| “WHAT
is the silver chain for, Queetah?” asked the boy,
lifting the tomahawk*
and running the curious links between his thumb and
fingers. “I never saw one before.”
The Mohawk smiled. “That
is because few tomahawks content themselves with times
of peace. While war lives, you will never see a silver
chain worn by an Iroquois, nor will you see it on anything
he possesses,” he answered.
“Then it is the badge
of peace?” questioned the boy.
“The badge of peace—yes,”
replied Queetah.
It was a unique weapon which
the boy fingered so curiously. The tomahawk itself was
shaped like a slender axe, and wrought of beaten copper,
with a half-inch edge of gleaming steel cleverly welded
on, forming a deadly blade. At the butt end of the axe
was a delicately shaped pipe bowl, carved and chased
with heads of animals, coiling serpents and odd conventional
figures, totems of the once mighty owner, whose war
cry had echoed through the lake lands and forests more
than a century ago. The handle was but eighteen inches
long, a smooth polished stem of curled maple, the beauty
of the natural wood heightened by a dark strip of color
that wound with measured, even sweeps from tip to base
like a ribbon. Queetah had long ago told the boy how
that rich spiral decoration was made—how the old
Indians wound the wood with strips of wet buckskin,
then burnt the exposed [Page 212] wood
sufficiently to color it. The beautiful white coils
were the portions protected by the hide from the flame
and smoke.
Inlaid in this handle were strange
designs of dull-beaten silver, cubes and circles and
innumerable hearts, the national symbol of the Mohawks.
At the extreme end was a small, flat metal mouth-piece,
for this strange weapon was a combination of sun and
shadow; it held within itself the unique capabilities
of being a tomahawk, the most savage instrument in Indian
warfare, and also a peace pipe, that most beautiful
of all Indian treasures.
“It is so strange,”
said the boy, fingering the weapon lovingly. “Your
people are the most terrible on the warpath of all the
nations in the world, yet they seem to think more of
that word ‘peace,’ and to honor it more,
than all of us put together. Why, you even make silver
chains for emblems of peace, like this,” and he
tangled his slim fingers in the links that looped from
the lower angle of the steel edge to the handle.
“Yes,” replied Queetah,
“we value peace; it is a holy word to the red
man, perhaps because it is so little with us, because
we know its face so slightly. The face of peace has
no fiery stripes of color, no streaks of the deadly
black and red, the war paints of the fighting Mohawks.
It is a face of silver, like this chain, and when it
smiles upon us, we wash the black and red from off our
cheeks, and smoke this pipe as a sign of brotherhood
with all men.”
“Brotherhood with all
men,” mused the boy, aloud. “We palefaces
have no such times, Queetah. Some of us are always at
war. If we are not fighting here, we are fighting beyond
the great salt seas. I wish we had more of your ways,
Queetah—your Indian ways. I wish we could link
a silver chain around the world; we think we are the
ones to teach, but I believe you could teach us much.
Will you not teach me now? Tell me the story [Page
213] of this tomahawk. I may learn something
from it—something of Indian war, peace and brotherhood.”
“The story is yours to
hear,” said the Mohawk, “if you would see
how peace grows out of deeds of blood, as the blue iris
grows from the blackness of the swamp; but it is the
flower that the sun loves, not the roots, buried in
the darkness, from which the blossom springs. So we
of the red race say that the sun shines on peace alone,
not the black depths beneath it.”
The Mohawk paused and locked
his hands about his knees, while the boy stretched himself
at full length and stared up at the far sky beyond the
interlacing branches overhead. He loved to lie thus,
listening to the quaint tales of olden days that Queetah
had stored up in his wonderful treasure-house of memory.
Everything the Indian possessed had associated with
it some wild tale of early Canadian history, some strange
half-forgotten Indian custom or legend, so he listened
now to the story of the last time that the ancient Indian
law of “a life for a life” was carried out
in the beautiful Province of Ontario, while the low,
even voice of the Mohawk described the historical event,
giving to the tale the Indian term for the word “peace,”
which means “the silver chain that does not tarnish.”
“This was the tomahawk
of my grandsire, who had won his eagle plume by right
of great bravery. For had he not at your age—just
fifteen years—stood the great national test of
starving for three days and three nights without a whimper?
