I held my way due west to the Malhominis. I could secure their
cooperation, if nothing more. Pierre followed at a canoe length, and
we traveled unbrokenly. It was an hour short of midnight when we saw
the west shore. I could take no bearings in the dim light, so we nosed
along, uncertain whether to go north or south to find the mouth of the
Wild Rice River where the Malhominis had their home. We held a short
colloquy and started northward. Suddenly Pierre shot his canoe beside
my own.
"A camp!" he breathed in a giant whisper.
I suspended my paddle. On the shore to the north of us were lights.
It could not be the Malhominis, for they lived inland; it was not
Pemaou, for the camp was many times larger than his would be. It was
probably a hunting party. All the western tribes were friendly; more,
they were my allies. I saw no necessity for caution. I raised a long
halloo, and our canoes raced toward the lights.
We landed in a medley. Indians sprang from the squatting groups around
the fire and ran to meet us. They were black shapes that I could not
recognize. I leaped from my canoe and held up my hand in greeting.
But an arm reached out and tore my musket from me. I looked up.
Pages:
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276