The Buffalo Runners: A Tale of the Red River Plains, R. M. Ballantyne [most recommended books .txt] 📗

Kateegoose drew himself up with a look of dignity, and pouted his greasy lips as he replied—

“The Crees have always been a brave and true and upright people. They never attack friends until, by their conduct, these friends have become enemies. But the Crees are human. They are not perfect—neither are the Palefaces. There are bad men among them—a few; not many—as well as young men and foolish. Sometimes, when on the war-path, a clever bad man can reason with them till he blinds them, and they are ready to do wrong. It may be so now. Okématan is clever. Kateegoose does not know what to advise.”

“Kateegoose was not asked to advise,” returned Dechamp sternly. “He may return to his tent.”

Thus summarily dismissed, this hanger-on or camp-follower returned to his pork and pipe with a feeling that somehow he had failed to make the exact impression on the leader that he desired. La Certe, however, consoled him, and helped him to continue the duties of the day.

“Come with me, McKay,” said Dechamp, after giving all needful directions regarding the safety of the camp. “I don’t believe that rascal Kateegoose. He’s a greedy idler, something like La Certe, but by no means so harmless or good-natured. Moreover, I find it hard to believe that Okématan has turned traitor.”

“I agree with you,” said Fergus. “It iss ferry hard to believe that a man who has been so long among us, and got such a good character, should suddenly turn against us—an’ that, too, without provocation. But what will you be sayin’ to what Taniel and myself has seen with our two eyes?”

“It looks bad, I confess,” answered Dechamp, as they paced to and fro in a retired part of the camp; “but you must remember that your two eyes are not your two ears, and that you heard nothing that you could understand.”

“Fery true, Dechamp. But the language of the eye is sometimes as clear and understandable as the language of the ear. No wan could mistake the meanin’ o’ some o’ the warriors when they scowled an’ pointed in the direction of our camp here, an’ gripped the handles o’ their scalpin’ knives and tomahawks. Moreover, Okématan also pointed in the same direction, though I am bound to say he did not grip his knife. Whether he scowled or not I do not know, for he was standin’ wi’ his back to us.”

“Well, I cannot tell. I’m not willin’ to believe Okématan a traitor; but what you have seen is enough to make me put the camp in defence instead of startin’ out to hunt—”

At that moment the sharp click of a gun was heard as a neighbouring sentry put his piece on full cock.

Dechamp and Fergus hastened towards him.

“Have a care, André; don’t be too quick with your gun,” said the former. “I see only one man coming. He can do us no harm.”

As the approaching figure drew near, it was seen to be that of an Indian on horseback. He rode carelessly at a jog-trot.

“It looks like Okématan!” said Dechamp, glancing at his companion in surprise.

“It iss Okématan,” returned Fergus.

Before another word could be spoken, a shot was heard in the camp, and horse and man were seen to roll upon the ground. The latter rose immediately, but the horse lay stiff—evidently shot dead. For a few seconds profound silence followed the incident, as if men were too much taken by surprise to think and act. Then, when the dismounted Indian was seen to walk leisurely, as if unhurt, towards them, there was a hubbub in the camp, while men, women, and boys ran towards the spot whence the shot seemed to have been fired, but no one was to be found there. Only a very faint puff of smoke overhead told where the marksman had stood. It had been a well-chosen spot, where a low bush or two mingled with several carts that had been rather carelessly drawn up, and several horses had been picketed together. These had afforded concealment enough for at least a few moments.

The tent of La Certe was not far from this corner. At the time the shot was heard, the self-indulgent half-breed was inside, recumbent on his back in the enjoyment of a pipe.

“That’s odd,” he said to Slowfoot, who was seated opposite to her lord scraping the remnants of something out of a tin kettle with the point of a scalping-knife. “Somebody’s gun gone off by accident, I suppose. I hear some one at our fire. Look out, Slowfoot, and ask what has happened.”

Slowfoot finished the scraping of the kettle before obeying; then lifted the curtain that closed the opening of their tent, and peeped out.

“It is Kateegoose—loading his gun, I think.”

La Certe got up, with a sigh of regret at the necessity for exertion, and, lifting the curtain-door, stepped out.

“What are they firing at, Kateegoose?”

The Indian did not know. Some one, he thought, might have let off his gun by accident. He thought it wise, however, to be ready, and had just sent the ramrod down the barrel of his gun to make sure that it was loaded with ball. To make still surer that all was ready, the Indian shook the priming out of the pan of his gun, wiped it, and re-primed. Then he laid the weapon down by his side, and resumed the pipe which he had apparently laid down to enable him to perform these operations more conveniently, and, at the same time, with more safety.

At that moment Dechamp walked smartly towards the fire in front of La Certe’s tent.

“Does Kateegoose know who fired that shot?” he asked with a keen glance, for his suspicions had been aroused.

“Some one over there,” answered the Indian languidly, as he pointed in the right direction.

“It does not need a medicine-man to tell me that,” said Dechamp, sternly. “I heard the shot, and saw the smoke. Have you any idea who fired it, La Certe?”

