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Updated: June 25, 2025
My fat'er is fall in the river and go down the big falls. "They say that. But I know the truth. Ahcunza is a friend of Watusk. Watusk give him his vest with goldwork after. My fat'er is dead. I am lak wood then. My mot'er sell me to Watusk. I not care for not'ing." "Your mother, sell you!" murmured Ambrose. "My mot'er not lak me ver' moch," said Nesis simply. "She mad for cause I got white blood.
Without any preamble she said simply: "My fat'er a white man." Musq'oosis betrayed no surprise. "I know that," he replied. "My mot'er's fat'er, he white man too," she went on. He nodded. "Why you never tell me?" she asked, frowning slightly. He spread out his palms. "What's the use? You want to go. Got no place to go. Too much yo'ng to go. I t'ink you feel bad if I tell." She shook her head.
She mad for cause my fat'er all tam talk with me." "Three years ago!" said Ambrose. "You must have been a little girl then!" "I fourteen year old then. My mot'er got 'not'er osban' now. Common man. They gone with Buffalo Lake people. I not care. All tam I think of my fat'er. He is one fine man. "Las' summer the priest come here. Mak' good talk, him. Say if we good, bam-by we see the dead again.
If old man Gaviller know I come to you it mak' trouble. My fat'er he got trouble enough wit' Gaviller." Tole squatted on the beach. There is an established ritual of politeness in the North, and he was punctilious. "You are well?" he asked gravely. Ambrose set about making his fire. "I am well," he said. "Your partner, he is well?" "Peter Minot is well." "You do good trade at Lake Miwasa?" "Yes.
"They say under the water is a cave with white bones pile up!" she faltered. "They say my fat'er is there. I 'fraid for you to go!" "I'll be careful," he said lightly. "Don't you worry!" "At the falls," she went on sadly, "you mus' land on the side away from the sun, and carry your canoe on your back. There is pretty good trail. Three miles. After that one more sleep to the big lake.
He filled his pipe and got it going well before he launched on his tale. "My fat'er, Simon Grampierre, he is educate'," he began. "He read in books, he write, he spik Angleys, he spik French, he spik the Cree. We are Cree half-breed. My fat'er's fat'er, my mot'er's fat'er, they white men. We are proud people. We own plenty land. We live in a good house. We are workers.
Always before that I am think about white men. I not see no white men before, only the little parson, and the old men at the fort. They not lak you? My father is the same as me. He lak white men. We talk moch about white men. My fat'er say to me never forget the Angleys talk. Do I spik Angleys good, Angleysman?" "Fine!" whispered Ambrose.
"Musq'oosis," she corrected. "That name mean little bear. He is my friend. He friend to my fat'er, too. He is little. Got crooked back. Know everything." "Where do you live, Bela?" he asked. "Over the lake by Hah-wah-sepi," she answered readily. On second thought, she corrected the statement. "No; before I am live there. My mot'er live there. Now I live where I am. Got no home. Got no people."
"Watusk," came the surprising answer. "I Watusk's youngest wife. Got four wives." "Good Lord!" murmured Ambrose. "When my fat'er is kill, Watusk tak' me," she went on. "I hate him!" "What a shame!" cried Ambrose, remembering the wistful face. "I wish I in there!" she whispered again. "Will you help me to get out?" Ambrose asked eagerly. "I can make it if you can slip me some food."
"That is not easy," he observed with a judicial air. "Not easy when there are white women after them. They know too moch for you. Get ahead of you." "I am a handsome girl," said Bela calmly. "You have say it. You tell me white men crazy for handsome girls." "It is the truth," returned Musq'oosis readily. "But not for marry." "My fat'er marry my mot'er," persisted Bela.
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