Pigeonswing, as this young Indian was commonly called in his tribe, in consequence of the rapidity of his movement when employed as a runner, had a much more respectable name, and one that he had fairly earned in some of the forays of his people, but which the commonalty had just the same indisposition to use as the French have to call Marshal Soult the Duc de Dalmatie. The last may be the most honorable title, but it is not that by which he is the best known to his countrymen. Waubkenewh was an appellation, notwithstanding, of which the young Chippewa was justly proud; and he often asserted his right to use it, as sternly as the old hero of Toulouse asserted his right to his duchy, when the Austrians wished to style him “le Marechal DUC Soult.” “And you are friendly to the Yankees, and an enemy to the red-coats?” Waubkenewh grasped the hand of le Bourdon, and squeezed it firmly. Then he said, warily: “Take care--Elkfoot friend of Blackbird; like to look at Canada belt. Got medal of king, too. Have Yankee scalp, bye'm by. Take care--must speak low, when Elkfoot near.” “I begin to understand you, Chippewa; you wish me to believe that YOU are a friend to America, and that the Pottawatamie is not. If this be so, why have you held the speech that you did last night, and seemed to be on a war-path AGAINST my countrymen?” “Dat good way, eh? Elkfoot den t'ink me HIS friend dat very good in war-time.” “But is it true, or false, that Mackinaw is taken by the British?” “Dat true too--gone, and warrior all prisoner. Plenty Winnebago, plenty Pottawatamie, plenty Ottowa, plenty redskin, dere.” “And the Chippewas?” “Some Ojebway, too”--answered Pigeonswing, after a reluctant pause. “Can't all go on same path this war. Hatchets, somehow, got two handle--one strike Yankee; one strike King George.” “But what is your business here, and where are you now going if you are friendly to the Americans? I make no secret of my feelings--I am for my own people, and I wish proof that you are a friend, and not an enemy.” “Too many question, one time,” returned the Chippewa, a little distastefully. “No good have so long tongue. Ask one question, answer him--ask anoder, answer HIM, too.” “Well, then, what is your business, here?” “Go to Chicago, for gen'ral.” “Do you mean that you bear a message from some American general to the commandant at Chicago?” “Just so--dat my business. Guess him, right off; he, he, he!” It is so seldom that an Indian laughs that the bee-hunter was startled. “Where is the general who has sent you on this errand?” he demanded. “He at Detroit--got whole army dere--warrior plenty as oak in opening.” All this was news to the bee-hunter, and it caused him to muse a moment, ere he proceeded. “What is the name of the American general who has sent you on this path?” he then demanded. “Hell,” answered the Ojebway, quietly.