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 nowour province to return to Prairie Round. One accustomed to suchscenes would easily have detected the signs of divided opinions and ofagitating doubts among the chiefs, though nothing like contention ordispute had yet manifested itself. Peter's control was still in theascendant, and he had neglected none of his usual means of securinginfluence. Perhaps he labored so much the harder, from the circumstancethat he now found himself so situated, as to be compelled to undo muchthat he had previously done.
On the other hand, Ungque appeared to have no particular cause ofconcern. His manner was as much unoccupied as usual; and to his habit ofreferring 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 notexactly 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 naturalmeadow, while the body enjoyed the shades of the wood. The chiefs alonewere in the circle, while the "braves" and the "young men" generallyformed a group on the outside; near enough to hear what passed, and toprofit by it, if so disposed. The pipe was smoked, and all the ordinarycustoms observed, when Bear's Meat arose, the first speaker on thatmomentous occasion.
"Brothers," he said, "this is the great council on Prairie Round towhich we have been called. We have met before, but not here. This is ourfirst meeting here. We have travelled a long path to get here. Someof our brethren have travelled farther. They are at Detroit. They wentthere to meet our great Canada father, and to take Yankee scalps. Howmany scalps they have taken I do not know, or I would tell you. It ispleasant to me to count Yankee scalps. I would rather count them, thancount the scalps of red men. There are still a great many left. TheYankees are many, and each Yankee has a scalp. There should not be somany. When the buffaloes came in the largest droves, our fathers used togo out to hunt them in the strongest parties. Their sons should do thesame. We are the sons of those fathers. They say we look like them, talklike 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'scalling 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 toarrange his thoughts, Crowsfeather assumed the office of filling thegap. He was far more of a warrior than of an orator, and was listenedto respectfully, but less for what he said, than for what he had done.A good deal of Indian boasting, quite naturally, was blended with HISdiscourse.
"My brother has told you of the Yankee scalps," he commenced. "He saysthey are many. He says there ought to be fewer. He did not remember whosat so near him. Perhaps he does not know that there are three less nowthan there were a moon since. Crowsfeather took three at Chicago. Manyscalps were taken there. The Yankees must be plentier than the buffaloeson the great prairies, if they can lose so many scalps often, and sendforth 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 thepaths, 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 beas likely to lose itself as a Pottawattamie. I do not speak for theOttawas: I speak for the Pottawattamies. We are not Jews. We do not wishto be Jews; and what we do not wish to be, we will not be. Our fatherwho has come so far to tell us that we are not Injins, but Jews, ismistaken. I never heard of these Jews before. I do not wish to hear ofthem again. When a man has heard enough, he does not keep his earsopen willingly. It is then best for the speaker to sit down. ThePottawattamies have shut their ears to the great medicine-priest of thepale-faces. What he says may be true of other tribes, but it is not trueof the Pottawatttamies. We are not lost; we are not Jews. I have done."
This speech was received with general favor. The notion that the Indianswere not Indians, but Jews, was far from being agreeable to thosewho had heard what had been said on the subject; and the opinions ofCrowsfeather possessed the great advantage of reflecting the commonsentiment on this interesting subject. When this is the case, a verylittle eloquence or logic goes a great way; and, on the whole, theaddress of the last speaker was somewhat better received than that ofthe first.
It was now confidently believed that Peter would rise. But he didnot. That mysterious chief was not yet prepared to speak, or he wasjudiciously exciting expectation by keeping back. There were at leastten minutes of silent smoking, ere a chief, whose name rendered intoEnglish was Bough of the Oak, arose, evidently with a desire to helpthe time along. Taking his cue from the success of Crows-feather, hefollowed up the advantage obtained by that chief, assailing the theoryof the missionary from another quarter.
"I am an Injin," said Bough of the Oak; "my father was an Injin, and mymother 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 mybrother, 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. Myskin is red. The Manitou of my fathers so painted it, and their childwill not try to wash out the color. Were the color washed out of myface, I should be a pale-face! There would not be paint enough to hidemy shame. No; I was born red, and will die a red man. It is not good tohave two faces. An Injin is not a snake, to cast his skin. The skin inwhich he was born he keeps. He plays in it when a child; he goes in itto his first hunt; the bears and the deer know him by it; he carries itwith him on the warpath, and his enemies tremble at the sight of it; hissquaw knows him by that skin when he comes back to his wigwam; and whenhe dies, he is put aside in the same skin in--which he was born. Thereis but one skin, and it has but one color. At first, it is little. Thepappoose 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 skinaround him. This is because the Great Spirit fitted it to him. Whateverthe Manitou does is good.
