Chapter XXXVIII: The Fight at the Bois Des Sioux

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

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

The Indians had been paddling for not more than a half hour, when Scar Face, who was in the bow of the canoe that carried Walter and Raoul, gave a 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 broken bushes 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 we can’t be sure. They may have been buffalo.”

“If they were, there were only a few of them,” Walter returned. “A big band 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 ground carefully. He gave a low grunt of satisfaction. He had found the print of a moccasined foot, where a rider had dismounted. But he was not satisfied yet. 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 nodded towards 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 safe across the river.”

“That is where we had better be, as soon as we can get there,” was Walter’s reply.

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

Their first glance across the prairie was reassuring. Except for a few birds 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 after us at all. Nothing to be seen, except that one old buffalo.”

Scar Face knew the French word _boeuf_, commonly used by the Canadians for buffalo. “Not buffalo,” he said, pointing to the creature moving through the tall grass. “Man on horse.”

“What?” cried Raoul.

“Man on horse, buffalo skin over him,” the Indian insisted. “See,” he added, pointing to the northwest. “More come.”

Walter had understood the dialogue and gestures well enough to guess that Scar Face found something wrong with the distant buffalo and that he saw or thought he saw something else beyond. Following the Indian’s pointing finger, the boy strained his eyes. He believed he could make out something,—moving objects.

“More buffalo,” said Raoul.

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

“He is right,” exclaimed Raoul. “That is a man on horseback, stooped over, a buffalo hide thrown over him.”

Walter recalled Murray’s queer costume of the night before. What about those 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 could see for miles. There was no longer any doubt in Walter’s mind that there was something else coming from the northwest, far away still, far beyond the lone buffalo or horseman, but drawing nearer. Whether that something was a band of buffalo or of mounted men he could not tell, though he strained his eyes to make out.

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

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

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

Taking for granted that there could be no objection to this manœuvre, Neil started along the trail, his comrades after him. The Indians stepped back into their canoes. Walter felt surprised that the hot-headed Neil should be so willing to run away from a fight. In a moment, however, he found that Neil had no intention of running away. Instead of seeking the open, the Scotch boy turned aside among the bushes. After searching a little, 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 an almost clear view of the river. He could see the lower end of the tiny islet and the spot on the opposite shore where the trail came to the water.

“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 his Dakotas must not cross the river, Walter. We must see to that.”

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

The Ojibwas were concealed among the willows of the low island. The lads could get no glimpse of them. The canoes were visible in part from where the boys were, but must be completely hidden from the opposite shore. Crouched among the bushes, the three waited, silent and almost motionless. Walter had about made up his mind that the horseman with the buffalo robe,—if it actually was a horseman,—was not coming to the ford, 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 was coming through. It was a horse. Walter could see its head, as it pushed through the growth. Then the rider came into view; a tall man with a buffalo hide wrapped about him. He was no longer trying to conceal himself under the robe. He had let it slip down as he straightened up in the saddle.

Neil uttered a low exclamation, and Walter started up from his hiding place. The whole width of the Bois des Sioux at this place was not fifty yards. The man on the opposite shore was in full sunlight at the edge of the water. He was tall, like Murray, but he was fully clothed and he wore a 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. I told him how a white man warned us. He’ll let him cross. He knows he will lose his chance if he fires before he sees Murray himself.”

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

McNab’s horse took to the stream, picking its way carefully. The water was shallow, the current sluggish, and the rider was not obliged to dismount or the horse to swim. Not a leaf moved on the willow-covered islet. Not a sound, except the peaceful twittering of a bird, came from it, as Duncan McNab, unconscious of any peril from that direction, rode past the tip, and on across the stream. Intent upon finding the ford, he did not even glance back, so caught no glimpse of the birch canoes.

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

“Are the Sioux after _you_?” Walter whispered.

“That I don’t know,” was the response in French. “I suspect Murray would set them on me if he could. When he and some of the young fools started for your camp this morning, I thought it was time for me to be away. So I took short leave of Chief Tatanka Wechacheta. I struck your trail at the head 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. I had a buffalo hide over me and the hind quarters of my horse, but I don’t know whether I fooled them or no.” His keen eyes were fastened on the break in the bushes, watching.

Walter asked no more questions. Silence was best. But while he waited he stole more than one glance at the trader, whose strange appearance had aroused his curiosity the night before. A queer figure indeed was this tall, lank, big-boned man of almost skeleton thinness; seeming to consist entirely 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 his long face, the high-bridged nose, and prominent cheek bones, betrayed the Indian. Yet his beard was uneven in color, rusty in places, and the eyes he turned on the Swiss boy were steel gray, startlingly light in his dark face. A singular man surely, with a grim, shrewd face, no longer young, as its many lines and wrinkles betrayed. In spite of the suspense of waiting, Walter found himself wondering about Duncan McNab and his history.

The wait was not a long one. McNab suddenly raised his head, like a hound listening. Then the ears of the others caught the sounds too,—the crackling of twigs, the clatter of accouterments, as mounted men came through the strip of poplars and willows on the low opposite bank of the stream. Duncan looked to the priming of his musket and dropped a ball into the muzzle. Walter felt for his own weapon. Even in the midst of his excitement, the thought of shooting unwarned men from ambush sickened him. But if Murray and his Sioux were really on the trail, they must not cross. Fear for Elise and for Louis’ mother and sisters steeled the boy’s nerves.

The willows were moving. A horse’s head appeared, then the rider, a slender, bronze figure, brave in red paint and feathered head-dress. It was not Murray. He halted at the edge of the water and turned his head to look 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 the waist, his black head bare. There was nothing about him except his size to distinguish him from any other Indian. The two talked together for a moment. The slender warrior seemed, from his gestures, to object or protest.

The waving and rustling of the willows, the sounds that came across the water, proved that other men were following. But the track was narrow, and they were obliged to check their horses until the leaders should take to 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 horse stepped into the water, a cold shudder passed over Walter. He had every cause to hate and fear the Black Murray. He hoped Scar Face would not miss. Yet, quite unreasonably, he wished the rascally mixed blood might have a chance to fight for his life. He looked a fine figure of a man on his big, white horse.

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

The silence was broken by a sudden menacing sound, not loud but strangely blood-chilling; the Ojibwa war whoop. On the near side of the islet a figure leaped into view. At the same instant, it seemed, Murray swung about on his horse’s back, musket raised. He was a breath too late. Scar Face had fired.

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

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

Gray eyes gleaming, Duncan McNab turned to Neil. “Get you awa’,” he ordered. “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 na followin’. On your wa’, all o’ ye.”