Oak Openings | Page 4

wore a skin cap, somewhat smartly made,
but without the fur; the weather being warm. His moccasins were a
good deal wrought, but seemed to be fading under the exposure of
many marches. His arms were excellent; but all his martial
accoutrements, even to a keen long-bladed knife, were suspended from
the rammer of his rifle; the weapon itself being allowed to lean, in
careless confidence, against the trunk of the nearest oak, as if their
master felt there was no immediate use for them.
Not so with the other three. Not only was each man well armed, but
each man kept his trusty rifle hugged to his person, in a sort of jealous
watchfulness; while the other white man, from time to time, secretly,
but with great minuteness, examined the flint and priming of his own
piece.
This second pale-face was a very different person from him just
described. He was still young, tall, sinewy, gaunt, yet springy and
strong, stooping and round-shouldered, with a face that carried a very
decided top-light in it, like that of the notorious Bardolph. In short,
whiskey had dyed the countenance of Gershom Waring with a tell-tale
hue, that did not less infallibly betray his destination than his speech
denoted his origin, which was clearly from one of the States of New
England. But Gershom had been so long at the Northwest as to have
lost many of his peculiar habits and opinions, and to have obtained

substitutes.
Of the Indians, one, an elderly, wary, experienced warrior, was a
Pottawattamie, named Elksfoot, who was well known at all the
trading-houses and "garrisons" of the northwestern territory, including
Michigan as low down as Detroit itself. The other red man was a young
Chippewa, or O-jeb-way, as the civilized natives of that nation now tell
us the word should be spelled. His ordinary appellation among his own
people was that of Pigeonswing; a name obtained from the rapidity and
length of his flights. This young man, who was scarcely turned of
five-and-twenty, had already obtained a high reputation among the
numerous tribes of his nation, as a messenger, or "runner."
Accident had brought these four persons, each and all strangers to one
another, in communication in the glade of the Oak Openings, which has
already been mentioned, within half an hour of the scene we are about
to present to the reader. Although the rencontre had been accompanied
by the usual precautions of those who meet in a wilderness, it had been
friendly so far; a circumstance that was in some measure owing to the
interest they all took in the occupation of the bee-hunter. The three
others, indeed, had come in on different trails, and surprised le Bourdon
in the midst of one of the most exciting exhibitions of his art--an
exhibition that awoke so much and so common an interest in the
spectators, as at once to place its continuance for the moment above all
other considerations. After brief salutations, and wary examinations of
the spot and its tenants, each individual had, in succession, given his
grave attention to what was going on, and all had united in begging Ben
Buzz to pursue his occupation, without regard to his visitors. The
conversation that took place was partly in English, and partly in one of
the Indian dialects, which luckily all the parties appeared to understand.
As a matter of course, with a sole view to oblige the reader, we shall
render what was said, freely, into the vernacular.
"Let's see, let's see, STRANger," cried Gershom, emphasizing the
syllable we have put in italics, as if especially to betray his origin,
"what you can do with your tools. I've heer'n tell of such doin's, but
never see'd a bee lined in all my life, and have a desp'rate fancy for

larnin' of all sorts, from 'rithmetic to preachin'."
"That comes from your Puritan blood," answered le Bourdon, with a
quiet smile, using surprisingly pure English for one in his class of life.
"They tell me you Puritans preach by instinct."
"I don't know how that is," answered Gershom, "though I can turn my
hand to anything. I heer'n tell, across at Bob Ruly (Bois Brulk
[Footnote: This unfortunate name, which it may be necessary to tell a
portion of our readers means "burnt wood," seems condemned to all
sorts of abuses among the linguists of the West. Among other
pronunciations is that of "Bob Ruly"; while an island near Detroit, the
proper name of which is "Bois Blanc," is familiarly known to the lake
mariners by the name of "Bobolo."]) of sich doin's, and would give a
week's keep at Whiskey Centre, to know how 'twas done."
"Whiskey Centre" was a sobriquet bestowed by the fresh-water sailors
of that region, and the few other white adventurers