“Hell! You mean to give his Indian title, I suppose, to show that he will prove dangerous to the wicked. But how is he called in our own tongue?” “Hell--dat he name--good name for so'ger, eh?” “I believe I understand you, Chippewa--Hull is the name of the governor of the territory, and you must have mistaken the sound--'is it not so?” “Hull--Hell--don't know--just same--one good as t'other.” “Yes, one will do as well as the other, if a body only understands you. So Governor Hull sent you here?” “No gubbernor--general, tell you. Got big army--plenty warrior--eat Breesh up!” “Now, Chippewa, answer me one thing to my likin', or I shall set you down as a man with a forked tongue, though you do call yourself a friend of the Yankees. If you have been sent from Detroit to Chicago, why are you so far north as this? Why are you here, on the banks of the Kalamazoo, when your path ought to lead you more toward the St. Joseph's?” “Been to Mackinaw. Gen'ral says, first go to Mackinaw and see wid own eye how garrison do--den go to Chicago, and tell warrior dere what happen, and how he best manage. Understan' dat, Bourdon?” “Aye, it all sounds well enough, I will acknowledge. You have been to Mackinaw to look about you, there, and having seen things with your own eyes, have started for Chicago to give your knowledge to the commandant at that place. Now, redskin, have you any proof of what you say?” For some reason that the bee-hunter could not yet fathom, the Chippewa was particularly anxious either to obtain his confidence, or to deceive him. Which he was attempting, was not yet quite apparent; but that one or other was uppermost in his mind, Ben thought was beyond dispute. As soon as the question last named was put, however, the Indian looked cautiously around him, as if to be certain there were no spectators. Then he carefully opened his tobacco-pouch, and extricated from the centre of the cut weed a letter that was rolled into the smallest compass to admit of this mode of concealment, and which was encircled by a thread. The last removed, the letter was unrolled, and its superscription exposed. The address was to “Captain--Heald, U. S. Army, commanding at Chicago.” In one corner were the words “On public service, by Pigeonswing.” All this was submitted to the bee-hunter, who read it with his own eyes. “Dat good”--asked the Chippewa, pointedly--“dat tell trut'-b'lieve HIM?” Le Bourdon grasped the hand of the Indian, and gave it a hearty squeeze. Then he said frankly, and like a man who no longer entertained any doubts: “I put faith in all you say, Chippewa. That is an officer's letter, and I now see that you are on the right side. You play'd so deep a game, at first, hows'ever, that I didn't know exactly what to make of you. Now, as for the Pottawattamie--do you set him down as friend or foe, in reality?” “Enemy--take your scalp--take my scalp, in minute only can't catch him. He got belt from Montreal, and it look handsome in his eye.”