Oak Openings. James Fenimore Cooper

      “Bury him where nobody find him dis war. No—Waubkenewh no hole in heart to let king in.”

      Pigeonswing, as this young Indian was commonly called in his tribe, in consequence of the rapidity of his movement when employed as a runner, had a much more respectable name, and one that he had fairly earned in some of the forays of his people, but which the commonalty had just the same indisposition to use as the French have to call Marshal Soult the Duc de Dalmatie. The last may be the most honorable title, but it is not that by which he is the best known to his countrymen. Waubkenewh was an appellation, notwithstanding, of which the young Chippewa was justly proud; and he often asserted his right to use it, as sternly as the old hero of Toulouse asserted his right to his duchy, when the Austrians wished to style him “le Marechal DUC Soult.”

      “And you are friendly to the Yankees, and an enemy to the red-coats?”

      Waubkenewh grasped the hand of le Bourdon, and squeezed it firmly. Then he said, warily:

      “Take care—Elkfoot friend of Blackbird; like to look at Canada belt. Got medal of king, too. Have Yankee scalp, bye'm by. Take care—must speak low, when Elkfoot near.”

      “I begin to understand you, Chippewa; you wish me to believe that YOU are a friend to America, and that the Pottawatamie is not. If this be so, why have you held the speech that you did last night, and seemed to be on a war-path AGAINST my countrymen?”

      “Dat good way, eh? Elkfoot den t'ink me HIS friend dat very good in war-time.”

      “But is it true, or false, that Mackinaw is taken by the British?”

      “Dat true too—gone, and warrior all prisoner. Plenty Winnebago, plenty Pottawatamie, plenty Ottowa, plenty redskin, dere.”

      “And the Chippewas?”

      “Some Ojebway, too”—answered Pigeonswing, after a reluctant pause. “Can't all go on same path this war. Hatchets, somehow, got two handle—one strike Yankee; one strike King George.”

      “But what is your business here, and where are you now going if you are friendly to the Americans? I make no secret of my feelings—I am for my own people, and I wish proof that you are a friend, and not an enemy.”

      “Too many question, one time,” returned the Chippewa, a little distastefully. “No good have so long tongue. Ask one question, answer him—ask anoder, answer HIM, too.”

      “Well, then, what is your business, here?”

      “Go to Chicago, for gen'ral.”

      “Do you mean that you bear a message from some American general to the commandant at Chicago?”

      “Just so—dat my business. Guess him, right off; he, he, he!”

      It is so seldom that an Indian laughs that the bee-hunter was startled.

      “Where is the general who has sent you on this errand?” he demanded.

      “He at Detroit—got whole army dere—warrior plenty as oak in opening.”

      All this was news to the bee-hunter, and it caused him to muse a moment, ere he proceeded.

      “What is the name of the American general who has sent you on this path?” he then demanded.

      “Hell,” answered the Ojebway, quietly.

      “Hell! You mean to give his Indian title, I suppose, to show that he will prove dangerous to the wicked. But how is he called in our own tongue?”

      “Hell—dat he name—good name for so'ger, eh?”

      “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.”