“I have not,” replied the half-breed. “I was lying in my tent when I heard it. Kateegoose was smoking beside the fire. We both thought it was an accident, or some one trying his gun, till we heard the shouting and running. Then I jumped up, seized my gun, and sprang out to see what it was all about. I found Kateegoose equally on the qui vive. He was shoving his ramrod down to make sure his gun was loaded when you came up. What is it all about?”

“Only that the horse of Okématan has been shot under him by some one, and that there is a would-be murderer in the camp.”

“Okématan! Has the traitor ventured to return?” exclaimed Kateegoose, with an expression of surprise that was very unusual in an Indian.

“Ay, he has ventured,” responded Dechamp, “and some one has ventured to fire at him with intent to kill. By good luck he was a bad shot. He missed the man, though he hit and killed the horse. But I shall find the rascal out before long—he may depend on that!”

So saying, the commandant left the spot.

“Do you know anything about this?” asked La Certe, turning full on the Indian.

“Kateegoose is not a medicine-man. He cannot be in two places at once. He knows nothing.”

For a sly man La Certe was wonderfully credulous. He believed the Indian, and, returning to his tent, lay down again to finish the interrupted pipe.

“Kateegoose was trying his gun to see if it was loaded,” he said to his better half.

“That’s a lie,” returned Slowfoot, with that straightforward simplicity of diction for which she was famous.

“Indeed! What, then, was he doing, my Slowfoot?”

“He was loading his gun—not trying it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Am I sure that our little child loves tobacco?”

“Well, I suppose you are. At any rate, the child often asks you for a pipe, and gets it too. Hm! if Kateegoose fired that shot he must be a bad man. But our chief is sure to find it out—and—it is no business of mine. Fetch me the tobacco, Slowfoot.”

That same morning, Archie Sinclair was seated beside his brother, Little Bill, in the tent that was shared by Fred Jenkins and several young half-breeds. He was alone with his brother, Jenkins having gone out with the blunderbuss to assist, if need be, in the defence of the camp. He was manufacturing a small bow for his brother to amuse himself with while he should be away “seein’ the fun,” as he said, with the hunters. The instant the sailor left, however, he looked at Billie mysteriously and said, in a low voice—

“Little Bill, although you’re not good for much with your poor little body, you’ve got a splendid headpiece, and are amazing at giving advice. I want advice just now very bad. You’ve heard what they’ve all been saying about this shot that was fired at Okématan, and some o’ the men say they think it must have been Kateegoose that did it. Now, Billie, I am sure that it was Kateegoose that did it.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Little Bill, making his eyes and mouth into three round O’s. “How d’ye know that? Did you see him do it?”

“No—it’s that that bothers me. If I had seen him do it I would have gone straight and told Dechamp, but I didn’t quite see him, you see. I was in Lamartine’s cart at the time, rummagin’ about for a piece o’ wood to make this very bow, an’ the moment I heard the shot I peeped out, an’ saw—nothing!”

“That wasn’t much,” remarked Little Bill, innocently.

“Ay, but I soon saw something,” continued Archie, with increasing solemnity; “I saw Kateegoose coming slinking round among the carts, as if he wanted not to be seen. I saw him only for a moment—gliding past like a ghost.”

“It’s a serious thing,” said Little Bill, musing gravely, “to charge a man with tryin’ to kill another man, if that’s all you’ve got to tell, for you know it’s a way the Red-skins have of always glidin’ about as if they was for ever after mischief.”

“But that’s not all, Little Bill,” returned his brother, “for I’m almost certain that I saw a little smoke comin’ out o’ the muzzle of his gun as he passed—though I couldn’t exactly swear to it.”

Archie had overrated his brother’s powers in the way of advice, for, although they talked the matter over for some time, they failed to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion.

Meanwhile Okématan, having entered the camp, was met by Dechamp, and led by him to a retired part.

“You have an enemy here, Okématan,” he said, inquiringly.

“It would seem so,” returned the Indian gravely. “Friends do not shoot each other’s horses; and if the poor horse had not tossed his head when the shot was fired, his rider would have bit the dust.”

“I fear it looks something like that,” said Dechamp; “but I hope Okématan believes that I know nothing of the matter—nor can I tell who the cowardly villain is that did it.”

“Okématan knows that,” answered the Indian, sternly. “No half-breed fired the shot.”

“There is no Indian in the camp but Kateegoose,” rejoined the other, quickly; “surely you don’t think that a man of your own tribe would try to kill you?”

“I know not. Kateegoose hates me. No other man in the camp hates me.”

“It is strange—unaccountable,” returned Dechamp. “If the Indian did it, he shall forfeit his horse and leave the camp. But tell me,”—here the half-breed commandant turned a searching gaze on his companion, “why did Okématan leave us, and spend all night alone on the prairie? Did he spend the night in conversation with the buffalo—or in the company of his departed forefathers?”

No sign of surprise, or of any other emotion, was visible on the countenance of the Red-man as he replied: “Okématan went out to meet a party of his tribe on the war-path.”

Dechamp was not so successful in concealing his own surprise at this answer.

“Does the Cree chief,” he asked, with something of doubt in