"Wait." Chekilli raised a hand to cut Father Vigne off. "You're saying you want us to attack the Port of New Orleans?"
He exchanged glances with several tribal elders beside him, and they all burst out laughing.
A muscular middle-aged man covered in concentric-circle tattoos glared coldly at Vigne. "The Spaniards sent you, didn't they? I know your little trick—once our warriors set foot in Biloxi, your ambush will come pouring out. Hmph, the Americans used that one long ago."
Vigne hurriedly waved his hands. "No, no, you won't encounter any soldiers. I guarantee it.
"Once you reach the Port of New Orleans, you may loot as you please—especially American ships.
"Everything you take will be yours. Just try not to kill anyone."
Chekilli laughed even louder. "You guarantee it? You think I'd believe you?"
Vigne gestured to the six clerics behind him. "Until your people return safely to the tribe, we will all remain here. If anything goes wrong, you may kill us at any time.
"We can also hand over half the weapons to you in advance."
Chekilli and the others immediately stopped laughing.
Leaving aside the fact that these French people were willing to serve as hostages, one hundred and fifty Flintlock Guns with Ammunition alone were enough to make the risk worthwhile.
Their entire tribe could hunt hard for a month and trade the pelts they gathered for, at most, ten guns. Ammunition had to be counted separately. The crafty white men sold Gunpowder at a higher price than the guns themselves.
This single deal was worth a year and a half of labor.
Besides, raiding Spaniards was something they did regularly. It was familiar territory for them.
Chekilli signaled for his tribesmen on either side to lower their guns, then turned serious. "What exactly is