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?” “I suppose it is as good as another's--but he and I are countrymen, and we cannot raise the tomahawk on one another.” “Don't t'ink so. Plenty Yankee, him!” Le Bourdon smiled at this proof of Pigeonswings sagacity, though he felt a good deal of uneasiness at the purport of his discourse. “You are right enough in THAT” he answered, “but I'm plenty of Yankee, too.” “No, don't say so,” returned the Chippewa--“no, mustn't say DAT. English; no Yankee. HIM not a bit like you.” “Why, we are unlike each other, in some respects, it is true, though we are countrymen, notwithstanding. My great father lives at Washington, as well as his.” The Chippewa appeared to be disappointed; perhaps he appeared sorry, too; for le Bourdon's frank and manly hospitality had disposed him to friendship instead of hostilities, while his admissions would rather put him in an antagonist position. It was probably with a kind motive that he pursued the discourse in a way to give his host some insight into the true condition of matters in that part of the world. “Plenty Breetish in woods,” he said, with marked deliberation and point. “Yankee no come yet.” “Let me know the truth, at once, Chippewa,” exclaimed le Bourdon. “I am but a peaceable bee-hunter, as you see, and wish no man's scalp, or any man's honey but my own. Is there to be a war between America and Canada, or not?”