 | CHAPTER VIII. The oak openings, or, The bee-hunter |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
With yon red hunter of the deer?
Of gentle mien and shape, she seems
For civil halls design'd;
Yet with the stately savage walks,
As she were of his kind.
Pinkney.
The family at Castle Meal saw nothing of any Indian
until the day that succeeded the council. Gershom and
Dorothy received the tidings of their sister's marriage with
very little emotion. It was an event they expected; and,
as for bride-cake and ceremonies, of one there was none
at all, and of the other no more than has been mentioned.
The relatives of Margery did not break their hearts on account
of the neglect with which they had been treated, but
received the young couple as if one had given her away,
and the other “had pulled off her glove,” as young ladies
now express it, in deference to the act that generally gives
Openings, neither time nor breath is wasted in useless
compliments; and all was held to be well done on this occasion,
because it was done legally. A question might
have been raised, indeed, whether that marriage had taken
place under the American, or under the English flag; for
General Hull, in surrendering Detroit, had included the
entire territory of Michigan, as well as troops present,
troops absent, and troops on the march to join him. Had
he been in possession of Peter's ruthless secret, which we
happen to know he was not, he could not have been more
anxious to throw the mantle of British authority around all
of his race on that remote frontier, than he proved himself
to be. Still, it is to be presumed that the marriage would
have been regarded as legal; conquered territories usually
preserving their laws and usages for a time, at least. A
little joking passed, as a matter of course; for this is de
rigueur in all marriages, except in the cases of the most
cultivated; and certainly neither the corporal nor Gershom
belonged to the eêlite of human society.
About the hour of breakfast Pigeonswing came in, as if
returning from one of his ordinary hunts. He brought
with him venison, as well as several wild ducks that he
had killed in the Kalamazoo, and three or four prairie
hens. The Chippewa never betrayed exultation at the
success of his exertions, but on this occasion he actually
appeared sad. Dorothy received his game, and as she took
the ducks and other fowls, she spoke to him.
“Thank you, Pigeonswing,” said the young matron.
“No pale-face could be a better provider, and many are
not one-half as good.”
“What provider mean, eh?” demanded the literal-minded
savage. “Mean good; mean bad, eh?”
“Oh! it means good, of course. I could say nothing
against a hunter who takes so good care of us all.”
“What he mean, den?”
“It means a man who keeps his wife and children well
supplied with food.”
“You get 'nough, eh?”
“I get enough, Pigeonswing, thanks to your industry,
such as it is. Injin diet, however, is not always the best
many things, out here in the Openings, to which I have
been used all the early part of my life.”
“What squaw miss, eh? P'raps Injin find him, sometime.”
“I thank you, Pigeonswing, with all my heart, and am
just as grateful for your good intentions, as I should be was
you to do all you wish. It is the mind that makes the
marcy, and not always the deed. But you can never find
the food of a pale-face kitchen out here in the Openings
of Michigan. When a body comes to reckon up all the
good things of Ameriky, she don't know where to begin, or
where to stop. I miss tea as much as anything. And milk
comes next. Then there's buckwheat and coffee—though
things may be found in the woods to make coffee of, but
tea has no substitute. Then, I like wheaten bread, and
butter, and potatoes, and many other such articles, that I
was used to all my life, until I came out here, close to sunset.
As for pies and custards, I can't bear to think of 'em,
now!”
Pigeonswing looked intently at the woman, as she carefully
enumerated her favourites among the dishes of her
home-kitchen. When she had ended, he raised a finger,
looked still more significantly at her, and said—
“Why don't go back, get all dem good t'ings? Better
for pale-face to eat pale-face food, and leave Injin, Injin
food.”
“For my part, Pigeonswing, I wish such had ever been
the law. Venison, and prairie fowls, and wild ducks, and
trout, and bear's meat, and wild pigeons, and the fish that
are to be found in these western rivers, are all good for them
that was brought up on 'em, but they tire an eastern palate
dreadfully. Give me roast beef any day before buffaloe's
hump, and a good barn-yard fowl before all the game-birds
that ever flew.”
