"It
looks like a cow's back," he ruminated. "Trees are queer. Today,
where we made camp, I saw a tree that looked like a Huron with his
topknot."
I stopped. "Where?"
"I told the master. Near the camp."
"You think it was a tree?"
Pierre shuffled. "There are no Hurons here. This is the Pottawatamie
country. But I have thought about it all day. It was a queer tree.
Shall I go back and see?"
I shook my head. I pointed to a stale bear print, and set the men upon
it. Then I turned and slipped back to camp.
I walked with uneasiness in my throat. Why did a Huron dog us in this
fashion? Was he alone? Did he mean mischief to the Englishman? Was
the Englishman in league with him? Too many questions for a slow man.
I felt entrapped and befogged. I must see for myself. And so I crept
to the camp to spy upon it.
I have never seen sweeter spot for an anchorage than we had found that
day. We had not camped on the open coast as had been our custom, but
in a sun-warmed meadow a few paces inland, where there were birds, and
tasseling grasses, and all kinds of glancing lights and odors to steal
into a man's blood. I parted the trees. The blur of gray ashes from
our fire was undisturbed; our canoes lay, bottom upwards, waiting to
have the seams newly pitched, and the cargo was piled, untouched,
against a tree.
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