CHAPTER XXII.
No shrift the gloomy savage brooks,
As scowling on the priest he looks;
Cowesass--cowesass--tawkich wessasseen!
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 labored 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 "Opening" on its
margin, where the eye could roam over 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 there
are three less now than there were a moon since. Crowsfeather took
three at Chicago. Many scalps were taken there. The Yankees 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 Pottawatttamies. We are not lost; we are not
Jews. I have done."
This speech was received with general favor. 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
Crows-feather, 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 was an Injin, and
my mother was the daughter of an Injin. 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 color. Were the color
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 warpath, 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 color. At first, it is little. The pappoose that
wears it is little. There is not 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 the deer of the Menomenees. Each tribe knows
its 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 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 someone 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 of his thoughts had to
be a little suppressed before he 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 colored men differently. His dearest
children he painted red, which is his own color. Them that he loved
less he colored less, and they had red only in spots. Them he loved
least he dipped in a dark dye, and left them black. These are the
colors 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 toward
the rising sun. They have looked so long toward 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 afterward, nothing but bones are found. All
else is gone. I have heard old men say that, in time, even these
bones are not to be found. It is so with trees; it may be so with
men. But it is not so with hunting-grounds. They were made to last
forever.
"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 the 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 get
back all our hunting-grounds. This is what I wish to 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. When we get back
all the land, we shall get the bees with 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 favor. 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 on his passions
and wishes, that he did not immediately arise, with the impetuous
ardor 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 can not 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, because they think they are acting "in
character," as it is 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 stubborn. All this the
mean-looking chief, or the Weasel, understood perfectly, and
appreciated highly. He thought the moment favorable, 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 toward 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 take scalps. Then
we might understand why he has told 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 meanest of the great human family. Peter saw, at
once, 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 a 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 things. He does
not stop to listen to weasels. He knows 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 owns it, an
Injin cannot. If an Injin owns it, 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.
