 | CHAPTER VII. The oak openings, or, The bee-hunter |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
As scowling on the priest he looks;
Cowesass—cowesass—tawhich wessassen?
Let my father look on Bornazeen—
My father's heart is the heart of a squaw,
But mine is so hard that it does not thaw.
Whittier.
Leaving the newly-married couple to pursue their way
homeward, it is now our province to return to Prairie
Round. One accustomed to such scenes would easily have
detected the signs of divided opinions and of agitating
doubts among the chiefs, though nothing like contention
or dispute had yet manifested itself. Peter's control was
still in the ascendant, and he had neglected none of his
usual means of securing influence. Perhaps he laboured
so much the harder, from the circumstance that he now
found himself so situated, as to be compelled to undo much
that he had previously done.
On the other hand, Ungque appeared to have no particular
cause of concern. His manner was as much unoccupied
as usual; and to his habit of referring all his influence
to sudden and powerful bursts of eloquence, if design
of any sort was entertained, he left his success.
We pass over the details of assembling the council. The
spot was not exactly on the prairie, but in a bit of lovely
a wide extent of that peculiar natural meadow, while the
body enjoyed the shades of the wood. The chiefs alone
were in the circle, while the “braves” and the “young
men” generally formed a group on the outside; near enough
to hear what passed, and to profit by it, if so disposed.
The pipe was smoked, and all the ordinary customs observed,
when Bear's Meat arose, the first speaker on that
momentous occasion.
“Brothers,” he said, “this is the great council on Prairie
Round to which we have been called. We have met
before, but not here. This is our first meeting here. We
have travelled a long path to get here. Some of our brethren
have travelled farther. They are at Detroit. They
went there to meet our great Canada Father, and to take
Yankee scalps. How many scalps they have taken I do
not know, or I would tell you. It is pleasant to me to
count Yankee scalps. I would rather count them, than
count the scalps of red men. There are still a great many
left. The Yankees are many, and each Yankee has a
scalp. There should not be so many. When the buffaloes
came in the largest droves, our fathers used to go out
to hunt them in the strongest parties. Their sons should
do the same. We are the sons of those fathers. They
say we look like them, talk like them, live like them—we
should act like them. Let another speak, for I have done.”
After this brief address, which bore some resemblance
to a chairman's calling a meeting of civilized men to order,
there was more smoking. It was fully expected that Peter
would next arise, but he did not. Perceiving this, and
willing to allow time to that great chief to arrange his
thoughts, Crowsfeather assumed the office of filling the
gap. He was far more of a warrior than of an orator, and
was listened to respectfully, but less for what he said, than
for what he had done. A good deal of Indian boasting,
quite naturally, was blended with his discourse.
“My brother has told you of the Yankee scalps,” he
commenced. “He says they are many. He says there
ought to be fewer. He did not remember who sat so near
him. Perhaps he does not know that are three less now
than there were a moon since. Crowsfeather took three
must be plentier than the buffaloes on the great prairies, if
they can lose so many scalps often, and send forth their
warriors. I am a Pottawattamie. My brothers know that
tribe. It is not a tribe of Jews, but a tribe of Injins. It
is a great tribe. It never was lost. It cannot be lost. No
tribe better knows all the paths, and all the best routes to
every point where it wishes to go. It is foolish to say you
can lose a Pottawattamie. A duck would be as likely to
lose itself, as a Pottawattamie. I do not speak for the Ottawas;
I speak for the Pottawattamies. We are not Jews.
We do not wish to be Jews; and what we do not wish to
be, we will not be. Our father who has come so far to tell
us that we are not Injins, but Jews, is mistaken. I never
heard of these Jews before. I do not wish to hear of them
again. When a man has heard enough, he does not keep
his ears open willingly. It is then best for the speaker to
sit down. The Pottawattamies have shut their ears to the
great medicine-priest of the pale-faces. What he says may
be true of other tribes, but it is not true of the Pottawattamies.
We are not lost; we are not Jews. I have done.”
