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This was about the time that the Indians were making ready for the
buffalo, and when their chief took to his lodge, and refused to leave
it, they came to ask him why. And they were told. They were for making
trouble, but the old chief said the quarrel was his own: he would settle
it in his own way. He would not go to the hunt. Konto, he said, should
take his place; and when his braves came back there should be great
feasting, for then the matter would be ended.

Half the course of the moon and more, and Athabasca came out of his
lodge–the first time in the sunlight since the day of his disgrace. He
and his daughter sat silent and watchful at the door. There had been no
word between Fyles and Athabasca, no word between Mitawawa and Fyles.
The Fort was well-nigh tenantless, for the half-breeds also had gone
after buffalo, and only the trader, a clerk, and a half-breed cook were
left.

Mitawawa gave a little cry of impatience: she had held her peace so long
that even her slow Indian nature could endure no more. “What will my
father Athabasca do?” she asked. “With idleness the flesh grows soft,
and the iron melts from the arm.”

“But when the thoughts are stone, the body is as that of the Mighty Men
of the Kimash Hills. When the bow is long drawn, beware the arrow.”

“It is no answer,” she said: “what will my father do?”

“They were of gold,” he answered, “that never grew rusty. My people were
full of wonder when they stood before me, and the tribes had envy as
they passed. It is a hundred moons and one red midsummer moon since the
Great Company put them on my shoulders. They were light to carry, but it
was as if I bore an army. No other chief was like me. That is all over.
When the tribes pass they will laugh, and my people will scorn me if I
do not come out to meet them with the yokes of gold.”

“But what will my father do?” she persisted.

“I have had many thoughts, and at night I have called on the Spirits who
rule. From the top of the Hill of Graves I have beaten the soft drum,
and called, and sung the hymn which wakes the sleeping Spirits: and I
know the way.”

“What is the way?” Her eyes filled with a kind of fear or trouble, and
many times they shifted from the Fort to her father, and back again. The
chief was silent. Then anger leapt into her face.

“Why does my father fear to speak to his child?” she said. “I will speak
plain. I love the man: but I love my father also.”

She stood up, and drew her blanket about her, one hand clasped proudly
on her breast. “I cannot remember my mother; but I remember when I first
looked down from my hammock in the pine tree, and saw my father sitting
by the fire. It was in the evening like this, but darker, for the pines
made great shadows. I cried out, and he came and took me down, and laid
me between his knees, and fed me with bits of meat from the pot. He
talked much to me, and his voice was finer than any other. There is no
one like my father–Konto is nothing: but the voice of the white man,
Fyles, had golden words that our braves do not know, and I listened.
Konto did a brave thing. Fyles, because he was a great man of the
Company, would not fight, and drove him like a dog. Then he made my
father as a worm in the eyes of the world. I would give my life for
Fyles the trader, but I would give more than my life to wipe out my
father’s shame, and to show that Konto of the Little Crees is no dog.
I have been carried by the hands of the old men of my people, I have
ridden the horses of the young men: their shame is my shame.”