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, and bear's meat, and wild
pigeons, and the fish that are to be found in these western rivers, are
all good for them that was brought up on 'em, but they tire an eastern
palate dreadfully. Give me roast beef any day before 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, all around him. I have known such Injins. They see but
one thing; even the deer jump across their paths, and are not seen.
“Such are our traditions. They tell us that this land was given to the
red men, and not to pale-faces. That none but red men have any right to
hunt here. The Great Spirit has laws. He has told us these laws. They
teach us to love our friends, and to hate our enemies. You don't believe
this, Bourdon?” observing the bee-hunter to wince a little, as if he
found the doctrine bad.
“This is not what our priests tell US,” answered le Bourdon. “They tell
us that the white man's God commands us to love all alike--to do GOOD to
our enemies, to LOVE them that wish us HARM, and to treat all men as
we would wish men to treat us.” Peter was a good deal surprised at this
doctrine, and it was nearly a minute before he resumed the discourse. He
had recently heard it several times, and it was slowly working its way
into his mind.
“Such are our traditions, and such are our laws. Look at me. Fifty
winters have tried to turn my hair white. Time can do that. The hair is
the only part of an Injin that ever turns white; all the rest of him is
red. That is his 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!