South from Hudson Bay: An Adventure and Mystery Story for Boys

by Ethel C. Brill

  XXXVIII THE FIGHT AT THE BOIS DES SIOUX

  The Indians wasted few words and little time. Walter and Raoul wereassigned to one canoe, Neil to the other. Riding as passengers, they tookthe opportunity to munch the chunks of pemmican they had brought withthem, but had not paused to eat.

  The Bois des Sioux, above the Ottertail, proved to be an insignificantstream. It had no valley, but meandered crookedly through a mere trenchin the flat prairie. Willows and other bushes fringed its muddy waters.Its banks were sometimes open, sometimes wooded with groves or thin linesof cottonwood, poplar, wild cherry, and other trees. It would be possibleto ford the stream almost anywhere, Walter thought, if one did not stickfast in the mud. He watched the shores anxiously for signs that horseshad recently been across.

  The Indians had been paddling for not more than a half hour, when ScarFace, who was in the bow of the canoe that carried Walter and Raoul, gavea little grunt, and pointed with his paddle blade to the low west bank.Undoubtedly animals had gone up or down there. The willows were broken,the mud trampled. The Indians swerved the canoe close in. The brokenbushes were still fresh.

  "_Mistatim_," said Scar Face, his keen eyes on the tracks.

  "That's the Cree word for horse," Raoul explained to Walter, "but wecan't be sure. They may have been buffalo."

  "If they were, there were only a few of them," Walter returned. "A bigband would have done more damage."

  "Yes. I believe myself our own people crossed here."

  The canoe was brought to the bank, and Scar Face stepped lightly out.Walter and Raoul followed. The Saulteur examined the trampled groundcarefully. He gave a low grunt of satisfaction. He had found the print ofa moccasined foot, where a rider had dismounted. But he was not satisfiedyet. He followed the trail through the willows, examining it intently.Presently he straightened up and spoke to Raoul who was close behind.

  "They came to the river," he said.

  "You mean," the boy questioned, "that they came from there,"--he noddedtowards the west,--"and went"--he pointed east across the stream.

  Scar Face grunted assent.

  "It must have been our people," Raoul said to Walter. "They are safeacross the river."

  "That is where we had better be, as soon as we can get there," wasWalter's reply.

  But the Saulteur was not quite ready to cross. He went on through thebelt of small trees beyond the willows. Walter and Raoul hesitated aninstant, then followed. They too wanted a view of the open ground.

  Their first glance across the prairie was reassuring. Except for a fewbirds on the wing, the only living creature in sight was one lone animal;a buffalo from its size and humped shape.

  "No Sioux yet," exclaimed Raoul. "I don't believe they are coming afterus at all. Nothing to be seen, except that one old buffalo."

  Scar Face knew the French word _boeuf_, commonly used by the Canadiansfor buffalo. "Not buffalo," he said, pointing to the creature movingthrough the tall grass. "Man on horse."

  "What?" cried Raoul.

  "Man on horse, buffalo skin over him," the Indian insisted. "See," headded, pointing to the northwest. "More come."

  Walter had understood the dialogue and gestures well enough to guess thatScar Face found something wrong with the distant buffalo and that he sawor thought he saw something else beyond. Following the Indian's pointingfinger, the boy strained his eyes. He believed he could make outsomething,--moving objects.

  "More buffalo," said Raoul.

  Scar Face shook his head doubtfully. The three stood gazing across theprairie. The lone buffalo was drawing nearer. There was something queerabout it, Walter concluded. Its head was too small. Its shape was wrong.

  "He is right," exclaimed Raoul. "That is a man on horseback, stoopedover, a buffalo hide thrown over him."

  Walter recalled Murray's queer costume of the night before. What aboutthose far-away figures? Were _they_ buffalo?

  The day was bright and clear. There was not a trace of haze in the air,now that the sun was climbing higher. And the land was so flat one couldsee for miles. There was no longer any doubt in Walter's mind that therewas something else coming from the northwest, far away still, far beyondthe lone buffalo or horseman, but drawing nearer. Whether that somethingwas a band of buffalo or of mounted men he could not tell, though hestrained his eyes to make out.