This speech was received with general favour. The
notion that the Indians were not Indians, but Jews, was far
from being agreeable to those who had heard what had been
said on the subject; and the opinions of Crowsfeather possessed
the great advantage of reflecting the common sentiment
on this interesting subject. When this is the case, a
very little eloquence or logic goes a great way; and, on the
whole, the address of the last speaker was somewhat better
received than that of the first.
It was now confidently believed that Peter would rise.
But he did not. That mysterious chief was not yet prepared
to speak, or he was judiciously exciting expectation
by keeping back. There were at least ten minutes of silent
smoking, ere a chief, whose name rendered into English
was Bough of the Oak, arose, evidently with a desire to
help the time along. Taking his cue from the success of
Crowsfeather, he followed up the advantage obtained by
that chief, assailing the theory of the missionary from another
quarter.
“I am an Injin,” said Bough of the Oak; “my father
All my fathers were red men, and all their sons. Why
should I wish to be anything else? I asked my brother,
the medicine-priest, and he owned that Jews are pale-faces.
This he should not have owned if he wished the Injins to
be Jews. My skin is red. The Manitou of my fathers so
painted it, and their child will not try to wash out the colour.
Were the colour washed out of my face, I should be
a pale-face! There would not be paint enough to hide my
shame. No; I was born red, and will die a red-man. It
is not good to have two faces. An Injin is not a snake, to
cast his skin. The skin in which he was born he keeps.
He plays in it when a child; he goes in it to his first hunt;
the bears and the deer know him by it; he carries it with
him on the war-path, and his enemies tremble at the sight
of it; his squaw knows him by that skin when he comes
back to his wigwam; and when he dies, he is put aside in
the same skin in which he was born. There is but one
skin, and it has but one colour. At first, it is little. The
pappoose that wears it is little. There is no need of a large
skin. But it grows with the pappoose, and the biggest
warrior finds his skin around him. This is because the
Great Spirit fitted it to him. Whatever the Manitou does
is good.
“My brothers have squaws — they have pappooses.—
When the pappoose is put into their-arms, do they get the
paint-stones and paint it red? They do not. It is not necessary.
The Manitou painted it red before it was born.
How this was done I do not know. I am nothing but a
poor Injin, and only know what I see. I have seen that
the pappooses are red when they are born, and that the
warriors are red when they die. They are also red while
living. It is enough. Their fathers could never have been
pale-faces, or we should find some white spots on their
children. There are none.
“Crowsfeather has spoken of the Jews as lost. I am not
surprised to hear it. It seems to me that all pale-faces get
lost. They wander from their own hunting-grounds, into
those of other people. It is not so with Injins. The Pottawattamie
does not kill the deer of the Iowa, nor the Ottawa
own game. This is because they are not lost. My pale-face
father appears to wish us well. He has come on a long
and weary path, to tell us about his Manitou. For this I
thank him. I thank all who wish to do me good. Them
that wish to do me harm I strike from behind. It is our
Injin custom. I do not wish to hurt the medicine-priest,
because I think he wishes to do me good, and not to do
me harm. He has a strange law. It is to do good to them
that do harm to you. It is not the law of the red men.
It is not a good law. I do not wonder that the tribes which
follow such a law get lost. They cannot tell their friends
from their enemies. They can have no people to scalp.
What is a warrior if he cannot find some one to scalp?
No; such a law would make women of the bravest braves
in the openings, or on the prairie. It may be a good law
for Jews, who get lost; but it is a bad law for Injins, who
know the paths they travel. Let another speak.”
This brief profession of faith, on the subject that had
been so recently broached in the council, seemed to give
infinite satisfaction. All present evidently preferred being
red men, who knew where they were, than to be pale-faces
who had lost their road. Ignorance of his path is a species
of disgrace to an American savage, and not a man
there would have confessed that his particular division of
the great human family was in that dilemma. The idea
that the Yankees were “lost,” and had got materially
astray, was very grateful to most who heard it; and Bough
of the Oak gained a considerable reputation as an orator,
in consequence of the lucky hits made on this occasion.
