The Killer Who Walked Into the Council and Bared His Breast

Some time since, the son of an old chief of the [tribe] was killed by an Indian named Mickenoek. Mickenoek immediately collected his family and fled into the woods. The old chief, burning to avenge the death of his son, looked about in vain for the murderer; but no one could be found. He determined to avail himself of the privilege allowed by an Indian custom, and to avenge himself upon one of the wives of Mickenoek. Mickenoek, although officially separated from the old chief, was nevertheless constantly informed, through some of his friends, of all that was passing in the chief's wigwam; and as soon as he learned the determination, he sent his wife to the old chief to say that upon the day of the meeting of the council, which was then soon to be held, he would deliver himself up to atone for the life of his son. The chief received the information with evident gratification.

A few weeks passed away, the great lodge was erected, and the council at length assembled. The chief communicated the intelligence which he had received from his son's murderer, and it was agreed that no business should be transacted until Mickenoek should appear. The council sat in silence until about twelve o'clock, when suddenly the brave Mickenoek bounded into the midst of the council, calmly surveyed the chiefs, and sat down in silence in the centre of the lodge; his wife and children immediately followed and formed a circle round him. Then taking out his flint, he struck a spark and lighted his pipe, and smoked it in silence; the eyes of all the council and his little family were fixed intently upon him. At length Mickenoek arose, and addressing himself to the chief, said: 'I killed your son. He was a young brave; he did me no wrong; he was my friend. I drank the fire drink; the fire drink made me kill your son. Mickenoek is very sorry, and deserves to die.' Then turning to the eldest brother of the deceased, he drew a knife from his bosom. 'There,' said Mickenoek, 'is the knife that drank the heart's blood of your brother; take it and avenge your brother's death.' This said, Mickenoek instantly laid bare his whole breast. The brother stepped up to him, clenched the knife with a death grasp, and drew up his arm. Mickenoek, pointing to the spot near the heart, gave the word 'Strike.' Indeed, the brother plunged his knife to the hilt into the bosom of the brave Mickenoek, who fell dead at his feet.

The wife and children of Mickenoek beheld the whole scene without a murmur or a tear; but the moment the steel had pierced him, they embraced him with weeping that cannot be described, and altogether presented a picture of unaffected, genuine sorrow. After a few moments the old chief addressed the widow, offering her and her children a home with him and promising to care for them.