had run on the rocky island in the fog, or had been dashed ashore by the wind, and had lost their provisions and equipment in the wreck, though managing to save their canoe. There was no evidence that they had built a new one. Indeed the stumps of the trees they had cut indicated that no materials fit for canoe making grew on the island.

At any rate the Cree had escaped in some way, and might be at that moment lying in wait for the others on the shores of the bay or on one of the islands. They must keep a close lookout for him. The boys, as well as Nangotook, fully believed that, having once eaten human flesh, the Cree would, as all such Windigos were supposed to do, hunger for more. They devoutly hoped that he had no gun. Had it not been for the fear that he might be well armed, they would have searched the shores and islands for him, but he would surely have the advantage, as they must approach his hiding place by water, while he could lie concealed. If he had a gun, he could easily shoot them from cover. So they decided to waste no time on what would probably be a fruitless, if not a fatal, search, but to take advantage of the good weather to go on as rapidly as possible. Very likely he had left the neighborhood. They might overtake him, and if they did, a Windigo could expect no mercy from them.

They delayed only long enough to cook and eat their fish and to take up their net. Before their gruesome discovery, they had intended to remain at the bay to hunt and fish until the next morning, but so far they had found the place lacking in game. They would go on along shore as far as they could that day, and perhaps they might reach a better hunting ground. At least they would get away from the spot where they had suffered so much. It had acquired an added horror from the hideous tragedy on the little island.

XXXI
THE WINDIGO

The weather favored the voyageurs that day, and they were able to make good time for about twenty miles to a little cove, the mouth of a stream. There they landed to eat a supper of the fish they had caught on the way. The boys felt greatly encouraged when Etienne told them they had almost reached the southern end of Minong. Two or three hours more travel would bring them to a smaller island lying off the end of the large one. From there, he said, the weather favoring them, they could steer a straight course for the northwest shore of the lake and soon reach the Grande Portage. Deeply disappointed though the lads were at not finding the riches they had endured so much to gain, they felt a great sense of relief at the thought that their perilous journey was so near its end.

By the time they had reached the cove, the boys, who had only partly recovered from starvation and suffering, were very tired. After their supper of fish, they were glad to creep into a pile of balsam branches under the canoe and fall asleep immediately. But the night was cold and they had no cover but the branches. Several times one of the three had to crawl out, chilled and stiff, to replenish the fire that burned close to the raised side of the canoe. Usually it was the Indian who took this task upon himself, for he slept lightly and little, ready to spring up at the slightest unusual sound. He did not intend that the Windigo should creep on their camp without his knowing it.

Just as the stars were fading with the dawn, Nangotook was awakened suddenly. He lay still and listened. From up the river came faint sounds, the cracking of twigs, the rustling of branches. Noiselessly the Indian crept from under the canoe, listened a moment, and then made his way cautiously in the direction of the sounds. There was a splash in the stream. In the faint light he could see a black bulk against the water. Nearer and nearer he crept, until the dark form began to move slowly towards the opposite bank. Then, knowing he would get no better chance for a shot, Nangotook let fly an arrow, and then a second and a third in quick succession. Every arrow hit the mark, the black bulk plunged forward, wavered and fell sidewise with a great splash. The hunter sprang into the stream. Luckily the water, where the beast had fallen, was shallow, and Nangotook soon had his game, a full grown caribou, ashore. Here was meat in plenty for days to come.

He dragged the caribou back to camp and placed it near the fire. The boys were sleeping so soundly that his coming did not wake them, and he crept under the canoe without disturbing them. He did not sleep any more after that, but kept his eye on the meat. Once he heard the pad of soft feet beyond the fire, and rose to send an arrow towards a pair of gleaming eyes. He missed his aim, and the lynx slipped away in the darkness and did not return.