Another long, ruminating pause, and much passing of
the pipe of peace succeeded. It was near half an hour
after the last speaker had resumed his seat, ere Peter stood
erect. In that long interval expectation had time to increase,
and curiosity to augment itself. Nothing but a very great
event could cause this pondering, this deliberation, and
this unwillingness to begin. When, however, the time did
come for the mysterious chief to speak, the man of many
scalps to open his mouth, profound was the attention that
prevailed among all present. Even after he had arisen, the
orator stood silently looking around him, as if the throes
could trust his tongue to give them utterance.
“What is the earth?” commenced Peter, in a deep,
guttural tone of voice, which the death-like stillness rendered
audible even to the outermost boundaries of the circle
of admiring and curious countenances. “It is one plain,
adjoining another; river after river; lake after lake; prairie
touching prairie; and pleasant woods, that seem to have
no limits, all given to men to dwell in. It would seem that
the Great Spirit parcelled out this rich possession into
hunting-grounds for all. He coloured men differently.
His dearest children he painted red, which is his own
colour. Them that he loved less he coloured less, and
they have red only in spots. Them he loved least he dipped
in a dark dye, and left them black. These are the colours
of men. If there are more, I have not seen them. Some
say there are. I shall think so, too, when I see them.
“Brothers, this talk about lost tribes is a foolish talk.
We are not lost. We know where we are, and we know
where the Yankees have come to seek us. My brother has
well spoken. If any are lost, it is the Yankees. The Yankees
are Jews, they are lost. The time is near when they will
be found, and when they will again turn their eyes towards
the rising sun. They have looked so long towards the
setting sun, that they cannot see clearly. It is not good
to look too long at the same object. The Yankees have
looked at our hunting-grounds until their eyes are dim.
They see the hunting-grounds, but they do not see all the
warriors that are in them. In time, they will learn to count
them.
“Brothers, when the Great Spirit made man, he put him
to live on the earth. Our traditions do not agree in saying
of what he was made. Some say it was of clay, and that
when his spirit starts for the happy hunting-grounds, his
body becomes clay again. I do not say that this is so, for
I do not know. It is not good to say that which we do
not know to be true. I wish to speak only the truth. This
we do know. If a warrior die, and we put him in the
earth, and come to look for him many years afterwards,
nothing but bones are found. All else is gone. I have
heard old men say that, in time, even these bones are not
But it is not so with hunting grounds. They were made
to last for ever.
“Brothers, you know why we have come together on this
prairie. It was to count the pale-faces, and to think of the
way of making their number less. Now is a good time for
such a thing. They have dug up the hatchet against each
other; and when we hear of scalps taken among them, it
is good for the red men. I do not think our Canada Father
is more our friend than the great Yankee, Uncle Sam. It
is true, he gives us more powder, and blankets, and tomahawks,
and rifles than the Yankee, but it is to get us to
fight his battles. We will fight his battles. They are our battles, too. For this reason we will fight his enemies.
“Brothers, it is time to think of our children. A wise
chief once told me how many winters it is since a pale-face
was first seen among red men. It was not a great while
ago. Injins are living who have seen Injins, whose own
fathers saw them first pale-faces. They were few. They
were like little children, then; but now they are grown to
be men. Medicine-men are plenty among them, and tell
them how to raise children. The Injins do not understand
this. Small-pox, fire-water, bad hunting, and frosts, keep
us poor, and keep our children from growing as fast as the
children of the pale-faces.
“Brothers, all this has happened within the lives of three
aged chiefs. One told to another, and he told it to a third.
Three chiefs have kept that tradition. They have given it
to me. I have cut notches on this stick (holding up a
piece of ash, neatly trimmed, as a record,) for the winters
they told me, and every winter since I have cut one more.
See; there are not many notches. Some of our people say
that the pale-faces are already plentier than leaves on the
trees. I do not believe this. These notches tell us differently.
