Posted by She Who Tracks La Longue Carabine on October 30, 2000 at 14:30:55:
Dear Gnome,
Havin' got some more birch bark stripped and dried, and havin' puttered around with the blackberry juice until I got just the right conn-sistency, I will now finish my tale o' gettin' back to the George Road from Wiscone's Sin.
Well, just as ye said, pretty soon it begin to snow. And it snowed, and it snowed, and it snowed, the further north we got. Howsever, just as we was gettin' near the place - sure enough - those Men O' Mini Knees all fell down sudden-like in a heap and begun moanin' and groanin' and carryin' on somethin' fierce. But it was not the snow that did it to 'em, for standin' right there in front of 'em was another tribe o' Indians, the like o' which I never seed afore. They were strong and well-fed lookin', and they were dressed in bright painted robes o' deer and bear and fox skins, and they were armed with muskets and fancy-carved bows and arrows, and altogether, they looked fierce enough to put those Men O' Mini Knees to shame, sartain!
While the new tribe stood around scowlin', the head man o' the Men O' Mini Knees signed to their chief he was a man of peace, and he was willin' to talk tradin'. 'Course, I didn't see what they might have to trade, but the new chief seemed to be interested. He said they were a Ill Noise tribe, which did not sound right to me, since they appeared outten nowhere as silent as the snow itself, but I figgured I would not ask questions, but watch to see how the Men O' Mini Knees meant to get themselves on north without bein' taken captive.
I got that figgured out pretty quick when the chiefs both began pointin' at me and exchangin' signs indicatin' that I was up for grabs agin. Soon the words La Longue Carabine and Hurons came up agin, and it was apparent the Men O' Mini Knees Chief had traded me to the Ill Noise tribe for peaceful passage, and that the Ill Noise tribe figgured to trade me back to the Hurons since the Hurons are always known for lookin' for La Longue Carabine, and they figgured, dressed the way I was and bein' a lone huntress, maybe I was his sister or a close relative. They thought I was worth a good ransom from the Hurons, not knowin' that the Hurons had already traded me off once because my thumbs weren't long enough, or some such foolishness. Nat'rally the Men O' Mini Knees were not going to spill the beans, so they traded me, and I was headed south and east agin.
After a couple o' days I proved I could keep a wigwam in ven'son, and they were more convinced than ever that I was La Longue Carabine, so they kept a close watch on me to see I didn't get away, since they were lookin' at comin' into riches on my account. We finally marched back acrost the Susquehanna and were well along toward the the eastern part o' the colony, when we finally met up with the Hurons. At first relations appeared to be on a fri'ndly basis. The tribes exchanged greetin's and the chiefs sat down together to smoke their pipes, and ever'thing was hunky dory until the Ill Noise chief launched into his sales pitch. No sooner did the name La Longue Carabine come up, than the Hurons complained they were bein' insulted. They all touched up their war paint, and those two tribes fell to fightin' like they were mortal inimies, and they were all screechin' and hollerin' their war cries, and it was then I began to see how those Ill Noise Indians got their names. They out screeched the Hurons like no Indians I ever heerd, and pretty soon they were competin' in who could give out the most terrifyin' war whoop, and it was then that Hector and I decided it was time to make our exit.
That hound had stayed with me faithful ever step o' the way, despite the fact that his new chipmunk-skin moccasins were worn right offen his paws, and we took off arunnin' through the forest as fast and as quiet as we could. Those screechin' warriors never even noticed we were gone, so we run, and we run, and we run until I heerd a twig snappin' somewhere over my shoulder. I turned my head to see if we were bein' followed, and that's just when I run smack into a pine tree and didn't know any more until I woke up here on the George Road with Hector lickin' my face and whinin' and wimperin'.
Sartain, I was a mite addled for a while, but when I started to come to myself agin, I built a fire and sent out that first smoke signal ye saw to let ye know I made it to the George Road finally. Tell Miss Marcia I'll be collectin' some fine George Roadkill for her, but I aim to stay away from the carcasses that have bits o' red wool clingin' to 'em.
She Who Tracks La Longue Carabine