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Menard slowly rose and looked into the Indian's eyes. "I have no weapons, Tegakwita. The chiefs who have set me free have not yet returned the musket which was taken from me. It is dangerous to go at night through the forest without a weapon. Give me your hatchet and I will go with you." Tegakwita's lip curled almost imperceptibly. "The White Chief is afraid of the night?"
Early in the morning, Father Claude went out to find Tegakwita, and learn what news had come in during the night of the French column. Runners were employed in passing daily between the different villages, keeping each tribe fully informed. Menard sat before the hut. The clearing showed more life than on the preceding day.
"Come, I am ready. Pick up your musket." As Tegakwita stooped, Menard glanced toward the hut. The priest lay asleep before the door. It was better to get this madman away than to leave him free to prowl about the hut. At the edge of the thicket they stopped and stood face to face, each waiting for the other to pass ahead.
No man came here, save when a new heap of yellow earth lay fresh-turned in the sun, and a long line of dancing, wailing redmen, led by their howling doctors, followed some body that had come to claim its seat among the skeletons. Tegakwita paused at the edge of the clearing, and looked around with that furtive quickness. Menard came slowly to his side.
Menard laughed. "Strike me, brave warrior. Show that your heart is still as fond as on the day I carried your torn body on my shoulder to the safety of your lodge. Ah, you remember? You have not forgotten the Big Buffalo? Then, why do you hesitate? The man who has courage to seize a Father of the Church, surely can strike his brother. This is not the brave Tegakwita I have known."
Just as he passed she recognized him. He was Tegakwita. Her fear of these stern warriors had suddenly gone, and she followed him into the doorway to hear his errand. Menard greeted him with a nod; Father Claude, too, was silent. "The White Chief, the Big Buffalo, has a grateful heart," said the Indian, in cutting tones. She was glad that she could understand him.
After each gift he stood erect, looking up at the sky with his arms stretched out above his head; and at these moments his simple dignity impressed Menard. But there were other moments, when, in stooping, Tegakwita would glance about with nervous, shifting eyes, as if fearing some interruption. His musket was always in his hand or by his side. Menard took it that he still feared the hatchet.
"If this is true, Tegakwita, the Big Buffalo must not be held to blame. He has spoken truly. To talk in these words to the man who has been your brother, is the act of a dog. You have forgotten that the Big Buffalo never speaks lies." The Indian gave no heed to his words. He took a step forward, and raised his hand to his knife.
Tegakwita caught his wrist, and then it was nigh to stabbing his own thigh as they fought for it. Once he twisted his hand and savagely buried the blade in the Indian's side. Tegakwita caught his breath and rallied, and the blood of the one was on them both.
I could forgive his rashness, Father, his disobedience, if only he could go down with a clear name." "There is still doubt," said the priest, cautiously. "We know only what Tegakwita said." "I'm afraid," Menard replied, shaking his head, "I'm afraid it's true. You said he wore the hunting clothes. Some one freed him. And the girl is gone. I wish Well, there is no use.
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