“He says the white hunter who lives under the earth is giving them muskets to make war,” whispered Godefroy.  “That must be the pirate.”

“Listen!”

“Let the braves prepare to meet the Indians of the Land of Little White Sticks, who were coming with furs for the white men—­” Le Borgne went on.

“Let the braves send their runners over the hills to the Little White Sticks sleeping in the sheltered valley.  Let the braves creep through the mist of the morning like the lynx seeking the ermine.  And when the Little White Sticks were all asleep, the runners would shoot fire arrows into the air and the braves would slay—­slay—­slay the men, who might fight, the women, who might run to the whites for aid, and the children, who might live to tell tales.”

“The devils!” says Godefroy under his breath.

A log broke on the coals with a flare that painted Le Borgne’s evil face fiery red; and the fellow gabbled on, with figure crouching stealthily forward, foxy eye alight with evil, and teeth glistening.

“Let the braves seize the furs of the Little White Sticks, trade the furs to the white-man for muskets, massacre the English, then when the great white chief’s big canoes left, kill the Frenchmen of the fort.”

“Ha,” says Godefroy.  “Jack’s safe outside!  We’ll have a care to serve you through the loop-holes, and trade you only broken muskets!”

A guttural grunt applauded Le Borgne’s advice, and the crafty scoundrel continued:  “The great medicine-man, the white hunter, who lived under the earth, was their friend.  Was he not here among them?  Let the braves hear what he advised.”

The Indians grunted their approbation.  Some one stirred the fire to flame.  There was a shuffling movement among the figures in the dark.  Involuntarily Godefroy and I had risen to our feet.  Emerging from the dusk to the firelight was a white man, gaudily clothed in tunic of scarlet with steel breastplates and gold lace enough for an ambassador.  His face was hidden by Le Borgne’s form.  Godefroy pushed too far forward; for the next thing, a shout of rage rent the tent roof.  Le Borgne was stamping out the fire.  A red form with averted face raced round the lodge wall to gain the door.  Then Godefroy and I were standing weapons in hand, with the band of infuriated braves brandishing tomahawks about our heads.  Le Borgne broke through the circle and confronted us with his face agleam.

“Le Borgne, you rascal, is this a way to treat your friends?” I demanded.

“What you—­come for?” slowly snarled Le Borgne through set teeth.

“To bring back your wounded and for furs, you fool,” cried Godefroy, “and if you don’t call your braves off, you can sell no more pelts to the French.”

Le Borgne gabbled out something that drove the braves back.

“We have no furs yet,” said he.

“But you will have them when you raid the Little White Sticks,” raged Godefroy, caring nothing for the harm his words might work if he saved his own scalp.