“Yes; dat de way pale-face squaw feel. Bess go back,
and get what she like. Bess go quick as she can — go
to-day.”
“I'm in no such hurry, Pigeonswing, and I like these
Openings well enough to stay a while longer, and see what
all these Injins, that they tell me are about 'em, mean to
terms with them, it is wisest to stay where we are. These
are war-times, and travelling is dangerous, they tell me.
When Gershom and Bourdon are ready to start, I shall be
ready, too.”
“Bess get ready, now,” rejoined Pigeonswing; who,
having given this advice with point, as to manner, proceeded
to the spring, where he knelt and slaked his thirst.
The manner of the Chippewa was such as to attract the
attention of the missionary, who, full of his theory, imagined
that this desire to get rid of the whites was, in some
way or other, connected with a reluctance in the Indians
to confess themselves Jews. He had been quite as much
surprised as he was disappointed, with the backwardness
of the chiefs in accepting this tradition, and was now in a
state of mind that predisposed him to impute everything to
this one cause.
“I hope, Pigeonswing,” he said to the Chippewa, whom
he had followed to the spring—“I hope, Pigeonswing, that
no offence has been taken by the chiefs on account of what
I told them yesterday, concerning their being Jews. It is
what I think, and it is an honour to belong to God's chosen
people, and in no sense a disgrace. I hope no offence has
been taken on account of my telling the chiefs they are
Jews.”
“Don't care anyt'ing 'bout it,” answered the literal Indian,
rising from his kneeling position, and wiping his
mouth with the back of his hand. “Don't care wedder
Jew, or wedder Injin.”
“For my own part, gladly would I have it to say that I
am descended from Israel.”
“Why don't say him, if he make you grad. Good to be
grad. All Injin love to be grad.”
“Because I cannot say it with truth. No; I come of
the Gentiles, and not of the Hebrews, else would I glory
in saying I am a Jew, in the sense of extraction, though
not now in the sense of faith. I trust the chiefs will not
take offence at my telling them just what I think.”
“Tell you he don't care,” returned Pigeonswing, a little
crustily. “Don't care if Jew—don't care if Injin. Know
dat make no difference. Hunting-ground just same—game
don't care.”
“I am glad of this—but why did you advise Dorothy to
quit the Openings in the hasty manner you did, if all is
right with the chiefs? It is not good to start on a journey
without preparation and prayer. Why, then, did you give
this advice to Dorothy to quit the Openings so soon?”
“Bess for squaw to go home, when Injin dig up hatchet.
Openin' full of warrior—prairie full of warrior—wood full
of warrior. When dat so, bess for squaw to go home.”
“This would be true, were the Indians our enemies.
Heaven be praised, they are our friends, and will not harm
us. Peter is a great chief, and can make his young men
do what he tells them; and Peter is our friend. With Peter
to stand by us, and a merciful Providence to direct us
where, when, and how to go, we can have nothing to fear.
I trust in Divine Providence.”
“Who he be?” asked Pigeonswing, innocently, for his
knowledge of English did not extend far enough to comprehend
a phrase so complicated, though so familiar to ourselves.
“He know all paths, eh?”
“Yes; and directs us on all paths — more especially
such as are for our good.”
“Bess get him to tell you path in to Detroit. Dat good
path, now, for all pale-faces.”
On uttering this advice, which he did also somewhat
pointedly, the Chippewa left the spring, and walked towards
the kennel of Hive, where the bee-hunter was busy feeding
his old companion.
“You're welcome back, Pigeonswing,” the last cordially
remarked, without pausing in his occupation, however.
“I saw that you came in loaded, as usual. Have you left
any dead game in the Openings, for me to go and back in
with you?”
“You open ear, Bourdon—you know what Injin say,”
returned the Chippewa, earnestly. “When dog get 'nough
come wid me. Got somet'ing to tell. Bess hear it, when
he can hear it.”
“You'll find me ready enough in a minute. There,
Hive, my good fellow, that ought to satisfy any reasonable
dog, and I've never found you unreasonable, yet. Well,
a bit of news, first, for your ears. Do you know, Pigeonwing,
my good fellow, that I'm married?”
