“She suck her finger,” proclaimed old Cruzatte. “Dat mean she see her own peoples! Now she point. Dere dey come, on de hoss. Hooray!”
“Chaboneau swings his cap! The captain makes the peace sign!”
“Frinds, lads!” croaked Pat. “Heave, now; heave on the lines, or they’ll get away from yez!”
How the men tugged, even Peter laying his weight sturdily to the rope. Yonder, ahead to the left, inside the curve (and a long, vexatious curve it was), half a dozen Indians were galloping for the captain’s squad. They met Sa-ca-ja-we-a first, then Chaboneau, then the captain; all mingled together. The Indians were singing and prancing, and taking the captain up toward the forks. One jumped to earth and made the captain sit the horse. Hooray!
“There’s a village beyant,” gasped Patrick. “Heave, lads, or else we’re dreamin.”
“I see Drouillard dere, with dose Injuns,” asserted Labiche, whose eyes were keen. “He dress jes’ like Injun. I guess he trade clothes.”
The Indian camp grew plainer, as the boats rounded the curve. More Indians were flocking out, afoot and ahorse. Sa-ca-ja-we-a and another woman had rushed together; they were hugging each other. But before the canoes could arrive at the bank, the captain and Chaboneau and Sa-ca-ja-we-a had disappeared into a large willow lodge and most of the Indians had flowed in after.
Hugh McNeal met the boats, at the landing, and he had a long story to tell.
“Yes, of course. But we put in the dag-gonedest time you ever saw, catchin’ ’em,” responded Hugh. “First we had ’em, then we didn’t, next they had us!”
“What’s that around your neck? Where’s your hat?”
“Faith, ye look like a Borneo ape,” added Pat.
Hugh almost blushed through his coat of tan and whiskers. He was bare-headed, and about his neck was a curious object like a tippet or boa. In fact, it was very similar to the fur boas worn by women of to-day. One end was a nose and eyes, the other end was a tail; and all along the edge dangled small rolls of white fur sewed to a white band and hanging eighteen inches long――forming a kind of tassel cloak. The collar itself was brown otter, the border and tassels were ermine. But it was an odd-looking rig.
“Shucks,” apologized Hugh. “We traded clothes with the Injuns, to show good feelin’. The other fellow’s wearin’ my hat. Shields traded his shirt, too. The chief’s got on the captain’s cocked hat. And you ought to see Drouillard. He’s painted, to boot. With all that, we had a narrow squeak, I reckon.”