"My brothers have squaws--they have pappooses. When the pappoose is putinto their arms, do they get the paint-stones, and paint it red? They donot. 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 onlyknow what I see. I have seen that the pappooses are red when they areborn, and that the warriors are red when they die. They are alsored while living. It is enough. Their fathers could never have beenpale-faces, or we should find some white spots on their children. Thereare none.
"Crowsfeather has spoken of the Jews as lost. I am not surprised to hearit. It seems to me that all pale-faces get lost. They wander fromtheir own hunting-grounds into those of other people. It is not so withInjins. The Pottawattamie does not kill the deer of the Iowa, nor theOttawa the deer of the Menomenees. Each tribe knows its own game. Thisis because they are not lost. My pale-face father appears to wish uswell. 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 wishto do me harm I strike from behind. It is our Injin custom. I do notwish to hurt the medicine-priest, because I think he wishes to do megood, and not to do me harm. He has a strange law. It is to do good tothem that do harm to you. It is not the law of the red men. It is notgood law. I do not wonder that the tribes which follow such a law getlost. They cannot tell their friends from their enemies. They can haveno people to scalp. What is a warrior if he cannot find someone toscalp? No; such a law would make women of the bravest braves in theOpenings, or on the prairie. It may be a good law for Jews,
who getlost; 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 recentlybroached in the council, seemed to give infinite satisfaction. Allpresent evidently preferred being red men, who knew where they were,than to be pale-faces who had lost their road. Ignorance of his path isa species of disgrace to an American savage, and not a man there wouldhave confessed that his particular division of the great human familywas in that dilemma. The idea that the Yankees were "lost," and had gotmaterially astray, was very grateful to most who heard it; and Bough ofthe Oak gained a considerable reputation as an orator, in consequence ofthe lucky hits made on this occasion.
Another long, ruminating pause, and much passing of the pipe of peacesucceeded. It was near half an hour after the last speaker had resumedhis seat, ere Peter stood erect. In that long interval expectation hadtime to increase, and curiosity to augment itself. Nothing but a verygreat event could cause this pondering, this deliberation, and thisunwillingness to begin. When, however, the time did come for themysterious chief to speak, the man of many scalps to open his mouth,profound was the attention that prevailed among all present. Even afterhe had arisen, the orator stood silently looking around him, as if thethroes of his thoughts had to be a little suppressed before he couldtrust 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 outermostboundaries of the circle of admiring and curious countenances. "It isone plain adjoining another; river after river; lake after lake; prairietouching prairie; and pleasant woods, that seem to have no limits, allgiven to men to dwell in. It would seem that the Great Spirit parcelledout this rich possession into hunting-grounds for all. He colored mendifferently. His dearest children he painted red, which is his owncolor. Them that he loved less he colored less, and they had red only inspots. 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 notlost. We know where we are, and we know where the Yankees have come toseek 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 befound, and when they will again turn their eyes toward the rising sun.They have looked so long toward the setting sun, that they cannot seeclearly. It is not good to look too long at the same object. The Yankeeshave looked at our hunting-grounds, until their eyes are dim. They seethe hunting-grounds, but they do not see all the warriors that are inthem. In time, they will learn to count them.
"Brothers, when the Great Spirit made man, he put him to live on theearth. 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 happyhunting-grounds, his body becomes clay again. I do not say that this isso, for I do not know. It is not good to say that which we do notknow to be true. I wish to speak only the truth. This we do know. If awarrior die, and we put him in the earth, and come to look for him manyyears afterward, nothing but bones are found. All else is gone. I haveheard 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 withhunting-grounds. They were made to last forever.
"Brothers, you know why we have come together on this prairie. It wasto count the pale-faces, and to think of the way of making their numberless. Now is a good time for such a thing. They have dug up the hatchetagainst each other, and when we hear of scalps taken among them, itis good for the red men. I do not think our Canada father is more ourfriend than the great Yankee, Uncle Sam. It is true, he gives us morepowder, and blankets, and tomahawks, and rifles than the Yankee, but itis to get us to fight his battles. We will fight his battles. They areour battles, too. For this reason we will fight his enemies.