Did not this make him a warrior, with the right to sit
among the old men of his tribe, and to flaunt his eagle
plume in the face of his enemy? Ok-wa-ho was his name;
it means ‘The Wolf,’ and young as he was,
like the wolf he could snarl and show his fangs. His
older brother was the chief, tall and terrible, with
the scowl of thunder on his brow and the gleaming fork
of lightning in his eyes. This chief thought never of
council fires or pipes or hunting or fishing, he troubled
not about [Page 214] joining the other
young men in their sports of lacrosse or snow-snake,
or bowl-and-beans; to him there was nothing in life
but the warpath, no song but the war cry, no color but
the war paint. Daily he sharpened his scalping knife,
daily he polished his tomahawk, daily feathered and
poisoned his arrows, daily he sought enemies, taunted
them, insulted them, braved them and conquered them;
while his young brother, Ok-wa-ho, rested in their lodge
listening to the wisdom of the old men, learning their
laws and longing for peace. Once Ok-wa-ho had said,
‘My brother, stay with us, wash from thy cheeks
the black and scarlet; thy tomahawk has two ends: one
is an edge, dyed often in blood, but show us that thou
hast not forgotten how to use the other end—fill
thy pipe.’
“‘Little brother,’
replied the chief, ‘thou art yet but a stripling
boy; smoke, then, the peace pipe, but it is not for
me.’
“‘Ok-wa-ho felt
this to be an insult. It was a taunt on his bravery.
He squared his boyish shoulders, and, lifting his narrow
chin, flung back the answer, ‘I, too, can use
both ends, the edge as well as the pipe.’ The
great chief laughed. ‘That is right, Little Brother,
and some day the tribe will ask you to show them how
well you can use the edge. I shall not always be victor;
some day I shall fall, and my enemy will place his foot
on my throat and voice the war cry of victory, just
as I have done these many days. Hast thou sat among
the wise men of our people long enough to learn what
thou must do then—when the enemy laughs over my
body?’
“‘Yes,’ replied
the boy, ‘I am thy nearest of kin. Indian law
demands that I alone must avenge thy death. Thy murderer
must die, and die by no hand but mine. It is the law.’
“‘It is the law,’
echoed the chief. ‘I can trust you to carry it
out, eh, Little Brother?’
“‘You can trust
me, no matter how great a giant thy enemy may be,’
answered the boy. [Page 215]
“‘Thy words are
as thy name,’ smiled the chief. ‘Thou art
indeed worthy of thy eagle plume. Thou art a true Ok-wa-ho.’
Then placing his scalping knife in its sheath at his
belt he lifted his palm to his lips, a long, strange,
quivering yell rent the forest trails—a yell of
defiance, of mastery, of challenge; his feet were upon
the warpath once more.
“That night, while the
campfires yet glowed and flickered, painting the forest
with black shadows, against which curled the smoke from
many pipe bowls, a long, strange, haunting note came
faintly down on the wings of the water—the dark
river whispering past bore on its deep currents the
awful sound of the Death Cry.
“‘Some mighty one
has fallen,’ said the old men. ‘The victor
is voicing his triumph from far upstream.’ Then
as the hours slipped by, a runner came up the forest
trail, chanting the solemn song of the departed. As
he neared the campfires he ceased his song, and in its
place gave once again the curdling horror of the Death
Cry.
“‘Who is the victor?
Who the fallen brave?’ cried the old men.
“‘Thy chief this
hour hunts buffalo in the happy hunting grounds, while
his enemy, Black Star, of the Bear Clan, sings the war
song of the Great Unconquered,’ replied the runner.
“‘Ah, ha!’
replied the old men. ‘Ok-wa-ho here is next of
kin, but this stripling boy is too young, too small,
to face and fight Black Star. But the law is that no
other hand but his may avenge his brother’s death.
So our great dead chief must sleep—sleep while
his murderer sings and taunts us with his freedom.’
“‘Not so!’
cried the young Ok-wa-ho. ‘I shall face Black
Star. I shall obey the law of my people. My hand is
small but strong, my aim is sure, my heart is brave,
and my vengeance will be swift.’
“Before the older men
could stay him he was away, but first he snatched the
silver chain from off his tomahawk, [Page 216]
emptied the bowl of tobacco, destroyed all the emblems
of peace, and turned his back upon the council fire.
All night long he scoured the forest for his brother’s
slayer, all night long he flung from his boyish lips
the dreaded war cry of the avenger, and when day broke
he drank from the waters of the river, and followed
the trail that led to the lodge of his mighty enemy.
Outside the door sat Black Star of the Bear clan; astride
a fallen tree he lounged arrogantly; his hands, still
red with last night’s horrors, were feathering
arrows. His savage face curled into a sneer as the boy
neared him. Then a long, taunting laugh broke over the
dawn, and he jeered:
“‘So, pretty maiden-boy,
what hast thou to do with the Great Unconquered?’
“‘I am the brother
of thy victim,’ said Ok-wa-ho, as he slipped this
tomahawk from his belt, placing it on the low bark roof
of the lodge, in case he needed a second weapon.
“‘The Avenger, eh,’
scoffed Black Star, mockingly.
“‘The Avenger—yes,’
repeated the boy. Then walking deliberately up to the
savage warrior, he placed his left hand on the other’s
shoulder, and, facing him squarely, said: ‘I am
here to carry out the law of our people; because I am
young, it does not mean that I must not obey the rules
of older and wiser men. Will you fight me now? I demand
it.’
