Oak Openings. James Fenimore Cooper

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      “I believe I understand you, Chippewa—Hull is the name of the governor of the territory, and you must have mistaken the sound—'is it not so?”

      “Hull—Hell—don't know—just same—one good as t'other.”

      “Yes, one will do as well as the other, if a body only understands you. So Governor Hull sent you here?”

      “No gubbernor—general, tell you. Got big army—plenty warrior—eat Breesh up!”

      “Now, Chippewa, answer me one thing to my likin', or I shall set you down as a man with a forked tongue, though you do call yourself a friend of the Yankees. If you have been sent from Detroit to Chicago, why are you so far north as this? Why are you here, on the banks of the Kalamazoo, when your path ought to lead you more toward the St. Joseph's?”

      “Been to Mackinaw. Gen'ral says, first go to Mackinaw and see wid own eye how garrison do—den go to Chicago, and tell warrior dere what happen, and how he best manage. Understan' dat, Bourdon?”

      “Aye, it all sounds well enough, I will acknowledge. You have been to Mackinaw to look about you, there, and having seen things with your own eyes, have started for Chicago to give your knowledge to the commandant at that place. Now, redskin, have you any proof of what you say?”

      For some reason that the bee-hunter could not yet fathom, the Chippewa was particularly anxious either to obtain his confidence, or to deceive him. Which he was attempting, was not yet quite apparent; but that one or other was uppermost in his mind, Ben thought was beyond dispute. As soon as the question last named was put, however, the Indian looked cautiously around him, as if to be certain there were no spectators. Then he carefully opened his tobacco-pouch, and extricated from the centre of the cut weed a letter that was rolled into the smallest compass to admit of this mode of concealment, and which was encircled by a thread. The last removed, the letter was unrolled, and its superscription exposed. The address was to “Captain—Heald, U. S. Army, commanding at Chicago.” In one corner were the words “On public service, by Pigeonswing.” All this was submitted to the bee-hunter, who read it with his own eyes.

      “Dat good”—asked the Chippewa, pointedly—“dat tell trut'-b'lieve HIM?”

      Le Bourdon grasped the hand of the Indian, and gave it a hearty squeeze. Then he said frankly, and like a man who no longer entertained any doubts:

      “I put faith in all you say, Chippewa. That is an officer's letter, and I now see that you are on the right side. You play'd so deep a game, at first, hows'ever, that I didn't know exactly what to make of you. Now, as for the Pottawattamie—do you set him down as friend or foe, in reality?”

      “Enemy—take your scalp—take my scalp, in minute only can't catch him. He got belt from Montreal, and it look handsome in his eye.”

      “Which way d'ye think he's travelling? As I understood you, he and you fell into the same path within a mile of this very spot. Was the meeting altogether friendly?”

      “Yes; friendly—but ask too many question—too much squaw—ask one question, den stop for answer.”

      “Very true—I will remember that an Indian likes to do one thing at a time. Which way, then, do you think he's travelling?”

      “Don't know—on'y guess—guess he on path to Blackbird.”

      “And where is Blackbird, and what is he about?”

      “Two question, dat!” returned the Chippewa, smiling, and holding up two of his fingers, at the same time, by way of rebuke. “Blackbird on war-path;—when warrior on dat path, he take scalp if can get him.”

      “But where is his enemy? There are no whites in this part of the country, but here and there a trader, or a trapper, or a bee-hunter, or a VOYAGEUR.”

      “Take HIS scalp—all scalp good, in war time. An't partic'lar, down at Montreal. What you call garrison at Chicago?”

      “Blackbird, you then think, may be moving upon Chicago. In that case, Chippewa, you should outrun this Pottawatamie, and reach the post in time to let its men know the danger.”

      “Start, as soon as eat breakfast. Can't go straight, nudder, or Pottawatamie see print of moccasin. Must t'row him off trail.”

      “Very true; but I'll engage you're cunning enough to do that twice over, should it be necessary.”

      Just then Gershom Waring came out of the cabin, gaping like a hound, and stretching his arms, as if fairly wearied with sleep. At the sight of this man the Indian made a gesture of caution, saying, however, in an undertone:

      “How is heart—Yankee or Breesh—love Montreal, eh? Pretty good scalp! Love King George, eh?”

      “I rather think not, but am not certain. He is a poor pale-face, however, and it's of no great account how he stands. His scalp would hardly be worth the taking, whether by English or American.”

      “Sell, down at Montreal—better look out for Pottawatamie. Don't like that Injin.”

      “We'll be on our guard against him; and there he comes, looking as if his breakfast would be welcome, and as if he was already thinking of a start.”

      Le Bourdon had been busy with his pots, during the whole time this discourse was going on, and had warmed up a sufficiency of food to supply the wants of all his guests. In a few minutes each was busy quietly eating his morning's meal, Gershom having taken his bitters aside, and, as he fancied, unobserved. This was not so much owing to niggardliness, as to a distrust of his having a sufficient supply of the liquor, that long indulgence had made, in a measure, necessary to him, to last until he could get back to the barrels that were still to be found in his cabin, down on the shore of the lake.

      During the breakfast little was said, conversation forming no material part of the entertainment, at the meals of any but the cultivated. When each had risen, however, and by certain preliminary arrangements it was obvious that the two Indians intended to depart, the Pottawatamie advanced to le Bourdon, and thrust out a hand.

      “Thankee”—he said, in the brief way in which he clipped his English—“good supper—good sleep—good breakfast. Now go. Thankee—when any friend come to Pottawatamie village, good wigwam dere, and no door.”

      “I thank you, Elksfoot—and should you pass this way, ag'in, soon, I hope you'll just step into this chiente and help yourself it I should happen to be off on a hunt. Good luck to you, and a happy sight of home.”

      The Pottawatamie then turned and thrust out a hand to each of the others, who met his offered leave-taking with apparent friendship. The bee-hunter observed that neither of the Indians said anything to the other touching the path he was about to travel, but that each seemed ready to pursue his own way as if entirely independent, and without the expectation of having a companion.

      Elksfoot left the spot the first. After completing his adieus, the Pottawattamie threw his rifle into the hollow of his arm, felt at his belt, as if to settle it into its place, made some little disposition of his light summer covering, and moved off in a southwesterly direction, passing through the open glades, and almost equally unobstructed groves, as steady in his movements as if led by an instinct.

      “There he goes, on a bee-line,” СКАЧАТЬ