The bear-skin door of the hut was pushed aside and a hideous face
peered forth. There was a gutteral call, and a prowling cur slunk in.
Within the hut, which was about twenty feet square, men, women and
children had packed themselves. The air was foul, and the smoke from
the blazing pine knots, having no direct outlet, rolled and curled and
sank. The savages sprawled around the fire, bragging and boasting and
lying as was their wont of an evening. Near-by the medicine man,
sorcerer so-called, beat upon a drum in the interest of science and
rattled bears' claws in a tortoise-shell. A sick man lay huddled in
skins at the farthest end of the hut. His friends and relatives gave
him scant attention. Indians were taught to scorn pity. Drawings on
the walls signified that this was the house of the Tortoise.
Four white men sat among them; sat doggedly in defeat. Gallantry is a
noble quality when joined to wisdom and foresight; alone, it leads into
pits and blind alleys. And these four men recognized with no small
bitterness the truth of this aphorism. They had been ambushed scarce
four hours from Quebec by a baud of marauding Oneidas.
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