It is true the pale-faces grow fast, and have many
children, and small-pox does not kill many of them, and
their wars are few; but, look at this stick. Could a canoe-full
of men become as many as they say, in so few winters?
No; it is not so. The stories we have heard are not true.
A crooked tongue first told them. We are strong enough
still to drive these strangers into the great salt lake, and
have done.
“Brothers, I have taken many scalps. This stick will
tell the number.” Here one of those terrible gleams of
ferocity to which we have before alluded, passed athwart
the dark countenance of the speaker, causing all present
to feel a deeper sympathy in the thoughts he would express.
“There are many. Every one has come from the head of
a pale-face. It is now twenty winters since I took the scalp
of a red man. I shall never take another. We want all
of our own warriors, to drive back the strangers.
“Brothers, some Injins tell us of different tribes. They
talk about distant tribes, as strangers. I tell you we are
all children of the same father. All our skins are red.
I see no difference between an Ojebway, and a Sac, or a
Sioux. I love even a Cherokee.” Here very decided
signs of dissatisfaction were manifested by several of the
listeners; parties of the tribes of the great lakes having
actually marched as far as the Gulf of Mexico to make war
on the Indians of that region, who were generally hated by
them with the most intense hatred. “He has the blood of
our fathers in him. We are brothers, and should live together
as brothers. If we want scalps, the pale-faces have
plenty. It is sweet to take the scalp of a pale-face. I
know it. My hand has done it often, and will do it again.
If every Injin had taken as many scalps as I have taken,
few of these strangers would now remain.
“Brothers, one thing more I have to say. I wish to hear
others, and will not tell all I know, this time. One thing
more I have to say, and I now say it. I have told you that
we must take the scalps of all the pale-faces who are now
near us. I thought there would have been more, but the
rest do not come. Perhaps they are frightened. There
are only six. Six scalps are not many. I am sorry they
are so few. But we can go where there will be more. One
of these six is a medicine-man. I do not know what to
think. It may be good to take his scalp. It may be bad.
Medicine-men have great power. You have seen what this
bee-hunter can do. He knows how to talk with bees.
Them little insects can fly into small places, and see things
that Injins cannot see. The Great Spirit made them so.
it, and may then hold a council to say what it is best to do
with them. Until we know more, I do not wish to touch
the scalp of that bee-hunter. It may do us great harm. I
knew a medicine-man of the pale-faces to lose his scalp,
and small-pox took off half the band that made him prisoner,
and killed him. It is not good to meddle with medicine-men.
A few days ago, and I wanted this young
man's scalp, very much. Now, I do not want it. It may
do us harm to touch it. I wish to let him go, and to take
his squaw with him. The rest we can scalp.”
Peter cunningly made no allusion to Margery, until just
before he resumed his seat, though now deeply interested
in her safety. As for le Bourdon, so profound was the impression
he had made that morning, that few of the chiefs
were surprised at the exemption proposed in his favour.
The superstitious dread of witchcraft is very general among
the American savages; and it certainly did seem to be
hazardous to plot the death of a man, who had even the
bees that were humming on all sides of them, under his
control. He might at that very moment be acquainted
with all that was passing; and several of the grim-looking
and veteran warriors who sat in the circle, and who appeared
to be men able and willing to encounter aught human,
did not fail to remember the probability of a medicine-man's
knowing who were his friends, and who his
enemies.
When Peter sat down, there was but one man in the
circle of chiefs who was resolved to oppose his design of
placing Boden and Margery without the pale of the condemned.
Several were undecided, scarce knowing what
to think of so sudden and strange a proposition, but could
not be said to have absolutely adhered to the original
scheme of cutting off all. The exception was Ungque.
This man—a chief by a sort of sufferance, rather than as
a right—was deadly hostile to Peter's influence, as has been
said, and was inclined to oppose all his plans, though compelled
by policy to be exceedingly cautious how he did it.
