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Updated: July 5, 2025
"True," said Bounce; "that's wot we've got for to be thankful for. Skins is skins; but the skin of a human ain't to be put in the balance wi' the skin o' a beaver, d'ye see?" Bounce glanced at Hawkswing as he spoke, but the Indian only looked stolid and smoked solemnly.
Mary gazed for one moment eagerly at her and then rushed into them. Seeing this, Bounce uttered a hysterical cheer. Hawkswing, being excited beyond even savage endurance, drew his scalping-knife, yelled the war-cry and burst into the war-dance of the Seneca Indians.
Soon afterwards the Indians arrived there; but finding everything in readiness to give them a warm reception, they retired at once, preferring to wait their opportunity rather than have a fair stand-up fight with the white men. About an hour after they had retired, Big Waller, Hawkswing, and the artist, came tearing towards the fort, and were at once admitted. They had nothing new to tell.
Bounce and Hawkswing held on for one moment, but the canoe, having been eased off a little, caught a sweep of the rapid, and went out with a dart that the united strength of the whole party could not have checked.
"No need for that," replied Redhand, "they're used to all kinds o' visitors friends as well as foes. I fear, however, from the haste they show in closing their gate, that they ain't on good terms with the Injuns." "The red-men and the pale-faces are at war," said Hawkswing. "Ay, you're used to the signs, no doubt," returned Redhand, "for you've lived here once upon a time, I b'lieve."
This latter remark was addressed to Hawkswing, who sat close beside him; but that imperturbable worthy shook his head gravely. "He don't understand ye," interposed Bounce, "knows, nothin' but his own mother tongue. We do live pretty middlin' so so hereabouts when we ain't starvin', w'ich it isn't for me to deny is sometimes the case, d'ye see."
Gibault and Big Waller nodded their heads in testimony of their approval of the general scope of the remark; the latter even went the length of "guessing that it was a fact," and Redhand smiled. Hawkswing looked, if possible, graver than usual.
Had this supposed recorder of facts been of an erratic nature, given to wander from anecdote to description, and vice versa, he would perhaps have told, in a parenthetical sort of way, how that, during these three weeks, the trappers enjoyed uninterrupted fine weather; how the artist sketched so indefatigably that he at last filled his book to overflowing and had to turn it upside down, begin at the end, and sketch on the backs of his previous drawings; how Big Waller and Black Gibault became inseparable friends and sang duets together when at full gallop, the latter shrieking like a wild-cat, the former roaring like a buffalo bull; how March Marston became madder than ever, and infected his little steed with the same disease, so that the two together formed a species of insane compound that caused Redhand and Bounce to give vent to many a low chuckle and many a deep sagacious remark, and induced Hawkswing to gaze at it the compound in grave astonishment.
A moment more and he was within a foot of the brink of the fall but, also, within a foot of the point of rock on which Big Waller was lying at full length, part of his body overhanging the cataract, his arms extended, and Gibault and Hawkswing holding him firmly by the legs.
Old Redhand the trapper and Hawkswing the Indian walked alongside, ready to relieve their comrades when they should grow tired for a large canoe is a heavy load for two men or to assist them in unusually bad places, or to support them and prevent accidents, should they chance to stumble. "Have a care now, lad, at the last step," said Redhand, who walked a little in advance.
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