he did suppose there would be less difficulty in getting him to go on a path different from that which the missionary and corporal might take.  His own great purpose was to serve le Bourdon, and how many or how few might incidentally profit by it he did not care.  The truth compels us to own, that even Margery’s charms, and nature, and warm-hearted interest in all around her, had failed to make any impression on his marble-like feelings; while the bee-hunter’s habits, skill in his craft, and close connection with himself at the mouth of the river, and more especially in liberating him from his enemies, had united him in a comrade’s friendship with her husband.  It was a little singular that this Chippewa did not fall into Peter’s superstitious dread of the bee-hunter’s necromancy, though he was aware of all that had passed the previous day on the prairie.  Either on account of his greater familiarity with le Bourdon’s habits, or because he was in the secret of the trick of the whiskey-spring, or from a closer knowledge of white men and their ways, this young Indian was freer from apprehensions of this nature, perhaps, than any one of the same color and origin within many miles of the spot.  In a word, Pigeons-wing regarded the bee-hunter as his friend, while he looked upon the other pale-faces as so many persons thrown by accident in his company.  Now that Margery had actually become his friend’s squaw, his interest in her was somewhat increased; though she had never obtained that interest in his feelings that she had awakened in the breast of Peter, by her attentions to him, her gentleness, light-hearted gayety, and womanly care, and all without the least design on her own part.

“No,” answered the Chippewa, after a moment’s reflection, “no very safe for Yankee, or Yankee Injin.  Don’t t’ink my scalp very safe, if chief know’d I’m Yankee runner.  Bess alway to keep scalp safe.  Dem Pottawattamie I take care not to see.  Know all about ’em, too.  Know what he say—­know what he do—­b’lieve I know what he t’ink.”

“I did not see you, Pigeon, among the red young men, yesterday, out on Prairie Round.”

“Know too much to go dere.  Crowsfeather and Pottawattamie out dere.  Bess not go near dem when dey have eye open.  Take ’em asleep.  Dat bess way wid sich Injin.  Catch ’em some time!  But your ear open, Bourdon?”

“Wide open, my good friend—­what have you to whisper in it?”

“You look hard at Peter when he come in.  If he t’ink good deal, and don’t say much, when he do speak, mind what he say.  If he smile, and very much friend, must hab his scalp.”

“Chippewa, Peter is my friend, lives in my cabin, and eats of my bread!  The hand that touches him, touches me.”

“Which bess, eh—­his scalp, or your’n?  If he very much friend when he comes in, his scalp muss come off, or your’n.  Yes, juss so.  Dat de way.  Know Injin better dan you know him, Bourdon.  You good bee-hunter, but poor Injin.  Ebbery body hab his way—­Injin got his.  Peter laugh and very much friend, when he come home, den he mean to hab your scalp.  If don’t smile, and don’t seem very much friend, but look down, and t’ink, t’ink, t’ink, den he no mean to hurt you, but try to get you out of hand of chiefs.  Dat all.”