It was soon understood by every one that the river was to be crossed, in order that Gershom might get his household effects, previously to ascending the Kalamazoo.  This set all at—­work but the Chippewa, who appeared to le Bourdon to be watchful and full of distrust.  As the latter had a job before him, that would be likely to consume a couple of hours, the others were ready for a start long before he had his hole dug.  It was therefore arranged that the bee-hunter should complete his task, while the others crossed the stream, and went in quest of Gershom’s scanty stock of household goods.  Pigeonswing, however, was not to be found, when the canoes were ready, and Peter proceeded without him.  Nor did le Bourdon see anything of his friend until the adventurers were fairly on the north shore, when he rejoined le Bourdon, sitting on a log, a curious spectator of the latter’s devices to conceal his property, but not offering to aid him in a single movement.  The bee-hunter too well understood an Indian warrior’s aversion to labor of all sorts, unless it be connected with his military achievements, to be surprised at his companion’s indifference to his own toil.  As the work went on, a friendly dialogue was kept up between the parties.

“I didn’t know, Pigeonswing, but you had started for the openings, before us,” observed le Bourdon.  “That tribeless old Injin made something of a fuss about your being out of the way; I dare say he wanted you to help back the furniture down to the canoes.”

“Got squaw—­what he want—­better to do dat?”

“So you would put that pretty piece of work on such persons as Margery and Dolly!”

“Why not, no?  Bot’ squaw-bot know how.  Dere business to work for warrior.”

“Did you keep out of the way, then, lest old Peter should get you at a job that is onsuitable to your manhood?”

“Keep out of way of Pottawattamie,” returned the Chippewa; “no want to lose scalp-radder take his’n.”

“But Peter says the Pottawattamies are all gone, and that we have no longer any reason to fear them; and this medicine-priest tells us, that what Peter says we can depend on for truth.”

“Dat good medicine-man, eh?  T’ink he know a great deal, eh?”

“That is more than I can tell you, Pigeonswing; for though I’ve been a medicine-man myself, so lately, it is in a different line altogether from that of Parson Amen’s.”

As the bee-hunter uttered this answer, he was putting the last of his honey-kegs into the cache, and as he rose from completing the operation, he laughed heartily, like one who saw images in the occurrences of the past night, that tended to divert himself, if they had not the same effect on the other spectators.

“If you medicine-man, can tell who Peter be?  Winnebagoe, Sioux, Fox, Ojebway, Six Nations all say don’t know him.  Medicine-man ought to know—­who he be, eh?”

“I am not enough of a medicine-man to answer your question, Pigeonswing.  Set me at finding a whiskey-spring, or any little job of that sort, and I’ll turn my back to no other whiskey-spring finder on the whole frontier; but, as for Peter, he goes beyond my calculations, quite.  Why is he called Scalping Peter in the garrisons, if he be so good an Injin, Chippewa?”