“You are a Pottawattamie, and you a Chippewa,” said le Bourdon, as he courteously handed to his two red guests pipes of theirs, that he had just stuffed with some of his own tobacco—­“I believe you are a sort of cousins, though your tribes are called by different names.”

“Nation, Ojebway,” returned the elder Indian, holding up a finger, by way of enforcing attention.

“Tribe, Pottawattamie,” added the runner, in the same sententious manner.

“Baccy, good”—­put in the senior, by way of showing he was well contented with his comforts.

“Have you nothin’ to drink?” demanded Whiskey Centre, who saw no great merit in anything but “firewater.”

“There is the spring,” returned le Bourdon, gravely; “a gourd hangs against the tree.”

Gershom made a wry face, but he did not move.

“Is there any news stirring among the tribes?” asked the bee-hunter, waiting, however, a decent interval, lest he might be supposed to betray a womanly curiosity.

Elksfoot puffed away some time before he saw fit to answer, reserving a salvo in behalf of his own dignity.  Then he removed the pipe, shook off the ashes, pressed down the fire a little, gave a reviving draught or two, and quietly replied: 

“Ask my young brother—­he runner—­he know.”

But Pigeonswing seemed to be little more communicative than the Pottawattamie.  He smoked on in quiet dignity, while the bee-hunter patiently waited for the moment when it might suit his younger guest to speak.  That moment did not arrive for some time, though it came at last.  Almost five minutes after Elksfoot had made the allusion mentioned, the Ojebway, or Chippewa, removed his pipe also, and looking courteously round at his host, he said with emphasis: 

“Bad summer come soon.  Pale-faces call young men togedder, and dig up hatchet.”

“I had heard something of this,” answered le Bourdon, with a saddened countenance, “and was afraid it might happen.”

“My brother dig up hatchet too, eh?” demanded Pigeonswing.

“Why should I?  I am alone here, on the Openings, and it would seem foolish in me to wish to fight.”

“Got no tribe—­no Ojebway—­no Pottawattamie, eh?”

“I have my tribe, as well as another, Chippewa, but can see no use I can be to it, here.  If the English and Americans fight, it must be a long way from this wilderness, and on or near the great salt lake.”

“Don’t know—­nebber know, ’till see.  English warrior plenty in Canada.”

“That may be; but American warriors are not plenty here.  This country is a wilderness, and there are no soldiers hereabouts, to cut each other’s throats.”

“What you t’ink him?” asked Pigeonswing, glancing at Gershom; who, unable to forbear any longer, had gone to the spring to mix a cup from a small supply that still remained of the liquor with which he had left home.  “Got pretty good scalp?”