“I know no more than he has himself told me.  By his account there is to be a great council of red men on the prairie, a few miles from this spot; he is waiting for the appointed day to come, in order to go and make one of the chiefs that will be there.  Is not this true, Chippewa?”

“Yes, dat true—­what dat council smoke round fire for, eh?  You know?”

“No, I do not, and would be right glad to have you tell me, Pigeonswing.  Perhaps the tribe mean to have a meetin’ to determine in their own minds which side they ought to take in this war.”

“Not dat nudder.  Know well ’nough which side take.  Got message and wampum from Canada fadder, and most all Injin up this-a way look for Yankee scalp.  Not dat nudder.”

“Then I have no notion what is at the bottom of this council.  Peter seems to expect great things from it; that I can see by his way of talking and looking whenever he speaks of it.”

“Peter want to see him very much.  Smoke at great many sich council fire.”

“Do you intend to be present at this council on Prairie Round?” asked the bee-hunter, innocently enough.  Pigeonswing turned to look at his companion, in a way that seemed to inquire how far he was really the dupe of the mysterious Indian’s wiles.  Then, suddenly aware of the importance of not betraying all he himself knew, until the proper moment had arrived, he bent his eyes forward again, continuing onward and answering somewhat evasively.

“Don’t know,” he replied.  “Hunter nebber tell.  Chief want venison, and he must hunt.  Just like squaw in pale-face wigwam—­work, work—­ sweep, sweep—­cook, cook—­never know when work done.  So hunter hunt--hunt—­hunt.”

“And for that matter, Chippewa, just like squaw in the red man’s village, too.  Hoe, hoe—­dig, dig—­carry, carry—­so that she never knows when she may sit down to rest.”

“Yes,” returned Pigeonswing, coolly nodding his assent as he moved steadily forward.  “Dat do right way wid squaw—­juss what he good for—­juss what he made for—­work for warrior and cook his dinner.  Pale-face make too much of squaw.”

“Not accordin’ to your account of their manner of getting along, Injin.  If the work of our squaws is never done, we can hardly make too much of them.  Where does Peter keep his squaw?”

“Don’t know,” answered the Chippewa.  “Nobody know.  Don’t know where his tribe even.”

“This is very extraor’nary, considering the influence the man seems to enjoy.  How is it that he has so completely got the ears of all the red men, far and near?”