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.