Here, however, was an excellent opportunity to strike a
blow, and he was determined not to neglect it. Still, so
wily was this Indian, so much accustomed to put a restraint
arise, with the impetuous ardour of frank impulses, to make
his reply, but awaited his time.
An Indian is but a man, after all, and is liable to his
weaknesses, notwithstanding the self-command he obtains
by severe drilling. Bough of the Oak was to supply
a proof of this truth. He had been so unexpectedly successful
in his late attempt at eloquence, that it was not easy
to keep him off his feet, now that another good occasion
to exhibit his powers offered. He was accordingly the next
to speak.
“My brothers,” said Bough of the Oak, “I am named
after a tree. You all know that tree. It is not good for
bows or arrows; it is not good for canoes; it does not make
the best fire, though it will burn, and is hot when well
lighted. There are many things for which the tree after
which I am named is not good. It is not good to eat. It
has no sap, that Injins can drink, like the maple. It does
not make good brooms. But it has branches like other
trees, and they are tough. Tough branches are good.
The boughs of the oak will not bend, like the boughs of
the willow, or the boughs of the ash, or the boughs of the
hickory.
“Brothers, I am a bough of the oak. I do not like to
bend. When my mind is made up, I wish to keep it where
it was first put. My mind has been made up to take the
scalps of all the pale-faces who are now in the Openings.
I do not want to change it. My mind can break, but it
cannot bend. It is tough.”
Having uttered this brief but sententious account of his
view of the matter at issue, the chief resumed his seat,
reasonably well satisfied with this his second attempt to be
eloquent that day. His success this time was not as unequivocal
as on the former occasion, but it was respectable.
Several of the chiefs saw a reasonable, if not a very logical
analogy, between a man's name and his mind; and to them
it appeared a tolerably fair inference that a man should act
up to his name. If his name was tough, he ought to be
tough, too. In this it does not strike us that they argued
very differently from civilized beings, who are only too apt
to do that which their better judgments really condemn,
termed.
Ungque was both surprised and delighted with this unexpected
support from Bough of the Oak. He knew
enough of human nature to understand, that a new-born
ambition, that of talking against the great, mysterious
chief, Peter, was at the bottom of this unexpected opposition;
but with this he was pleased, rather than otherwise.
An opposition that is founded in reason, may always be
reasoned down, if reasons exist therefor; but an opposition
that has its rise in any of the passions, is usually somewhat
stubbern. All this the mean-looking chief, or The
Weasel, understood perfectly, and appreciated highly. He
thought the moment favourable, and was disposed to “strike
while the iron was hot.” Rising after a decent interval
had elapsed, this wily Indian looked about him, as if awed
by the presence in which he stood, and doubtful whether
he could venture to utter his thoughts before so many wise
chiefs. Having made an impression by this air of diffidence,
he commenced his harangue.
“I am called The Weasel,” he said, modestly. “My
name is not taken from the mightiest tree of the forest, like
that of my brother; it is taken from a sort of rat—an animal
that lives by its wits. I am well named. When my
tribe gave me that name, it was just. All Injins have
not names. My great brother, who told us once that we
ought to take the scalp of every white man, but who now
tells us that we ought not to take the scalp of every white
man, has no name. He is called Peter, by the pale-faces.
It is a good name. But it is a pale-face name. I wish we
knew the real name of my brother. We do not know his
nation or his tribe. Some say he is an Ottawa, some an
Iowa, some even think him a Sioux. I have heard he
was a Delaware, from towards the rising sun. Some, but
they must be Injins with forked tongues, think and say he
is a Cherokee! I do not believe this. It is a lie. It is
said to do my brother harm. Wicked Injins will say such
things. But we do not mind what they say. It is not
necessary.
“My brothers, I wish we knew the tribe of this great
chief, who tells us to take scalps, and then tells us not to
us two stories. I believe all he says, but I should like to
know why I believe it. It is good to know why we believe
things. I have heard what my brother has said about letting
this bee-hunter go to his own people, but I do not
know why he believes this is best. It is because I am a
poor Injin, perhaps; and because I am called The Weasel.
