Chapter XXIV: In the Hands of the Giant

The sound of voices waked Hugh. He opened his eyes to find, looking down on him, the young Indian and a repulsive fellow with a strip of dirty red cloth bound about his black hair. The latter had evidently just come from visiting his snares, for he was carrying two rabbits. When he saw that Hugh was awake, he turned away, the young fellow, after favoring the boy with another of his malicious grins, following him. From the position of the sun Hugh knew that he had not slept long, but his head felt better and the sick feeling had passed.

Long and tedious hours of waiting followed. At least one of the Indians was in sight and hearing every moment. Hugh was hungry, but he was offered no food, thirsty, but he disdained to ask for a drink. He strove to lie quiet and to keep his feelings of discomfort, anxiety and apprehension from his face. The ground was hard, the sun beat down upon his head and face, and he could not move to a more comfortable spot. Only with difficulty could he roll over on his side. His mental suffering, however, was far worse than his physical discomfort and pain.

Why was he treated in this way? Into whose hands had he fallen? What were they going to do to him and for what or whom were they waiting? The one possible explanation of his treatment was that he had fallen into the hands of Ohrante’s little band of outlaws. Why should even they want to take him prisoner? Was Ohrante looking for the hidden cache? A cold chill ran up Hugh’s spine, as he remembered the packet in the breast of his shirt. If he had only had sense enough to leave that packet with Blaise! It must surely come to light should his captors strip him to torment or torture him. Torture! He recalled the fiendish scene in the firelight. Was that what it meant to fall into the hands of the giant Iroquois? The boy dared not think of that. He tried to assure himself that the outlaw had nothing against him. At any rate he must not give way to fear. If he could keep cool and alert, he might yet find some way out of the perils that threatened him. He _must_ find a way.

With such thoughts running through his head, the time dragged painfully. Late in the afternoon, the younger Indian renewed the fire and hung over it an iron pot of water. Into the pot he put several handfuls of wild rice and rabbit meat cut into small pieces. The odor was tempting to Hugh’s nostrils, but he strove to keep his hunger from showing in his face.

Sunset came. The stew was ready, but the pot was not unslung. The three Indians sat about the fire, the younger one whiling away the time by playing on a crude native flute with three holes. The sounds produced were mournful and monotonous and did not inspire cheerfulness. The other two savages sat idle, eying the seething mixture in the kettle, but none made a move to dip into it. They were certainly waiting for the return of the rest of the band. Unusually well disciplined savages, Hugh thought them, to postpone their own supper until their chief arrived.

The squat man turned his head, gave a little grunt, rose and walked away towards the beach. The young fellow ceased his flute playing and followed, the other remaining to watch the stew. Hugh heard a canoe grate lightly on the gravel, a few words exchanged. He rolled over on his side, and saw, striding towards him—Ohrante. There could be no mistaking that huge form, looking more gigantic than ever as it towered over the prostrate lad.

For an instant Hugh forgot all else in wonder at the Indian’s size. Ohrante was not less than seven feet in height, with proportionate breadth of shoulder and depth of chest. Then, as he gazed into the face looking down on him, a veritable panic of fear shook the lad. It was not an ugly face. In its outlines and proportions, its strongly cut, regular features, it was unusually handsome for an Indian. But there was an inhuman hardness about it, a fiercely piercing quality in the eyes, cruel lines about nostrils and lips, a general expression of bitter and vindictive malevolence that appalled the boy. A shudder passed through him, yet, fascinated, he could not take his eyes from the dark, piercing ones.

Ohrante spoke, and Hugh gave a start of surprise. It was not the words that amazed him. All the Indian said was, “Who are you, white man? How come you here?” A simple question in curiously accented English. It was the voice that surprised Hugh. Weak, high pitched, almost squeaking, such a voice as the boy had never heard in an Indian before, it was ludicrously incongruous with the size and appearance of the evil giant. Instantly the spell in which Ohrante had held him was broken. So great was the revulsion of feeling that Hugh actually wanted to laugh. Luckily he realized that to take any notice of the giant’s weak point would surely arouse his bitterest hatred. Self-possession regained, Hugh controlled his features and answered steadily. He had had plenty of time that long afternoon to plan the story he was to tell.

“I am Hugh McNair. I came here by accident. High winds drove me out of my course and against the great rocks yonder.” He jerked his head in the direction of the mouth of the bay. “My canoe was wrecked, all my winter supplies lost, my comrade drowned.” He paused, rather surprised at the readiness with which he told his false tale. Ordinarily Hugh was truthful, inclined to regard a lie as a coward’s refuge, but he had no intention of divulging his true name and purpose to his father’s bitterest enemy.

Ohrante seemed to consider the reply. Then he spoke again. “Minong far from mainland,” he said in his bad English. He was suspicious of the tale, but the boy was prepared for doubt.

