The natures of the white man and the red are so opposed that it was impossible from the beginning of our North American history that either should really understand the sentiments and desires of the other. In the eyes of the Indian the most stoical and repressive white man was little better than a garrulous old woman. The “Yenghese,” as the Indians called the English, were less criticised on this point than were the French; but the latter, being an imitative race, more easily adapted themselves to the manner and life of the red man, and therefore won his confidence if not his respect.

Crow Wing displayed neither astonishment at finding the two white boys here, nor pain at the serious accident which had overtaken him. And it would have been a waste of time to urge him to explain more fully his being in this neighborhood. When he was ready to speak he would do so, and long after Lot Breckenridge was asleep, rolled up in his blanket and with his feet to the fire which blazed at the opening of the hut, did Enoch wait for the story. Crow Wing waited until he had slowly smoked out the little brass-bowled pipe which he carried with tobacco in a pouch at his belt. This pouch of tobacco and another of parched Indian corn, were all the provisions the ordinary Indian carried when on the march. The forest must supply his larder from time to time as he had need; and if game was scarce the red man went uncomplainingly with empty stomach.

“Harding and Lot found much pelt?” he said, questioningly, waving his hand at the bales of furs in the back of the shelter.

“So-so. We can’t complain, Crow Wing. You were trapping, too?”

“Yonder,” replied the Indian, pointing to the west. “Crow Wing look at trap; wolves met him; wolves very hungry; make much mad when hungry. Umph!”

“And they attacked you right away?”

“Umph! Me shoot; then club gun. Hit tree first time; break gun; then run some more. Catch foot and fall; much hurt. That all.”

“Are you alone at your camp yonder?”

“Umph!” said the Indian, nodding affirmatively.

“You had better stay here till your foot’s well. I reckon that gun can be repaired, too. Only the stock is broken.”

The Indian’s eyes gleamed, showing that this statement pleased him vastly. Crow Wing’s “fire-tube” was his most precious possession. “Me thought no good,” he said.

“I know of a man in Bennington who can fix it,” declared Enoch. “Have you many pelts at your camp?”

On his fingers Crow Wing showed how many beaver skins, otter pelts, wolf hides, and other and less worthy furs, he had obtained. He also stated that he had three steel wolf traps and two beaver or otter traps which he had obtained from a farmer for whom he had worked.

“We can bring ’em all over here. Lot and I will go for them. You can’t get around on that foot much for several weeks. It’s bad. You ’tend camp and stretch pelts, while Lot and I look out for the traps. Then, when we go home, you take one third of the pelts.”

Crow Wing thought of this silently for a moment and then held out his hand with gravity. “Good! Crow Wing go to Bennington with Harding and Lot; sell pelts there and get gun fixed. Umph!”

Although Enoch had suggested this scheme upon his own responsibility he knew Lot would agree to it. Really, it was a good thing for all three. Crow Wing’s gun was useless, and his lame foot made traveling next to impossible for a while. But he could keep camp all right and look after the pelts. The traps the Indian had would be of much service to the white boys and would increase their own gains not a little. So upon this amicable basis the Indian joined the party and the next day Lot and Enoch, directed by Crow Wing, traveled to the Indian’s camp and packed back both the traps and the skins.

The boys learned that Crow Wing’s people now resided in New York colony, on the shores of Lake George, and that the young warrior had not been east of the Twenty-Mile Line since the raid of Simon Halpen upon the Widow Harding’s cabin. By patient questioning Enoch learned that Halpen had lived for months at a time with the tribe, but that he was not an adopted member of it, and was not altogether trusted by Crow Wing’s people.

“When burn cabin, old chief–my father–be told. Injins friends with Bennin’ton men; friends with York men, too. But Hawknose,” the Indian’s sobriquet for Simon Halpen, “sent away. He never come back.”

“You have hunted with him?” said Enoch, with some eagerness. “You were with him that day–you know–long ago; the day the Yorkers came up to James Breckenridge’s farm?”

Crow Wing made no reply for some time, gazing with gloomy eyes into the fire. Finally he said, speaking in an oracular manner, yet brokenly as he always did, for the English tongue was hard to him: “Jonas Harding not friend to Injin; Injin not friend to him. You friend to Crow Wing. You fight Crow Wing; fight ’um fair; when foot well we fight once more? Umph!”

Enoch laughed. “I’ll wrastle you any time you like, Crow Wing. But you can beat me running.”

The Indian, undisturbed, went on: “You not like father; you not speak Injin like he be slave-man; Injin free!” and he said it proudly, for the redskins looked down upon the negroes because they were the slaves of the colonists. “Hawknose no like Jonas Harding; he own your land; he buy it from Great Father of York and he buy it from Injin. All land Injin’s once,” he added, with a cloud upon his face. “Injin come with Hawknose to measure land; white man bring little thing to measure it; Jonas Harding throw Hawknose in creek and more white men beat him. White man, like Injin, feel he squaw when beat. Hawknose mad; tell Injin he kill Jonas Harding; drive you from land.”

“But father was killed by a buck in the forest,” said Enoch, carefully hiding the emotion he felt.

