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Updated: June 2, 2025
We don't let on all we want and mean openly: and you'll find folks among us that'll deny stoutly that anti-renters has anything to do with the Injin system; but folks an't obliged to believe the moon is all cheese, unless they've a mind to.
When this agreeable office was performed, each felt in better condition for a conference. "Elkfoot got belt from Canada fadder," commenced the Chippewa, with a sententious allusion to the British propensity to keep the savages in pay. "KNOW he got him KNOW he keep him." "And you, Pigeonswing by your manner of talking I had set you down for a king's Injin, too." "TALK so no FEEL bit so.
"Neighbor, for Injin, no mean pale-face," answered the Delaware girl, with more decision than she had hitherto thought it necessary to use. "Neighbor mean Iroquois for Iroquois, Mohican for Mohican, Pale-face for pale face. No need tell chief any thing else." "You forget, Hist, these are the words of the Great Spirit, and the chiefs must obey them as well as others.
You know, then, that those fellows have made friends with the hostile party?" "No need know see. Look Injin chop, pale-face look on! Call that war?" "I do see that which satisfies me the men in paint yonder are not all red men." "No cap'in right tell him so at wigwam. But dat Mohawk dog rascal Nick's enemy!"
"It would seem that in moving the barrels some of the liquor has escaped, and the nose of an Injin is too quick for the odor it leaves, not to scent it." "Much good may it do them," growled Gershom "they've lost me that whiskey, and let them long for it without gettin' any, as a punishment for the same.
When an Injin did me harm, I took his scalp. This was my way. I could not help it, then. The Wicked Spirit told me to do this. The Son of the Manitou has now told me better. I have lived under a cloud. The breath of the dying medicine-priest of your people has blown away that cloud. I see clearer. I hear him telling the Manitou to do me good, though I wanted his scalp. He was answered in my heart.
Blossom has read to me out of the good book of your people, and I find it is so. I feel like a child, and could sit down, in my wigwam, and weep. "Bourdon, you are a pale-face, and I am an Injin. You are strong, and I am weak. This is because the Son of the Great Spirit has talked with your people, and has not talked with mine.
There was no mistaking this outpouring of the feelings; and so "Streak o' Lightning" seemed to think too, for he whispered one of the tribe, who took the plain-speaking Injin by the arm and led him away, grumbling and growling, as the thunder mutters in the horizon after the storm has passed on.
While the pale-faces were getting one hunting-ground after another from them, they dug up the hatchet against their own friends. They took each other's scalps. Injin hated Injin tribe hated tribe. I am of no tribe, and no one can hate me for my people. You see my skin. It is red. That is enough. I scalp, and smoke, and talk, and go on weary paths for all Injins, and not for any tribe.
We darted back in the darkness with our guns ready, but saw and heard nothing more of the Indians. What was remarkable about it was that only the single arrow should have been launched at Ike." "It looks as if there was but the single Injin," suggested Bidwell. "That is the way we interpreted it." "And that was the end of your troubles with the Indians?"
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