I am an animal that creeps through small holes. That is
my nature. The bison jumps through open prairies, and
a horse is wanted to catch him. It is not so with the
weasel; he creeps through small holes. But he always
looks where he goes.
“The unknown chief, who belongs to no tribe, talks of
this bee-hunter's squaw. He is afraid of so great a medicine-man,
and wishes him to go, and take all in his wigwam
with him. He has no squaw. There is a young squaw in
his lodge, but she is not his squaw. There is no need of
letting her go, on his account. If we take her scalp, he
cannot hurt us. In that, my brother is wrong. The bees
have buzzed too near his ears. Weasels can hear, as well
as other animals; and I have heard that this young squaw
is not this bee-hunter's squaw.
“If Injins are to take the scalps of all the pale-faces,
why should we not begin with these who are in our hands.
When the knife is ready, and the head is ready, nothing
but the hand is wanting. Plenty of hands are ready, too;
and it does not seem good to the eyes of a poor, miserable
weasel, who has to creep through very small holes to catch
his game, to let that game go when it is taken. If my
great brother, who has told us not to scalp this bee-hunter
and her he calls his squaw, will tell us the name of his tribe,
I shall be glad. I am an ignorant Injin, and like to learn
all I can; I wish to learn that. Perhaps it will help us to
understand why he gave one counsel yesterday, and another
to-day. There is a reason for it. I wish to know what it
is.”
Ungque now slowly seated himself. He had spoken
with great moderation, as to manner; and with such an air
of humility as one of our own demagogues is apt to assume,
when he tells the people of their virtues, and seems
to lament the whole time that he, himself, was one of the
that he had a cunning competitor, and had a little difficulty
in suppressing all exhibition of the fiery indignation he
actually felt, at meeting opposition in such a quarter. Peter
was artful, and practised in all the wiles of managing men,
but he submitted to use his means to attain a great end.
The virtual extinction of the white race was his object,
and in order to effect it, there was little he would have
hesitated to do. Now, however, when for the first time in
many years, a glimmering of human feeling was shining on
the darkness of his mind, he found himself unexpectedly
opposed by one of those whom he had formerly found so
difficult to persuade into his own dire plans! Had that
one been a chief of any renown, the circumstances would
have been more tolerable; but here was a man, presuming
to raise his voice against him, who, so far as he knew anything
of his past career, had not a single claim to open his
mouth in such a council. With the volcano raging within,
that such a state of things would be likely to kindle in the
breast of a savage who had been for years a successful and
nearly unopposed leader, the mysterious chief rose to reply.
“My brother says he is a weasel,” observed Peter, looking
round at the circle of interested and grave countenances
by which he was surrounded. “That is a very small
animal. It creeps through very small holes, but not to do
good. It is good for nothing. When it goes through a
small hole, it is not to do the Injins a service, but for its
own purposes. I do not like weasels.
“My brother is not afraid of a bee-hunter. Can he tell
us what a bee whispers? If he can, I wish he would tell
us. Let him show our young men where there is more
honey—where they can find bear's meat for another feast
—where they can find warriors hid in the woods.
“My brother says the bee-hunter has no squaw. How
does he know this? Has he lived in the lodge with them
—paddled in the same canoe—eat of the same venison?
A weasel is very small. It might steal into the bee-hunter's
lodge, and see what is there, what is doing, what is eaten,
who is his squaw, and who is not — has this weasel ever
done so? I never saw him there.
“Brothers; the Great Spirit has his own way of doing
there are such animals—there are snakes, and toads, and
skunks. The Great Spirit knows them all, but he does not
mind them. He is wise, and hearkens only to his own
mind. So should it be with a council of great chiefs. It
should listen to its own mind. That is wisdom. To listen
to the mind of a weasel is folly.
“Brothers, you have been told that this weasel does not
know the tribe of which I am born. Why should you
know it? Injins once were foolish. While the pale-faces
were getting one hunting-ground after another from them,
they dug up the hatchet against their own friends. They
took each other's scalps. Injin hated Injin — tribe hated
tribe. I am of no tribe, and no one can hate me for my
people. You see my skin. It is red. That is enough.
