The fourth morning came without rain, and the sun struggled out. We
built great fires, dried our clothing, repacked the canoes, and were
afloat by noon. By contrast it was pleasant, but it still was cold,
and we stood to our paddling. I wrapped the woman in extra blankets,
and made her swallow some brandy. I hoped that she would sleep, but
she did not, for it was she who called to us that there were three
canoes ahead.
It showed how clogged I was by sombre thought that I had not seen them,
for in a moment they swept in full sight. I crowded the woman down in
the canoe, and covered her with sailcloth. Then I hailed the canoes
with a long cry, "Tanipi endayenk?" which means, "Whence come you?" and
added "Peca," that they might know I called in peace.
The canoes wheeled and soon hung like water birds at our side. They
were filled with a hunting party of Pottawatamies, and the young braves
grunted and chaffered at me in high good humor. I gave them knives and
vermilion, and they talked freely. I saw them look at the draped shape
in the canoe, but I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Ouskouebi!" which
might mean either "drunken" or a "fool," and they grinned and seemed
satisfied.
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