“Who kill and scalp my young man?” asked Cloud, a little abruptly.

“Has my brother lost a warrior?” was the calm reply.  “Yes, I see that he has.  A medicine-man can see that, though it is dark.”

“Who kill him, if can see?-who scalp him, too?”

“An enemy did both,” answered le Bourdon, oracularly.  “Yes; ’twas an enemy that killed him; and an enemy that took his scalp.”

“Why do it, eh?  Why come here to take Pottawattamia scalp, when no war-path open, eh?”

“Pottawattamie, the truth must always be said to a medicine-man.  There is no use in trying to hide truth from him.  There is a war-path open; and a long and a tangled path it is.  My Great Father at Washington has dug up the hatchet against my Great Father at Quebec.  Enemies always take scalps when they can get them.”

“Dat true—­dat right, too—­nobody grumble at dat—­but who enemy? pale-face or red-skin?”

“This time it was a red-skin—­a Chippewa—­one of your own nation, though not of your own tribe.  A warrior called Pigeonswing, whom you had in thongs, intending to torture him in the morning.  He cut his thongs, and shot your young man—­after which he took his scalp.”

“How know dat?” demanded the Cloud, a little fiercely.  “You ’long, and help kill Pottawattamie, eh?”

“I know it,” answered le Bourdon, coolly, “because medicine-men know most of what happens.  Do not be so hasty, chief, for this is a medicine spot—­whiskey grows here.”

A common exclamation escaped all of the red men, who comprehended the clear, distinct, and oracular-like language and manner of the bee-hunter.  He intended to make an impression on his listeners, and he succeeded admirably; perhaps as much by means of manner as of matter.  As has been said, all who understood his words—­some four or five of the party—­grunted forth their surprise at this evidence of their guest’s acquaintance with the secrets of the place, in which they were joined by the rest of their companions, as soon as the words of the pale-face had been translated.  Even the experienced and wary old chiefs, who had more than half conjectured the truth, in connection with this mysterious odor of whiskey, were much unsettled in their opinions concerning the wonder, and got to be in that condition of mind when a man does not know what to think of any particular event.  The bee-hunter, quick-witted, and managing for his life, was not slow to perceive the advantage he had gained, and he proceeded at once to clinch the nail he had so skilfully driven.  Turning from Cloud to the head-chief of the party, a warrior whom he had no difficulty in recognizing, after having so long watched his movements in the earlier part of the night, he pushed the same subject a little further.

“Yes; this place is called by the whites Whiskey Centre,” he added—­ “which means that it is the centre of all the whiskey of the country round about.”