“Not when his white father sets them a bad example.”
“Black Partridge, your words are bold.”
“Your deed was bolder, father. It was the deed of a fool.”
“Take care!”
As if he had not heard, the chief spoke steadily on:
“My tribesman, Winnemeg—the white man’s friend—brought the order that all goods stored here should be justly distributed among my people, to every man his portion. Was it thus done?”
“Come, Black Partridge, you are not wanting in good sense nor in honesty. You must admit that such a course would have been hazardous in the extreme. The idea of putting liquor and ammunition into the hands of the red men was one of utter madness. It was worse than foolhardy. The broken firearms are safe in the well, and the more dangerous whiskey has mingled itself harmlessly with the waters of the river and the lake.”
“There is something more foolish than folly,” said the Indian, gravely, “and that is a lie! The powder drowned in the well will kill more pale-faces than it could have done in the hands of your red children. The river-diluted whiskey will inflame more hot heads than if it had been dispensed honorably and in its full strength. But now the end. Though I will do what I can do, even the Truth-Teller cannot fight treachery. Prepare for the worst. And so—farewell!”
Then the tall chief bowed his head in sadness and went away; but the terrible truth of what he then uttered all the world now knows.