She passed the church and
Father Beret's hut and continued for some distance in the
direction of that pretty knoll upon which the cemetery is at
present so tastefully kept. She felt shy now, as if to run away
and hide would be a great relief. Indeed, so relaxed were her
nerves that a slight movement in the grass and cat-tail flags near
by startled her painfully, making her jump like a fawn.
"Little friend not be 'fraid," said a guttural voice in broken
French. "Little friend not make noise."
At a glance she recognized Long-Hair, the Indian, rising out of
the matted marsh growth. It was a hideous vision of embodied
cunning, soullessness and murderous cruelty.
"Not tell white man you see me?" he grunted interrogatively,
stepping close to her. He looked so wicked that she recoiled and
lifted her hands defensively.
She trembled from head to foot, and her voice failed her; but she
made a negative sign and smiled at him, turning as white as her
tanned face could become.
In his left hand he held his bow, while in his right he half
lifted a murderous looking tomahawk.
"What new flag mean?" he demanded, waving the bow's end toward the
fort and bending his head down close to hers. "Who yonder?"
"The great American Father has taken us under his protection," she
explained. "We are big-knives now." It almost choked her to speak.
Pages:
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103