Part 27 (2/2)
”'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 s.n.a.t.c.hed the silver chain from off his tomahawk, 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 his 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 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 pa.s.s 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 s.h.i.+nes, 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.
”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.
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