For ten days the air was snapping with cold, and the river beside the Peoria village remained frozen. In the hearts of the Peorias lingered the chill of fear, for in spite of his denunciation of Monso they could not banish their doubts of the French chief; and the dreaded Iroquois invasion, which had haunted them for years, was very present in their thoughts as the Frenchmen passed among them.
When Indians once see fear betrayed in public, they never forget; and now for some of La Salle’s men the Peorias had only contempt, for not all of those who had shown fear at the words of Nicanopé had fled to the woods. Others of the French, such as Ako, the coureur de bois, were of a different breed. Bold, strong, experienced in woodcraft by many years in the wilds, they commanded at least consideration from the Indian warriors.
As for the three gray-robed friars, they did no harm and there was a curious mystery about their ceremonies that pleased the Indians’ childlike hearts. One of these friars—Father Hennepin—looked far more like a man who loved the world and the joys of life. He strutted about the village with all priestly meekness smothered by his interest in his surroundings. Very conscious was he of his own greatness, and well satisfied that without him the little band of French would be in sore straits.
It was with different feelings that the Peorias looked upon La Salle and Tonty. They feared them greatly and still retained their suspicions, but with their fear and suspicion there was also respect and awe. They recognized in them the qualities an Indian loves—strength, utter fearlessness, and a determination that breaks down all obstacles. About each of these men there was mystery which baffled the wits of the Indians and excited their interest even more than did the medicine men of their own tribes.
Of the past of these two remarkable men the Indians knew nothing; they could not read the tale of danger and hardship that had marked the years of La Salle, or the story of the pitfalls and snares laid by his enemies for his destruction. They could not know that at Fort Frontenac, when La Salle was on his way to their country, one of his men had put poison in his food. Nor did they know of the incident at the Miami portage, where one of his followers, walking behind, had raised his gun to shoot his leader in the back and was prevented only by the quick arm of a comrade. They knew that six of the men had deserted and gone off into the woods, but they did not know that on that same day in their own village another of his treacherous knaves had again tried to poison him.
They knew nothing of the early experiences of Henry de Tonty, of the seas he had sailed and the fights he had fought by land and water in the service of the King of France. Nor did they yet know the faith with which he served his leader and friend La Salle. But a sure instinct told the red men that here were two men whom they would love as friends or fear as enemies.
One chill day followed another. Most of the young men were still off on the hunt and warpath. Those who remained at home mended their weapons, smoked, and idly watched the women at work on mats and robes—but never for a moment let go the thought or sight of the white strangers in their midst.
In the middle of January the ice melted, the air dropped its sting, and the friendly earth appeared from beneath the snow. La Salle and the friar Hennepin stepped into a canoe and paddled down the river to a point half a league below the village. Soon Tonty and the rest of the band joined them. On the left-hand side of the river, two hundred paces from the edge of the water, rose a small hill. In front of it there was a stretch of low swampy ground, and on either side were deep ravines.
The inquisitive Indians who slipped along the shore to watch the movements of the white men saw them at work digging a ditch behind the hill to connect the two ravines. Around the edge of the hill a line of earth was thrown up, making a wall which sloped down into ditch and ravine and marsh. Then a palisade of logs was erected twenty feet high. Inside this stockade in two corners the busy Frenchmen built lodgings for themselves, a cabin for the three friars in the third corner, and a storehouse in the fourth. Along the rear wall the forge was set up, and in the very midst of the inclosure were the quarters of La Salle and Tonty. To this stronghold beside the Illinois River, La Salle gave the name of Fort Crèvec?ur.
Another work that astonished the Indians still more went on at the bank of the river. Here the men felled great trees, hewed them into timbers, sawed planks, and began to build a mighty canoe such as the men of the tribe had never seen. With a forty-foot keel and a twelve-foot beam, no Peoria could doubt that it would make its way sa............