“Marry, eh? Got squaw, eh? Where you get him?”
“Here, to be sure—where else should I get her? There
is but one girl in these Openings that I would ask to be
my wife, and she has been asked, and answered, yes. Parson
Amen married us, yesterday, on our way in from Prairie
Round; so that puts me on a footing with yourself. When
you boast of your squaw that you've left in your wigwam,
I can boast of mine that I have here. Margery is a girl
to boast of, too!”
“Yes; good squaw, dat. Like dat squaw pretty well.
Nebber see better. Bess keep squaw alway in his own
wigwam.”
“Well, mine is in my own wigwam. Castle Meal is my
property, and she does it honour.”
“Dat an't what Injin mean. Mean dis. Bess have
wigwam at home, dere, where pale-face lives, and bess keep
squaw in dat wigwam. Where my squaw, eh? She home,
in my wigwam—take care of pappoose, hoe corn, and keep
ground good. So bess wid white squaw — bess home, at
work.”
“I believe I understand what you mean, Pigeon. Well,
home we mean to go, before the winter sets in, and when
matters have a little settled down between the English and
Yankees. It isn't safe travelling, just now, in Michigan—
you must own that yourself, my good fellow.”
The Indian appeared at a loss, now, how to express himself
further. On one side was his faith to his colour, and
his dread of Peter and the great chiefs; on the other, his
strong regard for the bee-hunter. He pondered a moment,
and then took his own manner of communicating that
which he wished to say. The fact that his friend was married
made no great difference in his advice, for the Indian
was much too shrewd an observer not to have detected the
bee-hunter's attachment. He had not supposed it possible
to separate his friend from the family of Gershom, though
he did suppose there would be less difficulty in getting him
to go on a path different from that which the missionary
and corporal might take. His own great purpose was to
profit by it he did not care. The truth compels
us to own, that even Margery's charms, and nature, and
warm-hearted interest in all around her, had failed to make
any impression on his marble-like feelings; while the bee-hunter's
habits, skill in his craft, and close connection with
himself at the mouth of the river, and more especially in
liberating him from his enemies, had united him in a comrade's
friendship with her husband. It was a little singular
that this Chippewa did not fall into Peter's superstitious
dread of the bee-hunter's necromancy, though he was
aware of all that had passed the previous day on the prairie.
Either on account of his greater familiarity with le Bourdon's
habits, or because he was in the secret of the trick
of the whiskey-spring, or from a closer knowledge of white
men and their ways, this young Indian was freer from apprehensions
of this nature, perhaps, than any one of the
same colour and origin within many miles of the spot. In
a word, Pigeonswing regarded the bee-hunter as his friend,
while he looked upon the other pale-faces as so many persons
thrown by accident in his company. Now that Margery
had actually become his friend's squaw, his interest in
her was somewhat increased; though she had never obtained
that interest in his feelings, that she had awakened
in the breast of Peter, by her attentions to him, her gentleness,
light-hearted gaiety, and womanly care, and all without
the least design on her own part.
“No,” answered the Chippewa, after a moment's reflection,
“no very safe for Yankee, or Yankee Injin. Don't
t'ink my scalp very safe, if chief know'd I'm Yankee
runner. Bess alway to keep scalp safe. Dem Pottawattamie
I take care not to see. Know all about 'em, too.
Know what he say—know what he do—b'lieve I know what
he t'ink.”
“I did not see you, Pigeon, among the red young men,
yesterday, out on Prairie Round.”
“Know too much to go dere. Crowsfeader and Pottawattamie
out dere. Bess not go near dem when dey have
eye open. Take 'em asleep. Dat bess way wid sich Injin.
Catch 'em some time! But your ear open, Bourdon?”
“Wide open, my good friend—what have you to whisper
in it?”
“You look hard at Peter when he come in. If he t'ink
good deal, and don't say much, when he do speak, mind
what he say. If he smile, and very much friend, must hab
his scalp.”
“Chippewa, Peter is my friend, lives in my cabin, and
eats of my bread! The hand that touches him, touches
me.”