  Scar Face had made up his mind that this was no place for him to staylonger. Abruptly he turned back among the trees. Neil and Raoul asked noquestions. With Walter they heeded the silent warning and followed theIndian back to the river.

  With scarcely a word spoken, the Ojibwas paddled across the stream to thespot where the party that had taken the ford had left the water. ScarFace motioned to the boys to get out. He spoke earnestly to Raoul andNeil, and the latter translated to Walter.

  "He wants us to go on, out of the way. He and his braves are going backto that little island." Neil pointed to a low, willow-covered islet thatparted the current just above where they had crossed and nearer to thewest bank. "If it is Murray coming they will have a good chance at himfrom there."

  Taking for granted that there could be no objection to this manoeuvre,Neil started along the trail, his comrades after him. The Indians steppedback into their canoes. Walter felt surprised that the hot-headed Neilshould be so willing to run away from a fight. In a moment, however, hefound that Neil had no intention of running away. Instead of seeking theopen, the Scotch boy turned aside among the bushes. After searching alittle, he found a spot that suited him.

  "This will do," he said, crouching down behind a spreading osier dogwood.

  Joining Neil and looking between the red stems of the bush, Walter had analmost clear view of the river. He could see the lower end of the tinyislet and the spot on the opposite shore where the trail came to thewater.

  "You're going to stay and see what happens?" he asked.

  "Of course. We may have to take a hand in the fight. Murray and hisDakotas must not cross the river, Walter. We must see to that."

  Walter nodded. Even if the Periers and Brabants had passed the Bois desSioux before daybreak, they could not have reached Lake Traverse yet.They had a long way to go with tired horses. It was not impossible forthe Indians, riding hard on fresh ponies, to overtake them. Murray andhis savages must not cross.

  The Ojibwas were concealed among the willows of the low island. The ladscould get no glimpse of them. The canoes were visible in part from wherethe boys were, but must be completely hidden from the opposite shore.Crouched among the bushes, the three waited, silent and almostmotionless. Walter had about made up his mind that the horseman with thebuffalo robe,--if it actually was a horseman,--was not coming to theford, when Neil laid a hand on his arm and pointed across the river.

  The willows were stirring,--not with wind. An animal of some kind wascoming through. It was a horse. Walter could see its head, as it pushedthrough the growth. Then the rider came into view; a tall man with abuffalo hide wrapped about him. He was no longer trying to concealhimself under the robe. He had let it slip down as he straightened up inthe saddle.

  Neil uttered a low exclamation, and Walter started up from his hidingplace. The whole width of the Bois des Sioux at this place was not fiftyyards. The man on the opposite shore was in full sunlight at the edge ofthe water. He was tall, like Murray, but he was fully clothed and he worea beard.

  Raoul pulled Walter down again. "Don't yell," he warned in a whisper."There may be others behind him. Scar Face can see it is not Murray. Itold him how a white man warned us. He'll let him cross. He knows he willlose his chance if he fires before he sees Murray himself."

  There was reason in what the younger boy said. Walter and Neil keptsilence, but they held their breaths for fear the Ojibwas might make amistake.

  McNab's horse took to the stream, picking its way carefully. The waterwas shallow, the current sluggish, and the rider was not obliged todismount or the horse to swim. Not a leaf moved on the willow-cov
eredislet. Not a sound, except the peaceful twittering of a bird, came fromit, as Duncan McNab, unconscious of any peril from that direction, rodepast the tip, and on across the stream. Intent upon finding the ford, hedid not even glance back, so caught no glimpse of the birch canoes.

  Before McNab reached shore, Neil had left his post and slipped throughthe bushes to meet him. In a few moments he was back again, the trader,without his buffalo robe and horse, following. He squatted down besideWalter and looked at the island and the bark canoes. Neil had told him ofScar Face and his companions.

  "Are the Sioux after _you_?" Walter whispered.

  "That I don't know," was the response in French. "I suspect Murray wouldset them on me if he could. When he and some of the young fools startedfor your camp this morning, I thought it was time for me to be away. So Itook short leave of Chief Tatanka Wechacheta. I struck your trail at thehead of the coulee."

