“Yes,” answered the Chippewa, nodding his head in assent. “Den Manitou put plenty blood in him--dat make red warrior. Bible good book, if tell dat tradition.” “The Bible says nothing about any colors; but we suppose the man first made to have been a pale-face. At any rate, the pale-faces have got possession of the best parts of the earth, as it might be, and I think they mean to keep them. First come, first served, you know. The pale-faces are many, and are strong.” “Stop!” exclaimed Pigeonswing, in a way that was very unusual for an Indian to interrupt another when speaking; “want to ask question--how many pale-face you t'ink is dere? Ebber count him?” “Count him!--Why, Chippewa, you might as well count the bees, as they buzz around a fallen tree. You saw me cut down the tree I last discovered, and saw the movement of the little animals, and may judge what success tongue or eye would have in counting THEM; now, just as true would it be to suppose that any man could count the pale-faces on this earth.” “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.”