horse to see the Great White Father, isn’t it, Fronchet?”
“Yes, I’ve been to your Washington City. It’s a dull enough town.”
“And Paris is over there also?”
“Yes. A long way. Across the Atlantic Ocean.”
“And that Atlantic Ocean, is it greater than Lake Calhoun?”
“Grand dieu! Lake Calhoun! One can look across that miserable pond. Seven weeks were necessary on a fine sailing vessel for me to cross the Atlantic.”
“Grand dieu!” Deedee would echo.
“Study your lessons well, and some day you shall go,” Fronchet would promise. He could never remember that these children had no lessons to study. When Deedee reminded him he would retort, “Eh bien! At least you can learn to speak the French not like a savage. I myself will teach you. Perhaps you do not know that the ladies of the garrison study the French with me? Yes, with Désiré Fronchet, every Tuesday and Friday at early candlelight. Even Mme. Snelling, before the colonel passed away, poor soul, she spoke very nicely with that M. le Comte de Beltrami, who was here to find the sources of the Mississippi.”
So Deedee listened to the way Fronchet talked, and she modeled her slipshod Canadian French to his suave Parisian accents. But this morning he was in no mood for stories or lessons. Wood chopping made him cross. Wood chopping for a hero who had hobbled upon freezing feet from Moscow!
“Then we’ll play Indian,” Deedee announced. “I’m the Little Crow. I choose Julie.”
“Me, I am the Hole-in-the-Day. I choose Lafe,” shouted Philippe.
They divided themselves as Sioux and Chippewa, and began at once to look about for weapons. The children were well aware of the feud between these tribes. They had often counted the feathers on the war bonnets of their neighbors, the Sioux. Each feather represented a dead Chippewa, red if he had been scalped, notched if his throat had been cut, white for a woman or child. They had watched the squaws dancing about the Chippewa scalps. Before Tess had discovered and forbidden it, they had even danced themselves, singing as heartily as any:
You Ojibway, you are mean,
We will use you like a mouse,
We have got you and
We will strike you down.
My dog is very hungry,
I will give him the Ojibway scalps.
It was exactly the game for a dull November morning. They ran home for blankets. A secret store of feathers was taken from under a stone. Their weapons were mostly sticks, but Philippe, the Chippewa leader, clung to his new bow and arrow.
“But that is forbidden,” cried Deedee.
“I’ll shoot straight up. I promise it.” Philippe was almost in tears.
“Well! Have care!”
And Philippe began by having care. For full two minutes which seemed at least two hours, he shot into the air. But it would be so amusing to frighten Deedee! She was stalking about as a chieftain. How she would jump if an arrow should graze her braid!
The arrow found Andy, smiling in his little homemade chariot. With a terrible exactness, as though intent upon making a dimple, it pierced his softly bulging cheek.
There was a spurt of blood. Deedee dropped to her knees, her eyes black as coals in her face. Choking and gasping, he clung to her neck and the blood ran down her dress. Oh, Andy, Andy! She secured him passionately and struggled to her feet.
The others ran on ahead of her, calling their mother. There was no answer, and the cabin when they reached it was empty. Indian Annie came out of her shanty to tell them that Denis and Jacques had gone to Black Dog’s village, and Tess had been summoned to the fort.
Painfully detaching Andy and giving him to the squaw, Deedee ran for the fort. Her long brown legs scissored over the ground. She ducked under the arm of her friend the sentry, and made for Captain Frenshaw’s quarters. She knew, of course, that Mrs. Frenshaw was expecting. That would be where her mother had gone. The rending cries of a woman in labor came out to her as she ran.
The reason for the nearness of the DuGay cabin to the fort—and it was nearer than any squatter home—was Tess DuGay’s value when the ladies were confined. She had a natural gift in such affairs. She was moving with more than her usual placid competence about Mrs. Frenshaw’s bed, however. Deedee saw that as soon as she opened the outer door. And she noted that the ladies, hovering in the doorway between parlor and bedroom, had pale faces. Some of them looked tearful and disheveled, but Mrs. Boles, who detached herself from the group, was as cool and immaculate as usual.
“Your mother can’t possibly be spared,” she said when Deedee finished her story.
“She’d want to come.”
“But, you see, the doctor is away. He went to Black Dog’s village with some others. We’ve sent a runner, but he can’t get back in time.”
Deedee pondered in anguish. She knew that Mrs. Boles was right. Her mother would not leave Mrs. Frenshaw because Andy had been hit by an arrow. And yet —that blood—and he was so little—Mrs. Boles didn’t need to be so sure! She didn’t care, that was all. She didn’t care what happened to Andy, in spite of her sweet tone.
“I’ll speak to my ma, if you please,” cried Deedee, over a painful knob in her throat. To her chagrin, for she was a proud child, tears of wrath and worry began pouring down her face.
“Now, now,” said Eva Boles, not unkindly. “I am trying to think what is best. I’ll go to your brother, and you run for M’sieu Page. He’s almost as good as a doctor.”
M’sieu Page! Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of him herself?
Deedee fled through the big gate and down the hill, her brown braids level behind her. She did not take the path, but went like a frightened rabbit, skimming the stubble, threading the trees. The ferryman was dozing at his post but he sprang to his paddles at the sight of her. In an incredibly short space of time she was running up the path which led to the trading post.
She had never been here before, but there was no time to think of that. There was no time to think of anything. Having started to cry, she could not stop, and sobs were coming like beads on a string.
M’sieu Page was examining a pack of muskrat skins. When he saw her in the doorway, he put them down and came toward her.
“Why, it’s the little DuGay!”
“M’sieu Page! That Andy—he’s the baby—and ma is with Mrs. Frenshaw—”
He took her hand and led her to a chair. “I’ll go at once. You stay here till I get back.”
“No, no. I’ll go with you.”
“I know which cabin it is. You just tell me what’s the matter, so I’ll know what to take.”
He made up a packet of cloths and bottles. Deedee dried her face on