“Which bess, eh — his scalp, or your'n? If he very
much friend when he come in, his scalp muss come off, or
your'n. Yes, juss so. Dat de way. Know Injin better
dan you know him, Bourdon. You good bee-hunter, but
poor Injin. Ebberybody hab his way — Injin got his.
Peter laugh and very much friend, when he come home,
den he mean to hab your scalp. If don't smile, and don't
seem very much friend, but look down, and t'ink, t'ink,
t'ink, den he no mean to hurt you, but try to get you out
of hand of chiefs. Dat all.”
As Pigeonswing concluded, he walked coolly away,
leaving his friend to ruminate on the alternative of scalp
or no scalp! The bee-hunter now understood the Chippewa
perfectly. He was aware that this man had means
of his own to ascertain what was passing around him in
the Openings, and he had the utmost confidence in his integrity
and good wishes. If a red man is slow to forget
an injury, he never forgets a favour. In this he was as unlike
as possible to most of the pale-faces who were supplanting
his race, for these last had, and have, as extraordinary
a tenacity in losing sight of benefits, as they have in
remembering wrongs.
By some means or other, it was now clear that Pigeonswing
foresaw that a crisis was at hand. Had le Bourdon
been as disconnected and solitary as he was when he first
met the Chippewa, it is not probable that either the words
or the manner of his friend, would have produced much
impression on him, so little accustomed was he to dwell on
the hazards of his frontier position. But the case was now
altogether changed. Margery and her claims stood foremost
in his mind; and through Margery came Dolly and
her husband. There was no mistaking Pigeonswing's intention.
and a danger that, in some way, was connected with the
deportment of Peter. It was easy enough to comprehend
the allusions to the mysterious chief's smiles and melancholy;
and the bee-hunter understood that he was to watch
that Indian's manner, and take the alarm or bestow his
confidence, accordingly.
Le Bourdon was not left long in doubt. Peter arrived
about half-an-hour after Pigeonswing had gone to seek his
rest; and from the instant he came in sight, our hero discerned
the thoughtful eye and melancholy manner. These
signs were still more obvious when the tribeless Indian
came nearer; so obvious, indeed, as to strike more than
one of those who were interested observers of all that this
extraordinary being said and did. Among others, Margery
was the first to see this change, and the first to let it influence
her own manner. This she did, notwithstanding
le Bourdon had said nothing to her on the subject, and in
defiance of the bashful feelings of a bride; which, under
circumstances less marked, might have induced her to keep
more in the back-ground. As Peter stopped at the spring
to quench his thirst, Margery was, in truth, the first to approach
and to speak to him.
“You seem weary, Peter,” said the young wife, somewhat
timidly as to voice and air, but with a decided and
honest manifestation of interest in what she was about.
Nor had Margery gone empty-handed. She took with her
a savoury dish, one of those that the men of the woods
love—meat cooked in its own juices, and garnished with
several little additions, that her skill in the arts of civilized
life enabled her to supply.
“You seem tired, Peter, and if I did not fear to say it,
I should tell you that you also seem sad,” said Margery, as
she placed her dish on a rude table that was kept at the
spot, for the convenience of those who seldom respected
hours, or regularity of any sort in their meals. “Here is
food that you like, which I have cooked with my own
hands.”
The Indian looked intently at the timid and charming
young creature, who came forward thus to contribute to his
comforts, and the saddened expression of his countenance
some time without speaking, beyond uttering a brief expression
of his thanks. When his appetite was appeased,
however, and she who had so sedulously attended to his
wants was about to remove the remains of the dish, he
signed with his finger for her to draw nearer, intimating
that he had something to say. Margery obeyed, without
hesitation, though the colour flitted in her face like the
changes in an evening sky. But so much good will and
confidence had been awakened between these two, that a
daughter would not have drawn near to a father with more
confidence than Margery stood before Peter.
“Medicine-man do what I tell him, young squaw, eh?”
demanded Peter, smiling slightly, and for the first time
since they had met.
“By medicine-man do you mean Mr. Amen, or Bourdon?”
the bride asked in her turn, her whole face reflecting
the confusion she felt, scarcely knowing why.