"Brothers, it is time to think of our children. A wise chief once toldme how many winters it is since a pale-face was first seen among redmen. It was not a great while ago. Injins are living who have seenInjins, 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 asthe children of the pale-faces. Brothers, all this has happened withinthe lives of three aged chiefs. One told to another, and he told it to athird. Three chiefs have kept that tradition. They have given it tome. I have cut notches on this stick (holding up a piece of ash, neatlytrimmed, as a record) for the winters they told me, and every wintersince I have cut one more. See; there are not many notches. Some of ourpeople say that the pale-faces are already plentier than leaves on thetrees. I do not believe this. These notches tell us differently. It istrue the pale-faces grow fast, and have many children, and small-poxdoes not kill many of them, and their wars are few; but look at thisstick. Could a canoe-full of men become as many as they say, in so fewwinters? No; it is not so. The stories we have heard are not true. Acrooked tongue first told them. We are strong enough still to drivethese strangers into the great salt lake, and get back all ourhunting-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 beforealluded, passed athwart the dark countenance of the speaker, causingall 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 isnow twenty winters since I took the scalp of a red man. I shall nevertake another. We want all of our own warriors, to drive back thestrangers.
"Brothers, some Injins tell us of different tribes. They talk aboutdistant tribes as strangers. I tell you we are all children of the samefather. 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 signsof dissatisfaction were manifested by several of the listeners; partiesof the tribes of the great lakes having actually marched as far asthe Gulf of Mexico to make war on the Indians of that region, who weregenerally hated by them with the most intense hatred. "He has the bloodof our fathers in him. We are brothers, and should live together asbrothers. If we want scalps, the pale-faces have plenty. It is sweet totake 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 havetaken, few of these strangers would now remain.
"Brothers, one thing more I have to say. I wish to hear others, and willnot tell all I know this time. One thing more I have to say, and Inow say it. I have told you that we must take the scalps of all thepale-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 onlysix. Six scalps are not many. I am sorry they are so few. But we can gowhere there will be more. One of these six is a medicine-man. I do notknow 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 cando. He knows how to talk with bees. Them little insects can fly intosmall places, and see things that Injins cannot see. The Great Spiritmade them so. When we get back all the land, we shall get the bees withit, 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 losehis scalp, and small-pox took off half the band that made him prisonerand killed him. It is not good to meddle with medicine-men. A few daysago, and I wanted this young man's scalp, very much. Now, I do not wantit. It may do us harm to touch it. I wish to let him go, and to take hissquaw with him. The rest we can scalp."
Peter cunningly made no allusion to Margery, until just before heresumed his seat, though now deeply interested in her safety. As
for leBourdon, so profound was the impression he had made that morning, thatfew of the chiefs were surprised at the exemption proposed in his favor.The superstitious dread of witchcraft is very general among the Americansavages; and it certainly did seem to be hazardous to plot the deathof a man, who had even the bees that were humming on all sides of themunder his control. He might at that very moment be acquainted with allthat was passing; and several of the grim-looking and veteran warriorswho sat in the circle, and who appeared to be men able and willing toencounter aught human, did not fail to remember the probability of amedicine-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 whowas resolved to oppose his design of placing Boden and Margery withoutthe pale of the condemned. Several were undecided, scarce knowing whatto think of so sudden and strange a proposition, but could not be saidto 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 hasbeen said, and was inclined to oppose all his plans, though compelled bypolicy to be exceedingly cautious how he did it. Here, however, was anexcellent opportunity to strike a blow, and he was determined not toneglect it. Still, so wily was this Indian, so much accustomed to put arestraint on his passions and wishes, that he did not immediately arise,with the impetuous ardor of frank impulses, to make his reply, butawaited 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 ofthe Oak was to supply a proof of this truth. He had been so unexpectedlysuccessful in his late attempt at eloquence, that it was not easy tokeep him off his feet, now that another good occasion to exhibit hispowers offered. He was accordingly the next to speak.
"My brothers," said Bough of the Oak, "I am named after a tree. You allknow that tree. It is not good for bows or arrows; it is not good forcanoes; it does not make the best fire, though it will burn, and is hotwhen well lighted. There are many things for which the tree after whichI am named is not good. It is not good to eat. It has no sap that Injinscan drink, like the maple. It does not make good brooms. But it hasbranches 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, orthe 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 mindis made up, I wish to keep it where it was first put. My mind has beenmade up to take the scalps of ALL the pale-faces who are now in theOpenings. I do not want to change it. My mind can break, but it can notbend. It is tough."
Having uttered this brief but sententious account of his view of thematter at issue, the chief resumed his seat, reasonably well satisfiedwith this, his second attempt to be eloquent that day. His successthis time was not as unequivocal as on the former occasion, but itwas respectable. Several of the chiefs saw a reasonable, if not a verylogical analogy, between a man's name and his mind; and to them itappeared a tolerably fair inference that a man should act up to hisname. If his name was tough, he ought to be tough, too. In this it doesnot strike us that they argued very differently from civilized beings,who are only too apt to do that which their better judgments reallycondemn, because they think they are acting "in character," as it istermed.
