“Don’t want count all,” answered Pigeonswing.  “Want to know how many dis side of great salt lake.”

“That’s another matter, and more easily come at.  I understand you now, Chippewa; you wish to know how many of us there are in the country we call America?”

“Juss so,” returned Pigeonswing, nodding in assent.  “Dat juss it—­ juss what Injin want to know.”

“Well, we do have a count of our own people, from time to time, and I suppose come about as near to the truth as men can come in such a matter.  There must be about eight millions of us altogether; that is, old and young, big and little, male and female.”

“How many warrior you got?—­don’t want hear about squaw and pappoose.”

“No, I see you’re warlike this morning, and want to see how we are likely to come out of this struggle with your great Canada father.  Counting all round, I think we might muster hard on upon a million of fighting men—­good, bad, and indifferent; that is to say, there must be a million of us of proper age to go into the wars.”

Pigeonswing made no answer for near a minute.  Both he and the bee-hunter had come to a halt alongside of the bear’s meat, and the latter was beginning to prepare his own portion of the load for transportation, while his companion stood thus motionless, lost in thought.  Suddenly, Pigeonswing recovered his recollection, and resumed the conversation, by saying: 

“What million mean, Bourdon?  How many time so’ger at Detroit, and so’ger on lakes?”

“A million is more than the leaves on all the trees in these openings”—­le Bourdon’s notions were a little exaggerated, perhaps, but this was what he said—­“yes, more than the leaves on all these oaks, far and near.  A million is a countless number, and I suppose would make a row of men as long as from this spot to the shores of the great salt lake, if not farther.”

It is probable that the bee-hunter himself had no very clear notion of the distance of which he spoke, or of the number of men it would actually require to fill the space he mentioned; but his answer sufficed deeply to impress the imagination of the Indian, who now helped le Bourdon to secure his load to his back, in silence, receiving the same service in return.  When the meat of the bear was securely bestowed, each resumed his rifle, and the friends commenced their march in, toward the chiente; conversing, as they went, on the matter which still occupied their minds.  When the bee-hunter again took up the history of the creation, it was to speak of our common mother.

“You will remember, Chippewa,” he said, “that I told you nothing on the subject of any woman.  What I have told you, as yet, consarned only the first man, who was made out of clay, into whom God breathed the breath of life.”

“Dat good—­make warrior fuss.  Juss right.  When breat’ in him, fit to take scalp, eh?”

“Why, as to that, it is not easy to see whom he was to scalp, seeing that he was quite alone in the world, until it pleased his Creator to give him a woman for a companion.”