“The other sneered. ‘Fight
you?’ he said disdainfully. ‘I
do not fight babies or women. Thou hast a woman’s
wrist, a baby’s fingers. They could not swing
a tomahawk.’
“‘No?’ the
boy sneered. ‘Perhaps thou art right, but they
can plunge a knife. Did thou not lend my brother a knife
last night? Yes? Then I have come to return it.’
There was a flash of steel, a wild death cry, and Ok-wa-ho’s
knife was buried to the hilt in the heart of Black Star
of the Bear Clan.”
Queetah ceased speaking, for
the paleface boy, lying [Page 217]
at his feet, had shuddered and locked his teeth at the
gruesome tale.
“But, Queetah,”
he said, after a long pause, “I thought this was
a story of peace, of ‘the silver chain that does
not tarnish.’”
“It is,” replied
the Indian. “You shall hear how peace was born
out of that black deed—listen:
“When Black Star of the
Bear Clan lay dead at his feet, the centuries of fighting
blood surged up in the boy’s whole body. He placed
his moccasined foot on the throat of the conquered,
flung back his head, and gave the long, wild Mohawk
war cry of victory. Far off that cry reached the ears
of the older men, smoking about their council fire.
“‘It is Ok-wa-ho’s
voice,’ they said proudly, ‘and it is the
cry of victory. We may never hear that cry again, for
the white man’s law and rule begins to-day.’
Which was true, for after that the Mohawks came under
the governmental laws of Canada. It was the last time
the red man’s native law of justice, of ‘blood
for blood,’ was ever enacted in Ontario. This
is history—Canadian history—not merely a
tale of horror with which to pass this winter afternoon.”
Again Queetah ceased speaking, and again the boy persisted.
“But the silver chain?”
With a dreamy, far-away look
the Indian continued:
“One never uses an avenging
knife again. The blade even must not be wiped; it is
a dark deed, even to an Indian’s soul, and the
knife must be buried on the dark side of a tree—the
north side, where the sun never shines, where the moss
grows thickest. Ok-wa-ho buried his blood-stained knife,
slipping it blade downwards beneath the moss, took his
unused tomahawk, and returned to his people. ‘The
red man’s law is ended,’ he said.
“‘Yes, we must be
as white men now,’ replied the older men, sadly.
[Page 218]
“That night Ok-wa-ho beat
into this handle these small silver hearts. They are
the badge of brotherhood with all men. The next day
white men came, explaining the new rule that must hold
sway in the forest. ‘If there is bloodshed among
you,’ they said, ‘the laws of Canada will
punish the evil-doer. Put up your knives and tomahawks,
and be at peace.’
“And as the years went
on and on, these ancient Indian customs all dropped
far into the past. Only one thing remained to remind
Ok-wa-ho of his barbarous, boyish deed: it was the top
branch of a tall tree waving above its fellows. As he
fished and paddled peacefully miles up the river, he
could see that treetop, and his heart never forgot what
was lying at its roots. He grew old, old, until he reached
the age of eighty-nine, but the tree-top still waved
and the roots still held their secret.
“He came to me then. I
was but a boy myself, but his grandson, and he loved
me. He told me this strange tale, adding: ‘Queetah,
my feet must soon travel up the long trail. I would
know what peace is like before I go on the journey—come,
we will unearth the knife.’ I followed where he
led. We found the weapon three feet down in the earth,
where the years had weighted it. In places the steel
was still bright, but in others dark patches of rust
covered the scarlet of Black Star’s blood,†
fresh seventy-three years before.
“‘It is yours,’
said Ok-wa-ho, placing it in my hand. ‘See, the
sun shines on it; perhaps that will lessen the darkness
of the deed, but I obeyed the Indian law. Seventy-three
years this knife has lain buried.††
It was the last law, the last law.’
“That night Ok-wa-ho began
to hammer and beat and mold these silver links. When
they were finished he welded them firmly to the tomahawk,
and, just before he went up the long, long trail, he
gave it to me, saying, [Page 219] ‘This
blade has never tasted blood, it will never have dark
spots on it like those on the knife. The silver chain
does not tarnish, for it means peace, and the brotherhood
of all men.’”
Queetah’s voice ceased.
The tale was ended.
“And peace has reigned
ever since?” asked the boy, still looking at the
far-off sky through the branches overhead.
“Peace has reigned ever
since,” replied Queetah. “The Mohawks and
the palefaces are brothers, under one law. That was
the last Avenging Knife. It is Canadian history.”
[Page 220]
*
The tomahawk and avenging knife spoken of in the story
are both in the possession of the writer, the knife
having been buried for seventy-three years on the estate
where she was born. [back]
† Fact. [back]
†† Fact. [back]
|