  "But they are coming, aren't they? We thought that----"

  "Aye, they're coming, on your trail. It was no band of buffalo you saw. Ihad a buffalo hide over me and the hind quarters of my horse, but I don'tknow whether I fooled them or no." His keen eyes were fastened on thebreak in the bushes, watching.

  Walter asked no more questions. Silence was best. But while he waited hestole more than one glance at the trader, whose strange appearance hadaroused his curiosity the night before. A queer figure indeed was thistall, lank, big-boned man of almost skeleton thinness; seeming to consistentirely of bone and gristle. His name was Scotch and so was his tongue,but Walter suspected that he was far from being wholly white. The coarse,straight black hair that hung below his fur cap, the dark bronze of hislong face, the high-bridged nose, and prominent cheek bones, betrayed theIndian. Yet his beard was uneven in color, rusty in places, and the eyeshe turned on the Swiss boy were steel gray, startlingly light in his darkface. A singular man surely, with a grim, shrewd face, no longer young,as its many lines and wrinkles betrayed. In spite of the suspense ofwaiting, Walter found himself wondering about Duncan McNab and hishistory.

  The wait was not a long one. McNab suddenly raised his head, like a houndlistening. Then the ears of the others caught the sounds too,--thecrackling of twigs, the clatter of accouterments, as mounted men camethrough the strip of poplars and willows on the low opposite bank of thestream. Duncan looked to the priming of his musket and dropped a ballinto the muzzle. Walter felt for his own weapon. Even in the midst of hisexcitement, the thought of shooting unwarned men from ambush sickenedhim. But if Murray and his Sioux were really on the trail, they must notcross. Fear for Elise and for Louis' mother and sisters steeled the boy'snerves.

  The willows were moving. A horse's head appeared, then the rider, aslender, bronze figure, brave in red paint and feathered head-dress. Itwas not Murray. He halted at the edge of the water and turned his head tolook back. Another horse was coming, a white one.

  "Himsel," muttered McNab under his breath.

  The rider came in view, tall, stately, his painted body naked to thewaist, his black head bare. There was nothing about him except his sizeto distinguish him from any other Indian. The two talked together for amoment. The slender warrior seemed, from his gestures, to object orprotest.

  The waving and rustling of the willows, the sounds that came across thewater, proved that other men were following. But the track was narrow,and they were obliged to check their horses until the leaders should taketo the water.

  "How many?" Neil whispered to McNab.

  "Eight or ten," was the equally low reply.

  The discussion ended in Murray's going first. When the white horsestepped into the water, a cold shudder passed over Walter. He had everycause to hate and fear the Black Murray. He hoped Scar Face would notmiss. Yet, quite unreasonably, he wished the rascally mixed blood mighthave a chance to fight for his life. He looked a fine figure of a man onhis big, white horse.

  He came deliberately enough, letting his horse pick its way, as McNab haddone. From the willows on the islet there was no move, no sound. He wasopposite the tip now. He was past it. He was coming on. Had Scar Faceweakened? Had he lost his courage?

  The silence was broken by a sudden menacing sound, not loud but strangelyblood-chilling; the Ojibwa war whoop. On the near side of the islet afigure leaped into view. At the same instant, it seemed, Murray swungabout on his horse's back, musket raised. He was a breath too late. ScarFace had fired.

  The distance was too short, the target too good for the Ojibwa hunter tomiss. Even as his own gun went off, Murray swayed forward. The whitehorse leaped and plunged. More shots came from the island. Horse andrider went down, and the muddy water flowed over them.

  On the farther bank, the slender Dakota's horse was hit. As it fell, theman leaped clear, and darted back among the willows. There followed anexchange of shots between shore and islet, without a man visible ineither place. Only the puffs of smoke betrayed the hiding places.

  Gray eyes gleaming, Duncan McNab turned to Neil. "Get you awa'," heordered. "Ta Traverse as fast as your legs can carry ye."

  "And you?" the boy asked.

  "I'll o'ertak ye. I'll be seein' the end o' this, ta mak sure there's nafollowin'. On your wa', all o' ye."