“Bot'. One medicine-man say his prayer; t'odder
medicine-man take young squaw's hand, and lead her into
his wigwam. Dat what I mean.”
“I am married to Bourdon,” returned Margery, dropping
her eyes to the ground, “if that be what you wish to
know. I hope you think I shall have a good husband,
Peter?”
“Hope so, too—nebber know till time come. All good
for little while—Injin good, squaw good. Juss like weadder.
Sometime rain — sometime storm — sometime sunshine.
Juss so wid Injin, juss so wid pale-face. No difference.
All same. You see dat cloud? — he little now; but let
wind blow, he grow big, and you see nuttin' but cloud.
Let him have plenty of sunshine, and he go away; den all
clear over head. Dat bess way to live wid husband.”
“And that is the way which Bourdon and I will always
live together. When we get back among our own people,
Peter, and are living comfortably in a pale-face wigwam,
with pale-face food, and pale-face drinks, and all the other
good things of pale-face housekeeping about us, then I hope
you will come and see how happy we are, and pass some
time with us. Every year I wish you to come and see us,
and to bring us venison, and Bourdon will give you powder,
fire-water. Fire-water he has promised never again to give
to an Injin.”
“No find any more whiskey-spring, eh?” demanded
Peter, greatly interested in the young woman's natural and
warm-hearted manner of proposing her hospitalities. “So
bess—so bess. Great curse for Injin. Plenty honey, no
fire-water. All dat good. And I come, if—”
Here Peter stopped, nor could all Margery's questions
induce him to complete the sentence. His gaze at the
earnest countenance of the bride was such as to give her
an indefinite sort of uneasiness, not to say a feeling of
alarm. Still no explanation passed between them. Margery
remained near Peter for some time, administering to his
wants, and otherwise demeaning herself much as a daughter
might have done. At length le Bourdon joined them. The
salutations were friendly, and the manner in which the
mysterious chief regarded the equally mysterious bee-hunter,
was not altogether without a certain degree of awe.
Boden perceived this, and was not slow to comprehend
that he owed this accession of influence to the scene which
had occurred on the prairie.
“Is the great council ended, Peter?” asked the bee-hunter,
when the little interval of silence had been observed.
“Yes, it over. No more council, now, on Prairie
Round.”
“And the chiefs — have they all gone on their proper
paths? What has become of my old acquaintance, Crowsfeather?—and
all the rest of them — Bear's Meat, in particular?”
“All gone. No more council, now. Agree what to do,
and so go away.”
“But are red men always as good as their words? — do
they perform always what they promise?”
“Sartain — Ebbery man ought do what he say. Dat
Injin law—no pale-face law, eh?”
“It may be the law, Peter, and a very good law it is;
but we white men do not always mind our own laws.”
“Dat bad—Great Spirit don't like dat,” returned Peter,
looking grave, and slowly shaking his head. “Dat very
bad. When Injin say he do it, den he do it, if he can.
If can't, no help for it. Send squaw away, now, Bourdon
— bess not to let squaw hear what men say, or will
always want to hear.”
Le Bourdon laughed, as he turned to Margery and repeated
these words. The young wife coloured, but she
took it in good part, and ran up towards the palisaded
lodge, like one who was glad to be rid of her companions.
Peter waited a few moments, then turning his head slowly
in all directions, to make sure of not being overheard, he
began to lay open his mind.
“You been on Prairie Round, Bourdon—you see Injin
dere—chief, warrior, young men, hunter, all dere.”
“I saw them all, Peter, and a goodly sight it was—what
between paint, and medals, and bows and arrows, and
tomahawks, and all your bravery!”
“You like to see him, eh? — Yes; he fine t'ing to look
at. Well, dat council call togedder by me—you know dat,
too, Bourdon?”
“I have heard you say that such was your intention, and
I suppose you did it, chief. They tell me you have great
power among your own people, and that they do very much
as you tell them to do.”
Peter looked graver than ever at this remark; and one
of his startling gleams of ferocity passed over his dark
countenance. Then he answered with his customary self-command.
