Chapter XXXVI: The White Trader

While Louis and Walter stared, amazed and apprehensive, the Black Murray rose to his feet and turned to the chief. He said a few words in Dakota; his all too familiar voice sending another chill up Walter’s spine, gathered his blanket about him, gave the boys one scornful glance, and strode around the fire and out of the tipi.

Louis drew a long breath to steady himself, and spoke to the chief again. Still uncertain whether the Indians understood any French, the boy thanked the young chief for receiving his comrade and himself. They had enjoyed the visit to the village, he said, but must return to their own camp now, as the hour was growing late. They hoped to see more of the chief and his people in the morning. At the close of this speech, Louis bowed slightly, and began to step backward around the fire.

Walter imitated his friend, carefully keeping his face turned towards the chief. That young man waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. Not one of the Indians made a move to hinder the two from leaving.

It was an enormous relief to be out of that tipi, yet both boys knew they were far from being out of danger. From the illuminated lodge in the center of the camp, the thumping of the drum and the clacking of rattles went on tirelessly. Fires had been kindled in a circle around the big tipi, and about them men and women were gathering.

“There is to be some kind of a dance,” Louis whispered. “Look!” he exclaimed suddenly. He gripped Walter’s arm and drew him back into the shadow of an unlighted lodge.

Crossing the open space, in the full light of the blazing fires, was the tall, stately form of Murray. A great, hairy buffalo robe fell loosely from his broad shoulders. His head was adorned with the strangest of headdresses, the shaggy head of a buffalo bull, horns and nose painted red. That stuffed buffalo head must have been exceedingly heavy, but under its weight Murray held his own head and neck proudly erect. Looking neither to right nor left, he strode between the fires, men and women making way for him. He stooped only to enter the big tipi.

The two boys, in the protecting shadow of the dark lodge, had stood apparently unnoticed through this show. After Murray disappeared Louis led Walter around to the side of the unlighted dwelling farthest from the fire.

“We must be away,” he whispered. “This is no place for us.”

Silently, cautiously, they made their way among the tipis. The whole band seemed to have gathered in the central space, yet the boys were not to escape notice. They were passing through the outer circle of dwellings, when a man suddenly appeared in front of them. It was the broad-shouldered warrior who had brought them to the camp. He spoke urgently, pointing again and again towards the inner circle of lodges, and making the hat-wearer sign.

Louis shook his head. “_Non, non_,” he replied emphatically. “We have seen enough of your white trader. A fine white man he is. Go on, Walter,” he ordered, and Walter obeyed.

If the Dakota did not understand the words, he could not mistake the boys’ actions. He tried to seize Louis by the arm. Louis dodged, jumping to one side nimbly, eluded the Indian, and ran after Walter, who also broke into a run. To their surprise, the man did not attempt to follow them. Perhaps the middle-aged, rather heavily built brave despaired of catching the light-footed lads. At any rate he let them go. There was no one else near by to stop them.

As soon as the boys were sure they were not being followed, they slowed to a walk.

“We are well out of that,” said Louis, drawing a long breath of relief.

“Yes. I can’t understand why Murray let us go so easily.”

“I fear we have not seen the last of _le Murrai Noir_ yet,” was the sober reply. “If he had abused us, cursed us, threatened us, I should have less fear. I do not like his silence, the way he allowed us to go without raising a hand against us.”

“The Indians seem friendly. Perhaps they won’t let him touch us.”

“That may be. They may be afraid that any trouble with white men will bring vengeance upon them. Yet I do not like the looks of that young chief. And he did not offer us food. That is a bad sign, Walter. If he had invited us to eat, to smoke the calumet, but he did not.” Louis shook his head doubtfully.

“I can’t imagine,” Walter pondered, “why Murray went out and left us, and then sent that man after us again.”

Louis was equally puzzled. “It is all very strange. _Le Murrai_ sent him for us. Surely that was what he meant. Then, when we reached the camp, another man came and took us away from him. And when we were leaving, the first fellow came again and wished us to go back.”

“Perhaps Murray wanted to see us alone, and the chief interfered,” Walter suggested.

“So he sent for us again? But we saw _le Murrai_ going to join in the dance. The dance will take a long time, all night perhaps, and he is the chief figure in it I think.”

“He certainly looked as if he was. Louis, is there really any white blood in Murray at all?”

“That is another strange thing,” returned the troubled Louis. “It is strange that those Indians should speak of him as a hat-wearer, a white man. Rather he seems one of themselves.”

Discussing and pondering the bewildering events of the past few hours, the boys made their way across the prairie towards their own camp. The moon had risen and lighted their way. The camp fire, a flickering point of light, guided them and assured them that all was well with their companions. Had there been no spark of fire at all, or had a great column of flame sprung up, the two would have been running at full speed. Their puzzlings led to no solution of their strange treatment at the hands of Murray and the chief.

“I am certain of but one thing,” Louis asserted finally. He spoke emphatically and in a louder tone than he had been using. “There is mischief brewing in that camp to-night, and _le Murrai Noir_ is the center of it.”

“Aye, you are right there.”

The words, in a strange voice, came from behind them. With one impulse the boys sprang apart, and turned. Louis’ hand was on the hilt of his hunting knife.

