There are no straight roads in the wilderness; all trails are devious.  So with an Indian’s mind.  I sat in Longuant’s skin-roofed lodge and filled hours with talk of Singing Arrow.  The girl was to wed Pierre at noon the next day.  The marriage was to be solemnized in the chapel the next afternoon, and the whites were to attend.  The affair was perhaps worth some talk, if Longuant and I had been squaws yawning over our basket-work.  But we were men with knives, and Fear was whispering at our shoulders.

The sun climbed, and noises and odors of midday came in the tent door.  I plumped out a direct question.

“The tree of friendship that grows for the Ottawas and the French,—­are its roots deep, Longuant?”

The old chief looked at me.  “What has my brother seen?”

“The Iroquois wolf, my brother.  The Iroquois wolf snapping at the roots of this stately tree.  What will the Ottawas do, Longuant?  Will they drive the wolf away?”

The chief still studied me.  “When a tree is healthy,” he argued, “a wolf cannot harm it; as well dread the butterfly that lights on its leaves or the ant that runs around its trunk.  It is only when a tree is unsound at heart that the snapping of a wolf can jar it.  And an unsound tree is dangerous.  My brother will agree that it is best to cut it down.”

I rose.  “The wolf can do more than snap; his fangs are poisoned.  Listen, my brother.  This tree of friendship is dear to me.  I have given labor to preserve it; I have watered it; I have killed the insects and small pests that would have nibbled at its branches.  Now that I see its roots threatened, my heart is heavy and the sun looks dim.  Can my brother brighten the world for me?  Can he tell me that my fears are light as mist?”

Longuant looked at the ground.  In repose his face was very sad, as are the faces of most savage leaders.

“I have only two eyes, two ears,” he crooned monotonously.  “My brother has as many.  Let him use them.”

“And you will not lift your hatchet to save the tree?”

Longuant raised his eyes.  “The hatchet of the Ottawas is always bright.  My brethren will hold it in readiness.  If the tree looks strong and worth saving, they will raise the hatchet and defend it.  If the tree is unsound, they will put the hatchet at its roots.”

Well, I had my answer.  And, to be just, I could not blame them.  The Ottawas were never a commanding people.  Their chief was wise to throw his vote with the winning side.  But I turned away saddened.

Longuant followed.  “There is always a bed in the lodges of the Ottawas for my brother of the red heart.  Will he sleep in it?”

I turned.  “Would my head be safer if I did, O brother of the wise tongue?”

“My brother has said it.”

I took a Flemish knife from my pocket and handed it to him.