"You do my handful
of stolid peasants too much honor," I said dryly. "They would need
more wit and ingenuity than I have ever seen in them to be able to
teach outlawry to anything that they find here. But I am looking for
them now. You will pardon me if I hasten."
But his hand pulled at me. "Is one of your men lipped like a
bull-moose and red as Rufus?"
"Pierre Boudin to the life," I chuckled. "What deviltry is he at now?"
The priest's face lost its flame. He looked suddenly the old man worn
out in the service of a savage people. "He is with an Ottawa girl," he
said sadly; "a girl the Indians call Singing Arrow for her wit and her
laughter. She is not a convert, but she is a good girl. I wish you
would get your man away."
I felt shame for my man and myself. "I will go at once," I promised
soberly. "I will be westward bound by afternoon."
The old priest looked at me with friendly eyes. "There will be trouble
before sundown," he said gravely. "If you wish to get away, go
quickly, or you may not go at all. Now you must report to the
commandant."
But I had turned my face the other way. "Not till I have found
Pierre," I returned.
I had no summer stroll before me.
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