The boys were surprised and delighted when they saw the result of Etienne’s night hunting, but they were also a little chagrined when they realized that they had slept so soundly and carelessly that they had known nothing of what was going on. The day was too windy to permit the voyageurs to start out across the open lake for the northwest shore. They might have continued along the coast of Minong, but, as they had such a short distance to go in that direction, they decided to camp where they were until the caribou meat was dried. The spot was a favorable one, and they might not find another so good. Moreover there might be other game in the neighborhood, and there were certainly fish in the stream and off the rocks at its mouth. The net they had set the night before yielded a good catch of whitefish. It was the caribou meat that tasted best to the boys, however, and put new strength and spirit into them. The gruesome tragedy they had found traces of the day before seemed like a bad dream.

The day, which was bright and pleasant, though windy, was spent in drying the meat, curing the hide, fishing and hunting. The three proposed to collect as large a supply of food as possible. Bad weather might come again at any moment, and they did not intend to be caught in another storm without plenty of food to last them through.

In a marshy place the boys came upon a great flock of wild geese, that had paused, on their way south, to feed. The birds took alarm at once, and, with great flapping of wings and excited honks, followed their leader into the air and away, but Jean succeeded in hitting one as it left the water. He had to wade out into the cold mud and water to his waist to secure the bird, but it was a welcome feast to the three that night. The southward flight of the geese was, however, another reminder of the approach of winter. Nekah, the goose, knew what he was about, said the Ojibwa.

The following morning the voyageurs left the little cove. The south wind was strong enough to make crossing the lake dangerous, but they could go on along shore with little difficulty. They could at least reach the island which Nangotook said lay off a bay at the southern end of Minong. From there the Ojibwa intended, as soon as the weather would permit, to steer directly for the lake shore.

The travelers had rounded the end of Minong, when they came in sight of a canoe at some distance across the water. It held only one man, and they were too far away to make out anything about him, except that he did not wear the scarlet cap of the Canadian voyageur. Was it the Windigo? The boys felt a thrill of excitement, not unmingled with dread. Whether he had seen them or not they could not tell, but they followed as rapidly as they could make the canoe fly over the water. The lone traveler was making for some islands ahead. He passed into a channel between two of them and disappeared.

Without any orders from Nangotook in the bow, Ronald, who was in the stem, steered in the same direction. He wanted to find out if the man ahead was really the Cree murderer. He suspected that Nangotook was ready to kill the Windigo on sight That was the Indian way with such outlaws. Certainly the boy was not inclined to show any mercy to an Indian who had killed and eaten a white man. If he had merely killed the Frenchman, – well, Le Forgeron probably deserved death, and a private quarrel between him and his companion was the business of no one else, Ronald thought, but the evidence seemed to prove that the Cree had treacherously stabbed the white man in the back, for the purpose of eating him. For such hideous crime there could be no excuse, not even starvation, and no mercy for the criminal. That was the code of the Indian, the voyageur and the forest runner.

The pursuers passed through the channel between the two islands, and came out in view of others, large and small. Instantly Nangotook’s keen eyes caught sight of something on one of the little islands that caused him to utter a short grunt, raise his paddle from the water, and gaze intently. Noting his apparent surprise, the boys’ eyes followed the direction of his gaze. From a bare tree on that little island something white was fluttering. It was not a gull roosting. It was too large, and too white, and it fluttered and waved in the wind. It was a white rag, a signal of some kind, a flag of distress.

“Some one is on that island,” cried Jean in great excitement. “He is wrecked or hurt or starving, and he has tied that white thing to the tree to attract attention. We must go there at once. He may be a white man. We must rescue him.”

“Go slow, little brother,” cautioned Nangotook gravely. “Maybe, as you say, there is a man there wrecked and starving, but what if that white thing be only a trap? Where is the canoe we have been following? The Windigo may be trying to get us ashore, so he may murder and eat us.”

“If he is, he will be getting the worst of it,” declared Ronald emphatically. “We are three to one, and the only thing we need be fearing is a gun. If he is decoying us ashore, he will not be firing on us until we have landed, and even then he will try, I think, to use fair words and treachery rather than force. In that we are a match for him, now we are forewarned not to trust him.”