“We were going from the New Fort at the Kaministikwia,” Hugh went on to explain. “We had sold our furs and had all our supplies for the winter. Also we were very sleepy. We had drunk deep and we did not take care where we went. Then came the wind.”

Hugh was watching Ohrante’s face closely, but he could not tell whether the Iroquois believed the story or not, or indeed how much of it he understood. He made no reply except a queer little sound in his throat. Because of his high-pitched voice, that sound could not be called a grunt, and Hugh was at a loss to know whether it meant assent, disbelief or contempt. Before he could add anything more to his story, the giant turned abruptly away, walked over to the fire and seated himself on a log.

Immediately one of his followers removed the pot, and, with a long-handled, crudely carved wooden spoon, ladled out a generous portion of the stew into a birch bark dish. The chief received the dish in silence and commenced to eat, picking out the bits of meat on the point of his knife, and taking up the rice on the flat of the blade. After he had finished the more solid part of the food, he drank the soup and passed the dish back to be refilled.

The other Indians, eight in number, stood or sat about in silence. Not until the chief had finished his second portion and had signified, by turning the empty dish upside down on the ground, that he had had enough, did they venture to approach the kettle, each with his own bark or wooden bowl. Ohrante said something to the squat man who had been one of Hugh’s captors, pointing to the boy as he spoke. At once the man, carrying his own dish of stew, went over to the captive, seated himself cross-legged beside him, took up a piece of meat on the point of his knife and held it to Hugh’s lips. In this way he fed the lad about half the contents of the dish, reserving the rest for himself for fear the kettle might be empty. Neither the wooden dish nor the knife blade was very clean, but Hugh was too hungry to be particular. He could have eaten more, but he was thankful to get anything. Whatever the fate in store for him, he was apparently not to be starved to death. He risked asking for a drink, making signs to explain his meaning, and the Indian brought him some water from the lake in a bark cup.

Ohrante did not speak to Hugh again that night, or show any further interest in him. He was left lying bound and was not even given a blanket. Early in the evening, Ohrante retired alone to the smaller of the two wigwams, and a little later the others, all except the young fellow with the malicious grin, crowded into the larger dwelling. The young Indian, rolled in a dirty blanket, lay down on the opposite side of the fire from the prisoner.

Hugh’s arms and legs had grown so numb that he no longer felt the galling of the cords, but he was very sore and uncomfortable from lying on the hard ground. He had no wish to sleep, he was too eager to find some means of escape. If he could bring his bonds in contact with a coal from the fire, he might burn them enough so that he could pull them apart. He hitched nearer the flickering blaze and turned on his side towards it. The light was full on the face of the Indian beyond. Hugh could see that the man’s eyes were open and fixed upon him. His lips were grinning in the evil fashion the boy knew all too well.

Hugh settled himself as comfortably as he could and closed his eyes. After what seemed a long time, the deep breathing of the guard seemed to prove that he slept. The captive opened his eyes and, cautiously and with painful effort, rolled nearer to the fire. There was a low grunt from the Indian. He rose, came over to Hugh, seized him by the shoulder and roughly dragged him back from the fire. Then he passed a skin rope about the boy’s body under the arms and tied it to a strong young birch. The rope was long and did not prevent Hugh from lying down and turning from side to side, but it effectually anchored him too far from the fire to put his plan into operation. His guard had probably divined his intention. So ended the captive’s attempt to escape. There was nothing left for him but to sleep, if he could, and gather strength and courage for whatever the morrow might bring. It was long before he slept, however, and the discomfort of his position waked him frequently. At last the chill of early dawn refused to let him sleep longer.

He had not long to wait before the camp was stirring. The man with the scarlet head band set about preparing a breakfast of boiled fish. Hugh’s guard of the night took his gun and went away somewhere. Breakfast was eaten at sunrise, and this time Hugh’s hands were unbound that he might feed himself, but he was left tied to the tree. It was some time before the numbness wore off so that he could use his hands freely. His first attempts to manage his food amused the Indians, and the boy felt the blood rise to his cheeks at their grins and unintelligible gibes.

Breakfast was over when the young fellow with the grin returned. He talked with Ohrante, and afterwards the chief came over to Hugh and began to ask questions. Again the boy was almost moved to mirth at the contrast between the giant’s appearance and his voice. As Ohrante went on with his questioning, however, Hugh almost forgot the ludicrous voice. His replies kept his wits busy. The Iroquois wanted to know whether Hugh trapped for himself or traded with others for furs, whether he sold to the Old Company or to the New, where he intended to winter and other particulars. Hugh had believed that he had his story well planned, but several of the questions were unforeseen, and he was obliged to think quickly and invent as he replied. Telling a false tale was not such a simple matter this morning, and he was not at all sure that he made his convincing. After Ohrante turned away, Hugh was left wondering if his answers had allayed the giant’s suspicions or aroused them.