CHAPTER XXIII.
Why is that graceful female here
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 the coup de grace to youthful female
friendships. On the 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 elite 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 for Christian folk,
though a body may live on it. I miss 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 favorites 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, arid 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 buffalo'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 today."
"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 do. Now we are fairly among your
people, and on good 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."
"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 honor 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 chief they are
Jews."
"Don't care any t'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 Indian."
"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 just same--scalps just
same. Make no difference, and 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 into 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 toward 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, Chippewa, here I am, with my ears
wide open--stop, I've a bit of news, first, for your ears. Do you
know, Pigeonswing, my good fellow, that I am 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 honor."
"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 color, 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 serve le Bourdon, and how many or how few might
incidentally 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 color and origin within many miles of the spot. In a word,
Pigeons-wing 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 gayety, 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. Crowsfeather 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 comes 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. Ebbery body 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
favor. 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. It was to give warning of some
immediate danger, 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 background. 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 savory 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 deepened. He was fatigued and
hungry, and he ate for 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 color 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, and lead,
and blankets, and all you may want, unless it be 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 colored, but she took it in good part, and ran
up toward 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, 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, gayly--"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 says 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.
"Listen, hunter of the bee, the 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 good. It is not wise to let such words come
out again by 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, ail
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 color. The game knows an Injin by his color.
The tribes know him. Everything knows him by his color. He knows the
things which the Great Spirit has given him, 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 toward 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. Some such account I have
heard before; but living with 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 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 destructive to all the whites. The difficulty arose from a
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!