“Umph!” grunted Crow Wing, and would say nothing further at the time.

Lot, although he had been often a companion of the Indian when the latter lived near his uncle’s farm, looked upon him just as he did upon Sambo, Breckenridge’s slave boy. He had played with him, swam with him, learned to use the bow and arrow under Crow Wing’s instruction, and had gained something of forest lore from the Indian youth; but he had no respect for him, or for his peculiarities. He had not learned at ’Siah Bolderwood’s knee of the really admirable qualities of these people whom the whites were pleased to call “savages.” Lot made no objection to Crow Wing’s joining them, for his presence, and the use of his traps, was a very good thing for them. He patronized the Indian, however, and was not above suggesting that, as the redman was so ignorant, it would not really be necessary to divide the pelts in even thirds at the end of the season.

“The trader won’t give him but about so much for them, anyway, no matter how many he offers,” he said to Enoch. “You know how it is with them. Injins can’t count and the traders fool ’em and cheat ’em. We’d better take some of his ourselves and so get some good out of them.”

“That isn’t honest, Lot!” cried Enoch, hotly.

“Huh! it’s honest enough. We won’t be cheating the Injin, for they’ll do him no good. And there’s no use in the traders makin’ so much on him.”

“Then we’ll go with him and see that the traders treat him honestly,” declared young Harding.

“Zuckers!” exclaimed the careless Lot. “Catch me putting myself out that way for a redskin.”

“You’re glad enough to use his traps, Lot!” cried Enoch. And the two old friends came very near having a falling out over the matter. Lot simply followed the example of the older settlers whom he knew. It was no particular sin to cheat an Indian. They were too much like children to look out for themselves in a bargain, anyway.

But as week followed week, Crow Wing’s manner toward Enoch Harding showed that he had adopted him, Indian fashion, as “brother.” Not that the red youth displayed any affection; that was beneath a brave. But he appreciated Enoch’s respectful treatment of him. Crow Wing treasured this in his mind and, when the spring came, and they packed their bales of furs by canoe and hand-sled to Bennington, and Enoch took pains to make the traders pay the Indian quite as liberally as they did Lot and himself for his furs, his gratitude blossomed in its fulness.

Lot went home to see his mother; but Enoch took Crow Wing to the Harding house with him and gave him an old canoe in which the red youth could make his way by water and portage to his home on the shores of Lake George. Crow Wing did not go near the house when Enoch met his mother and the younger Hardings after his long absence; but he sat down to dinner with them and if he used his fingers oftener than his hunting knife to prepare his food it was not remarked, for forks were not always used by the settlers themselves at that day. His gravity awed the younger children, while Bryce admired his proportions openly. The Indian youth was certainly a magnificently built fellow.

Before he went away he sat beside the creek and silently smoked a farewell pipe while his white friend waited for his last words. Enoch believed Crow Wing had something to tell him regarding Simon Halpen and that the time for speech had come; but knowing his nature the white youth had not tried to hurry this confidence.

“Hawknose come here once more–what you do?” Crow Wing asked, when the pipe was finished.

“Simon Halpen is my enemy. If you have an enemy what do you do?” returned Enoch, with some emotion.

The Indian nodded. “Hawknose, Jonas Harding’s enemy. No deer kill Jonas Harding. Hawknose yonder then,” and he waved his hand toward the deer-lick at which the dead settler had been found three years before.

“How does Crow Wing know that?” queried the white boy, eagerly.

“Crow Wing there, too.”

“You saw him—” began Enoch, but the Indian cut him short with an emphatic “Umph! No see. Hear shot. Shot kill doe. Jonas Harding kill doe. Gun empty.”

“Yes, we found the gun and the dead doe. And there were marks of a big buck all about the place and father–was dead.”

“Hawknose there,” said the Indian, gravely. “Crow Wing see him–running. Pass him–so,” with a gesture which led Enoch to believe that the running Halpen had crossed the Indian’s path within a few feet. “He no see Crow Wing. He run fast–look back over shoulder. And blood–blood on shirt–blood on hands–blood on gun! Go wash ’em in river. Then run more.”

“You saw him running away from the lick?” gasped Enoch. “But there were no footprints but father’s near the place. Only the hoof prints of the big buck.”

“Umph! Crow Wing no see big deer; no hear ’um. But see Hawknose run,” said the Indian significantly.

“But I can’t understand how Halpen could have killed him, Crow Wing. He did not shoot him, and if he had been near enough to strike father down, why did his moccasins leave no mark?”

The Indian rose gravely. “Some time we see. Crow Wing come back here. Harding go with him to deer-lick. Look, look–find out, mebbe.”

“But after three years how can anything be found?” demanded Enoch, in despair.

“Will see,” returned Crow Wing, and, without further word, entered the canoe and pushed out into the river. Nor did he turn about to look at the white youth once while the canoe was in sight. But he left Enoch Harding stirred to his depths by the brief and significant conversation. The youth did not understand how Simon Halpen could have compassed his father’s death; yet Crow Wing evidently suspected something which he had not seen fit to divulge.