Ungque was both surprised and delighted with this unexpected supportfrom Bough of the Oak. He knew enough of human nature to understandthat a new-born ambition, that of talking against the great, mysteriouschief, Peter, was at the bottom of this unexpected opposition; butwith this he was pleased, rather than otherwise. An opposition thatis founded in reason, may always be reasoned down, if reasons existtherefor; but an opposition that has its rise in any of the passions,is usually somewhat stubborn. All this the mean-looking chief, or theWeasel, understood perfectly, and appreciated highly. He thought themoment favorable, and was disposed to "strike while the iron was hot."Rising after a decent interval had elapsed, this wily Indian lookedabout him, as if awed by the presence in which he stood, and doubtfulwhether he could venture to utter his thoughts before so many wisechiefs. Having made an impression by this air of diffidence, hecommenced his harangue.
"I am called the Weasel," he said, modestly. "My name is not taken fromthe mightiest tree of the forest, like that of my brother; it is takenfrom 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 ofevery white man, but WHO now tells us that we ought not to take thescalp of every white man, has no name. He is called Peter, by thepale-faces. It is a good name. But it is a pale-face name. I wish weknew the real name of my brother. We do not know his nation or histribe. Some say he is an Ottawa, some an Iowa, some even think him aSioux. 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 isa Cherokee! I do not believe this. It is a lie. It is said to do mybrother harm. Wicked Injins will say such things. But we do not mindwhat THEY say. It is not necessary.
"My brothers, I wish we knew the tribe of this great chief, who tellsus to take scalps, and then tells us not to take scalps. Then we mightunderstand why he has told us two stories. I believe all he says, but Ishould like to know WHY I believe it. It is good to know why we believethings. I have heard what my brother has said about letting thisbee-hunter go to his own people, but I do not know why he believes thisis best. It is because I am a poor Injin, perhaps; and because I amcalled the Weasel. I am an animal that creeps through small holes. Thatis my nature. The bison jumps through open prairies, and a horse iswanted to catch him. It is not so with the weasel; he creeps throughsmall holes. But he always looks where he goes.
"The unknown chief, who belongs to no tribe, talks of this bee-hunter'ssquaw. 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 youngsquaw in his lodge, but she is not HIS squaw. There is no need ofletting 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 thisyoung squaw is not this bee-hunter's squaw.
"If Injins are to take the scalps of all the pale-faces, why should wenot begin with these who are in our hands? When the knife is ready, andthe head is ready, nothing but the hand is wanting. Plenty of hands areready, too; and it does not seem good to the eyes of a poor, miserableweasel, who has to creep through very small holes to catch his game, tolet that game go when it is taken. If my great brother, who has told usnot to scalp this bee-hunter and her he calls his squaw, will tell usthe name of his tribe, I shall be glad. I am an ignorant Injin, and liketo learn all I can; I wish to learn that. Perhaps it will help us tounderstand why he gave one counsel yesterday, and another to-day. Thereis 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 owndemagogues 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 themeanest of the great human family. Peter saw, at once, that he hada cunning competitor, and had a little difficulty in suppressingall exhibition of the fiery indignation he actually felt, at meetingopposition in such a quarter. Peter was artful, and practised in allthe wiles of managing men, but he submitted to use his means to attain agreat end. The virtual extinction of the white race was his object, andin 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 ofhuman feeling was shining on the darkness of his mind, he found himselfunexpectedly opposed by one of those whom he had formerly found sodifficult to persuade into his own dire plans! Had that one been a chiefof any renown, the circumstances would have been more tolerable; buthere was a man
presuming to raise his voice against him, who, so far ashe knew anything of his past career, had not a single claim to open hismouth in such a council. With a volcano raging within, that such a stateof things would be likely to kindle in the breast of a savage who hadbeen for years a successful and nearly unopposed leader, the mysteriouschief rose to reply.
"My brother says he is a weasel," observed Peter, looking round at thecircle of interested and grave countenances by which he was surrounded."That is a very small animal. It creeps through very small holes, butnot to do good. It is good for nothing. When it goes through a smallhole, it is not to do the Injins a service, but for its own purposes. Ido not like weasels.