“You speak truly, my brother,” Nangotook answered. “I meant not to go by that island, but to be cautious. It may be that the signal is a true one. We must find out. But we must watch that we are not taken unawares by the evil Windigo. Now that I have warned you, steer for that island, and if the Cree is there, let him look to himself.”

As they approached the place, the three watched eagerly for some indication of what they were to find there. Like most of the islands off Minong, it was rocky, but bore a patch of trees and bushes on its highest part. There seemed nothing unusual about it, but the white rag fluttering from a bare limbed birch tree. Not until they were close in, did Nangotook catch sight of a canoe drawn up on a bit of shelving pebble beach between two great rocks. Silently he pointed it out to the boys. They ran their own canoe upon the same beach and stepped out, the Ojibwa with one hand on his bowstring, an arrow in the other, and his eyes searching the rocks and woods for signs of ambush. He did not relax his vigilance when he heard Jean, behind him, utter a low-voiced exclamation.

The two boys had carried the canoe up the beach, and Jean had turned to look at the other craft that lay there. “Our own canoe,” he whispered to Jean. “It was the Cree for sure.”

Ronald glanced at the boat. There was no mistaking it. The three had built it themselves, and knew every rib and seam. It was wet, too. It had not been out of the water more than a few minutes. Though Nangotook did not turn his head, but still kept running his eyes searchingly over every bush and rock that might offer concealment to an enemy, he heard what Jean said. There was no need for him to examine the canoe. Jean’s testimony was sufficient. The Ojibwa went on up the steep bit of beach, the two lads close behind him, with weapons ready.

Apparently the man who had landed from the canoe had given no thought to being followed, and had made no attempt to hide his trail. He had gone up over the rocks and into the bit of woods, and his track was plain to the Indian. The latter advanced cautiously, the boys equally noiseless, a short distance behind. They had taken but a few steps among the spruce trees, when they were arrested by the sound of voices. There was more than one man on the island then, although there had been but one in the boat The voices were speaking French, one with the guttural accent of the Indian, the other in flowing, mellow tones. Even if the three had not had good evidence that Le Forgeron Tordu was dead, they would never have taken that rich, deep pitched voice for his rough, cracked one. Silently but rapidly, Nangotook slipped forward again, the boys following until he turned and signaled them to halt. After taking a few more steps among the trees, he stopped also.

The mellow voice was speaking, and the boys could hear it plainly. It was a pleasing voice of refined accents, and it spoke excellent French, the French of a man of breeding and education. Even Jean Havard, who was well educated for a Canadian lad of his time and boasted of his pure French blood, did not speak like that. He could make out the unseen man’s words distinctly.

“God will surely bless you through all your days,” the voice said. “Moreover I will see to it, if you will take me safely to the Grande Portage, that you shall be well rewarded in material things as well. Flour, blankets, traps for your hunting, whatever you need or want of such things you shall have. But better than all will be the blessing of God upon you, for saving the life of His servant to carry on His glorious work, and to labor a little longer for the good of your own people.”

The speaker ceased, and for a moment there was silence. Then the other man answered, but his words, spoken in a hoarse voice and guttural accents, were not distinguishable. While the second man was speaking, Nangotook crept forward again. Carefully he slipped between two spruce trees and peeped out from among the branches. He saw before him a rude wigwam in a small natural rock opening. In front of the wigwam stood the tall, black-gowned form of a Jesuit priest in conversation with an Indian. The Indian’s back was towards Nangotook, but the Ojibwa did not fail to recognize him.

“Eh bien, I will be ready in a moment,” said the priest in his deep, mellow voice.

He turned to go into the shelter. Instantly the Cree’s whole aspect changed. He crouched, muscles tense, then leaped forward, like a forest cat, knife raised. But Nangotook was ready for him. His arrow was on his bowstring. Before the Windigo’s knife could reach his unsuspecting victim, the bowstring twanged, and the flying arrow pierced the murderer’s back a little to the left of the spinal column. He sprang back as if recoiling, then fell forward on his face.