At the extreme end was a small, flat metal mouthpiece, for this strange
weapon was a combination of sun and shadow; it held within itself the
unique capabilities of being a tomahawk, the most savage instrument in
Indian warfare, and also a peace pipe, that most beautiful of all Indian
treasures.
"It is so strange," said the boy, fingering the weapon lovingly. "Your
people are the most terrible on the warpath of all the nations in the
world, yet they seem to think more of that word 'peace,' and to honor it
more, than all of us put together. Why, you even make silver chains for
emblems of peace, like this," and he tangled his slim fingers in the
links that looped from the lower angle of the steel edge to the handle.
"Yes," replied Queetah, "we value peace; it is a holy word to the red
man, perhaps because it is so little with us, because we know its face
so slightly. The face of peace has no fiery stripes of color, no streaks
of the deadly black and red, the war paints of the fighting Mohawks. It
is a face of silver, like this chain, and when it smiles upon us, we
wash the black and red from off our cheeks, and smoke this pipe as a
sign of brotherhood with all men.
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