"My brother is not afraid of a bee-hunter. Can HE tell us what a beewhispers? If he can, I wish he would tell us. Let him show our young menwhere there is more honey--where they can find bear's meat for anotherfeast--where they can find warriors hid in the woods.
"My brother says the bee-hunter has no squaw. How does he know this? Hashe lived in the lodge with them--paddled in the same canoe--eat ofthe same venison? A weasel is very small. It might steal into thebee-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 neversaw him there.
"Brothers, the Great Spirit has his own way of doing things. He does notstop to listen to weasels. He knows there are such animals--there aresnakes, and toads, and skunks. The Great Spirit knows them all, but hedoes not mind them. He is wise, and hearkens only to his own mind. Soshould it be with a council of great chiefs. It should listen to its ownmind. 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 tribeof which I am born. Why should you know it? Injins once were foolish.While the pale-faces were getting one hunting-ground after another fromthem, they dug up the hatchet against their own friends. They took eachother'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. Thatis enough. I scalp, and smoke, and talk, and go on weary paths for allInjins, and not for any tribe. I am without a tribe. Some call me theTribeless. It is better to bear that name, than to be called a weasel. Ihave done."
Peter had so much success by this argumentum ad hominem, that mostpresent fancied that the weasel would creep through some hole, anddisappear. Not so, however, with Ungque. He was a demagogue, after anIndian fashion; and this is a class of men that ever "make capital" ofabuses, as we Americans say, in our money-getting habits. Instead ofbeing frightened off the ground, he arose to answer as promptly as if apractised debater, though with an air of humility so profound, that noone could take offence at his presumption.
"The unknown chief has answered," he said, "I am glad. I love to hearhis words. My ears are always open when he speaks, and my mind isstronger. I now see that it is good he should not have a tribe. He maybe a Cherokee, and then our warriors would wish him ill." This was ahome-thrust, most artfully concealed; a Cherokee being the Indian of allothers the most hated by the chiefs present;--the Carthaginians of thosewestern Romans. "It is better he should not have a tribe, than be aCherokee. He might better be a weasel.
"Brothers, we have been told to kill ALL the pale-faces. I like thatadvice. The land cannot have two owners. If a pale-face owns it, anInjin cannot. If an Injin owns it, a pale-face cannot. But the chiefwithout a tribe tells us not to kill all. He tells us to kill all butthe bee-hunter and his squaw. He thinks this bee-hunter is a medicinebee-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 thebee-hunter and his squaw while we can, that there may be no more suchmedicine bee-hunters to frighten us Injins. If one bee-hunter can do somuch harm, what would a tribe of bee-hunters do? I do not want to seeany more. It is a dangerous thing to know how to talk with bees. Itis best that no one should have that power. I would rather never tastehoney again, than live among pale-faces that can talk with bees.
"Brothers, it is not enough that the pale-faces know so much more thanthe red men, but they must get the bees to tell them where to findhoney, to find bears, to find warriors. No; let us take the scalp of thebee-talker, and of his squaw, that there may never be such a medicineagain. I have spoken."
Peter did not rise again. He felt that his dignity was involved inmaintaining silence. Various chiefs now uttered their opinions, inbrief, sententious language. For the first time since he began to preachhis crusade, the current was setting against the mysterious chief. TheWeasel said no more, but the hints he had thrown out were improved onby others. It is with savages as with civilized men; a torrent must findvent. Peter had the sagacity to see that by attempting further to savele Bourdon and Margery, he should only endanger his own ascendancy,without effecting his purpose. Here he completely overlaid the art ofUngque, turning his own defeat into an advantage. After the matter hadbeen discussed for fully an hour, and this mysterious chief perceivedthat it was useless to adhere to his new resolution, he gave it upwith as much tact as the sagacious Wellington himself could manifestin yielding Catholic emancipation, or parliamentary reform; or, just inseason to preserve an appearance of floating in the current, and with agrace that disarmed his opponents.
"Brothers," said Peter, by way of closing the debate, "I have not seenstraight. Fog sometimes gets before the eyes, and we cannot see. I havebeen in a fog. The breath of my brother has blown it away. I now seeclearly. I see that bee-hunters ought not to live. Let this one die--lethis squaw die, too!"
This terminated the discussion, as a matter of course. It was solemnlydecided that all the pale-faces then in the Openings should be cut off.In acquiescing in this decision, Peter had no mental reservations. Hewas quite sincere. When, after sitting two hours longer, in order toarrange still more important points, the council arose, it was withhis entire assent to the decision. The only power he retained over thesubject was that of directing the details of the contemplated massacre.
Oak Openings Page 23