“Sometime, so,” he said; “sometime, not so. Yesterday,
not so. Dere is chief dat want to put Peter under
his foot! He try, but he no do it! I know Peter well,
and know dat chief, too.”
“This is news to me, Peter, and I am surprised to hear
it. I did think that even the great Tecumthe was scarcely
as big a chief as you are, yourself.”
“Yes, pretty big chief; dat true. But, among Injin,
ebbery man can speak, and nebber know which way council
go. Sometime, he go one way; sometime, he go tudder.
You hear Bough of Oak speak, Bourdon, eh? Tell me
dat?”
“You will remember that I heard none of your speakers
on Prairie Round, Peter. I do not remember any such
orator as this Bough of Oak.”
“He great rascal,” said Peter, who had picked up some
of the garrison expressions among those from whom he acquired
the knowledge of English he possessed, such as it
was. “Listen, Bourdon. Nebber bess stand too much in
Peter's way.”
The bee-hunter laughed freely at this remark; for his
own success the previous day, and the impression he had
evidently made on that occasion, emboldened him to take
greater liberties with the mysterious chief than had been
his wont.
“I should think that, Peter,” cried the young man,
gaily—“ I should think all that. For one, I should choose
to get out of it. The path you travel is your own, and all
wise men will leave you to journey along it in your own
fashion.”
“Yes; dat bess way,” answered the great chief, with
admirable simplicity. “Don't like, when he say yes, to hear
anudder chief say no. Dat an't good way to do business.”
These were expressions caught from the trading whites,
and were often used by those who got their English from
them. “I tell you one t'ing, Bourdon—dat Bough of Oak
very foolish Injin if he put foot on my path.”
“This is plain enough, Peter,” rejoined le Bourdon, who
was unconcernedly repairing some of the tools of his ordinary
craft. “By the way, I am greatly in your debt, I
learn, for one thing. They tell me I've got my squaw in
my wigwam a good deal sooner, by your advice, than I
might have otherwise done. Margery is now my wife, I
suppose you know; and I thank you heartily, for helping
me to get married so much sooner than I expected to be.”
Here Peter grasped Bourdon by the hand, and poured
out his whole soul, secret hopes, fears, and wishes. On
this occasion he spoke in the Indian dialect—one of those
that he knew the bee-hunter understood. And we translate
what he said freely into English, preserving as much
of the original idiom as the change of language will permit.
“Listeu, hunter of the bee, and great medicine of the
pale-faces, and hear what a chief that knows the red men
is about to tell you. Let my words go into your ears; let
them stay in your mind. They are words that will do you
the hole through which they have just entered.
“My young friend knows our traditions. They do not
tell us that the Injins were Jews; they tell us that the Manitou
created them red men. They tell us that our fathers
used these hunting-grounds ever since the earth was placed
on the back of the big tortoise which upholds it. The
pale-faces say the earth moves. If this be true, it moves
as slowly as the tortoise walks. It cannot have gone far
since the Great Spirit lifted his hand off it. If it move,
the hunting-grounds move with it, and the tribes move
with their own hunting-grounds. It may be that some of
the pale-faces are lost, but no Injin is lost—the medicine-priest
is mistaken. He has looked so often in his book,
that he sees nothing but what is there. He does not see
what is before his eyes, at his side, behind his back, all
around him. I have known such Injins. They see but
one thing; even the deer jump across their paths, and are
not seen.
“Such are our traditions. They tell us that this land
was given to the red men, and not to pale-faces. That
none but red men have any right to hunt here. The Great
Spirit has laws. He has told us these laws. They teach
us to love our friends, and to hate our enemies. You don't
believe this, Bourdon?” observing the bee-hunter to wince
a little, as if he found the doctrine bad.
“This is not what our priests tell us,” answered le Bourdon.
“They tell us that the white man's God commands
us to love all alike—to do good to our enemies, to love them
that wish us harm, and to treat all men as we would wish
men to treat us.”
Peter was a good deal surprised at this doctrine, and it
was nearly a minute before he resumed the discourse. He
had recently heard it several times, and it was slowly working
its way into his mind.
