“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.”

“Which way d’ye think he’s travelling?  As I understood you, he and you fell into the same path within a mile of this very spot.  Was the meeting altogether friendly?”

“Yes; friendly—­but ask too many question—­too much squaw—­ask one question, den stop for answer.”

“Very true—­I will remember that an Indian likes to do one thing at a time.  Which way, then, do you think he’s travelling?”

“Don’t know—­on’y guess—­guess he on path to Blackbird.”

“And where is Blackbird, and what is he about?”

“Two question, dat!” returned the Chippewa, smiling, and holding up two of his fingers, at the same time, by way of rebuke.  “Blackbird on war-path;—­when warrior on dat path, he take scalp if can get him.”

“But where is his enemy?  There are no whites in this part of the country, but here and there a trader, or a trapper, or a bee-hunter, or a voyageur.”

“Take his scalp—­all scalp good, in war time.  An’t partic’lar, down at Montreal.  What you call garrison at Chicago?”

“Blackbird, you then think, may be moving upon Chicago.  In that case, Chippewa, you should outrun this Pottawatamie, and reach the post in time to let its men know the danger.”

“Start, as soon as eat breakfast.  Can’t go straight, nudder, or Pottawatamie see print of moccasin.  Must t’row him off trail.”

“Very true; but I’ll engage you’re cunning enough to do that twice over, should it be necessary.”

Just then Gershom Waring came out of the cabin, gaping like a hound, and stretching his arms, as if fairly wearied with sleep.  At the sight of this man the Indian made a gesture of caution, saying, however, in an undertone: 

“How is heart—­Yankee or Breesh—­love Montreal, eh?  Pretty good scalp!  Love King George, eh?”

“I rather think not, but am not certain.  He is a poor pale-face, however, and it’s of no great account how he stands.  His scalp would hardly be worth the taking, whether by English or American.”

“Sell, down at Montreal—­better look out for Pottawatamie.  Don’t like that Injin.”

“We’ll be on our guard against him; and there he comes, looking as if his breakfast would be welcome, and as if he was already thinking of a start.”