All was ready for the game to
proceed. I hesitated a moment, and the Ottawas laughed, while Pemaou
looked disdainful.
All animals are braggarts, from the cock in the barnyard to the moose
when he hears his rival, and man is not much better. I pricked the
spear point against my hand, and looked at it critically.
"It is as dull as the Huron's wits," I scoffed, "but we will do the
best that we can with it;" and stepping back several feet nearer the
council fire, I put the weapon into play.
I have been in weightier occasions than the one that followed, but
never in one that I can remember in more detail. In all lives there
are moments that memory paints in bright, crude colors, like pictures
in a child's book, and so this scene looks to me now. I can see the
crowding Ottawas, their bodies painted red and black, their nose
pendants--a pebble hung on a deer-sinew--swinging against their greasy
lips as they shouted plaudits or derision. But best I can see Pemaou,
dancing between me and the sun like some grotesque dream fantasy. He
was in full war bravery, his body painted red, barred with white
stripes to imitate the lacing on our uniforms, and his hair
feather-decked till he towered in height like a fir tree.
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