Close to them, leading a horse, was a tall form, a very tall form. Taller he seemed than Murray himself, though perhaps that was because he was so gaunt and thin. In the moonlight the boys could see that his buckskin clothes hung loosely upon his long frame. He wore a cap, and had a bushy beard.

“You were too busy with your talk,” the strange man went on rebukingly. “The whole band might have stolen up on you.” He spoke easy, fluent Canadian French, but with a peculiar accent that reminded Walter of Neil’s manner of speech.

“Who are you?” demanded Louis, his hand still on his knife.

“I’m the hat-wearer that sent for you.”

“You are the white trader? Then it wasn’t _le Murrai_?”

“It was not. But you’re right in thinking he’s the center of the mischief over there. I sent Shahaka to your camp. He was to bring you straight to my lodge, but someone, Murray or Tatanka Wechacheta, interfered. Then I told Shahaka to wait for you at the edge of the village, but you wouldn’t go back with him. I wanted to warn you of what was going on. I thought it wiser not to go to your camp myself. My influence with that young fool of a chief is not so strong as it was before the big medicine man Murray came along.”

“He claims to be a medicine man?” asked Louis.

“Aye, a mighty one, with all sorts of _wakan_. He is teaching a picked few rascals of them a new medicine dance. They will dance and powwow till near the dawn, then Murray will feast them and fill them full of rum.”

“But why?”

“Why? He’s a free trader, that Murray, a clever one and not particular about his methods, his boasts that he got his start by stealing pemmican from the Hudson Bay Company and then selling it back to them, through a friend, for trade goods. If he can make those foolish savages look up to him and fear him as a great _witan wishasha_, he can do anything he likes with them in the way of trade. He has sold them a lot of medicines already, charms against evil spirits and injury in battle, charms to give them power over their enemies and the beasts they hunt.” The tall man changed the subject abruptly. “You have horses and carts and goods with you?” he demanded.

“No trade goods, except a few little things for presents. But we have two carts loaded with our personal things, and four good horses, and an Eskimo dog.”

“You will have none of them by sunrise,” was the grim response, “if you stay here. Murray is not the man to let all that slip through his fingers.”

“Then why did he let us leave the camp?”

“And why not? He can put his hand on you whenever he likes. In a few hours he will have plenty of drunken savages to do his will.”

Walter shivered. He was thinking, not of himself, but of Elise and Mrs. Brabant and the children.

As they drew near the camp, Neil, gun in hand, sprang up from the ground, where he had been lying, watching their approach. He had been worried because, instead of two only, he could make out three men and a horse.

Entering the circle around the fire, Louis introduced the stranger. “This is the man who sent for us, the trader.”

The tall man pulled off his fur cap and ducked his head to Mrs. Brabant. “I’m Duncan McNab, at your service, Madame,” he said. He caught sight of Neil’s freckled face and blue bonnet. “Ye’re a Scot,” he said accusingly in English.

“I am that, and sa are you,” Neil retorted promptly.

“Aye. Ye’ll be fra Kildonan na doot, but there’s na time ta be talkin’ aboot that.” He turned to Louis and spoke in French again. “You are camped on the edge of a coulee. Did you pick this spot on purpose?”

The boy nodded.

“Then you know what to do. The coulee leads towards the Bois des Sioux. Leave your fire burning. The savages will think you’re still here.”

“Our carts make so much noise,” interposed Walter. “If any of their scouts or camp guards should hear that squeaking——”

“Leave the carts behind,” McNab interrupted. “I doubt if you could take them up the coulee.”

“We can go faster without them anyway,” Louis agreed, “and get more out of our horses.”

“Travel light, a little pemmican, your weapons and ammunition, nothing else. It is hard to lose all your things, Madame,” the trader said bluntly to Mrs. Brabant, “but better than to run the risk of your children falling into the hands of Tatanka Wechacheta and the Black Murray.”

“Murray?” cried Mr. Perier.

“You know him?”

“We all know him. We have good cause to,” said Walter.

“That makes it all the worse, if he has anything against you. No, don’t tell me the story now. We have no time to exchange tales.”

“If we must leave the carts behind,” Neil suggested, “why not hide them in the coulee? Then the Indians may think we have taken them along. Later we can come back from Lake Traverse and get them.”

“It micht work oot that wa’,” returned McNab, falling into Scots’ English again, “but I’m thinkin’ they’ll find the cairts easy eneuch.”

“We’ll tak them _doon_ the coulee a bit,” Neil insisted, in the same tongue. “If Murray finds the tracks he’ll maybe think we’ve gane doon ta the Wild Rice and back across.”

The trader shook his head. “He’ll be findin’ your trail all richt, but ye can maybe delay him for a bit. Weel, do what you’re goin’ ta do quick, an’ be awa’ wi’ ye. I maun be gettin’ back or they’ll miss me.”

“You’re na comin’ wi’ us?” cried Neil.

“Na, na, I’m not rinnin’ awa’ yet.” He switched to French and took his leave of the others. “Cross the Bois des Sioux and make speed for Lake Traverse,” he advised. “Tell Renville I’ll be back there in a few days. It was Renville sent me to find out what that rascal Murray was up to. Good speed and God go with you.”