“Such are our traditions, and such are our laws. Look
at me. Fifty winters have tried to turn my hair white.
Time can do that. The hair is the only part of an Injin
that ever turns white; all the rest of him is red. That is
his colour. The game know an Injin by his colour. The
tribes know him. Everything knows him by his colour.
in the same way. He gets used to them, and they are his
acquaintances. He does not like strange things. He does
not like strangers. White men are strangers, and he does
not like to see them on his hunting-ground. If they come
singly, to kill a few buffaloes, or to look for honey, or to
catch beaver, the Injins would not complain. They love
to give of their abundance. The pale-faces do not come
in this fashion. They do not come as guests; they come
as masters. They come and they stay. Each year of
my fifty have I heard of new tribes that have been driven
by them towards the setting sun.
“Bourdon, for many seasons I have thought of this. I
have tried to find a way to stop them. There is but one.
That way must the Injins try, or give up their hunting-grounds
to the strangers. No nation likes to give up its
hunting-grounds. They come from the Manitou, and one
day he may ask to have them back again. What could the
red men say, if they let the pale-faces take them away.
No; this we cannot do. We will first try the one thing
that is to be done.”
“I believe I understand you, Peter,” observed le Bourdon,
finding that his companion paused. “You mean war.
War, in the Injin mode of redressing all wrongs; war
against man, woman, and child!”
Peter nodded in acquiescence, fixing his glowing eyes
on the bee-hunter's face, as if to read his soul.
“Am I to understand, then, that you and your friends,
the chiefs and their followers, that I saw on Prairie Round,
mean to begin with us, half-a-dozen whites, of whom two
are women, who happen to be here in your power—that
our scalps are to be the first taken?”
“First!—no, Bourdon. Peter's hand has taken a great
many, years since. He has got a name for his deeds, and
no longer dare go to the white men's forts. He does not
look for Yankees, he looks for pale-faces. When he meets
a pale-face on the prairies, or in the woods, he tries to get
his scalp. This has he done for years, and many has he
taken.”
“This is a bloody account you are giving of yourself,
Peter, and I would rather you should not have told it.
you, and eating, and drinking, and sleeping, and travelling
in your company, I had not only hoped, but begun to think,
it was not true.”
“It is true. My wish is to cut off the pale-faces. This
must be done, or the pale-faces will cut off the Injins.
There is no choice. One nation or the other must be
destroyed. I am a red man; my heart tells me that the
pale-faces should die. They are on strange hunting-grounds,
not the red men. They are wrong, we are right.
But, Bourdon, I have friends among the pale-faces, and it
is not natural to scalp our friends. I do not understand a
religion that tells us to love our enemies, and to do good
to them that do harm to us—it is a strange religion. I am
a poor Injin, and do not know what to think! I shall not
believe that any do this, till I see it. I understand that
we ought to love our friends. Your squaw is my daughter.
I have called her daughter—she knows it, and my tongue
is not forked, like a snake's. What it says, I mean. Once
I meant to scalp your young squaw, because she was a
pale-face squaw, and might be the mother of more. Now
I do not mean to scalp her; my hand shall never harm her.
My wisdom shall tell her how to escape from the hands of
red men who seek her scalp. You, too; now you are her
husband, and are a great medicine-man of the bees, my
hand shall not hurt you, either. Open your ears wide, for
big truths must go into them.”
Peter then related in full his attempt to procure a safe
passage for le Bourdon and Margery into the settlements,
and its total failure. He owned that by his previous combinations
he had awakened a spirit among the Indians that
his present efforts could not quell. In a word, he told the
whole story as it must have been made apparent to the
reader, and he now came with his plans to defeat the very
schemes that he had himself previously projected. One
thing, however, that he did not conceal, filled the mind of
his listener with horror, and created so strong an aversion
to acting in concert with one who could even allude to it
so coolly, that there was danger of breaking off all communications
between the parties, and placing the result
purely on force; a course that must have proved totally
naive confession of Peter's, that he did not even wish to
save any but le Bourdon and Margery, and that he still
desired the deaths of all the others, himself!
| CHAPTER VIII. The oak openings, or, The bee-hunter | |