I scalp, and smoke, and talk, and go on weary paths for all
Injins, and not for any tribe. I am without a tribe. Some
call me the Tribeless. It is better to bear that name, than
to be called a weasel. I have done.”
Peter had so much success by this argumentum ad hominem,
that most present fancied that the weasel would creep
through some hole, and disappear. Not so, however, with
Ungque. He was a demagogue, after an Indian fashion;
and this is a class of men that ever “make capital” of abuses,
as we Americans say, in our money-getting habits. Instead
of being frightened off the ground, he arose to answer as
promptly as if a practised debater, though with an air of
humility so profound, that no one could take offence at his
presumption.
“The unknown chief has answered,” he said. “I am
glad. I love to hear his words. My ears are always open
when he speaks, and my mind is stronger. I now see that
it is good he should not have a tribe. He may be a Cherokee,
and then our warriors would wish him ill.” This
was a home-thrust, most artfully concealed; a Cherokee
being the Indian of all others the most hated by the chiefs
present—the Carthaginians of those western Romans. “It
is better he should not have a tribe, than be a Cherokee.
He might better be a weasel.
“Brothers, we have been told to kill all the pale-faces.
I like that advice. The land cannot have two owners. If
a pale-face cannot. But the chief without a tribe tells us
not to kill all. He tells us to kill all but the bee-hunter
and his squaw. He thinks this bee-hunter is a medicine
bee-hunter, and may do us Injins great harm. He wishes
to let him go.
“Brothers, this is not my way of thinking. It is better
to kill the bee-hunter and his squaw while we can, that
there may be no more such medicine bee-hunters to frighten
us Injins. If one bee-hunter can do so much harm, what
would a tribe of bee-hunters do? I do not want to see any
more. It is a dangerous thing to know how to talk with
bees. It is best that no one should have that power. I
would rather never taste honey again, than live among pale-faces
that can talk with bees.
“Brothers, it is not enough that the pale-faces know so
much more than the red men, but they must get the bees
to tell them where to find honey, to find bears, to find warriors.
No; let us take the scalp of the bee-talker, and of
his squaw, that there may never be such a medicine again.
I have spoken.”
Peter did not rise again. He felt that his dignity was
involved in maintaining silence. Various chiefs now uttered
their opinions, in brief, sententious language. For
the first time since he began to preach his crusade, the
current was setting against the mysterious chief. The
Weasel said no more, but the hints he had thrown out were
improved on by others. It is with savages as with civilized
men; a torrent must find vent. Peter had the sagacity to
see that by attempting further to save le Bourdon and Margery,
he should only endanger his own ascendancy, without
effecting his purpose. Here he completely overlaid
the art of Ungque, turning his own defeat into an advantage.
After the matter had been discussed for fully an
hour, and this mysterious chief perceived that it was useless
to adhere to his new resolution, he gave it up with
as much tact as the sagacious Wellington himself could
manifest in yielding Catholic emancipation, or parliamentary
reform; or, just in season to preserve an appearance of
floating in the current, and with a grace that disarmed his
opponents.
“Brothers,” said Peter, by way of closing the debate,
“I have not seen straight. Fog sometimes gets before the
eyes, and we cannot see. I have been in a fog. The
breath of my brother has blown it away. I now see clearly.
I see that bee-hunters ought not to live. Let this one die
—let his squaw die, too!”
This terminated the discussion, as a matter of course.
It was solemnly decided that all the pale-faces then in the
Openings should be cut off. In acquiescing in this decision,
Peter had no mental reservations. He was quite sincere.
When, after sitting two hours longer, in order to
arrange still more important points, the council arose, it
was with his entire assent to the decision. The only power
he retained over the subject, was that of directing the details
of the contemplated massacre.
| CHAPTER VII. The oak openings, or, The bee-hunter | |