Pigeonswing made no answer for near a minute. Both he and the bee-hunter had come to a halt alongside of the bear's meat, and the latter was beginning to prepare his own portion of the load for transportation, while his companion stood thus motionless, lost in thought. Suddenly, Pigeonswing recovered his recollection, and resumed the conversation, by saying:
“What million mean, Bourdon? How many time so'ger at Detroit, and so'ger on lakes?”
“A million is more than the leaves on all the trees in these openings”—le Bourdon's notions were a little exaggerated, perhaps, but this was what he SAID—“yes, more than the leaves on all these oaks, far and near. A million is a countless number, and I suppose would make a row of men as long as from this spot to the shores of the great salt lake, if not farther.”
It is probable that the bee-hunter himself had no very clear notion of the distance of which he spoke, or of the number of men it would actually require to fill the space he mentioned; but his answer sufficed deeply to impress the imagination of the Indian, who now helped le Bourdon to secure his load to his back, in silence, receiving the same service in return. When the meat of the bear was securely bestowed, each resumed his rifle, and the friends commenced their march in, toward the chiente; conversing, as they went, on the matter which still occupied their minds. When the bee-hunter again took up the history of the creation, it was to speak of our common mother.
“You will remember, Chippewa,” he said, “that I told you nothing on the subject of any woman. What I have told you, as yet, consarned only the first MAN, who was made out of clay, into whom God breathed the breath of life.”
“Dat good—make warrior fuss. Juss right. When breat' in him, fit to take scalp, eh?”
“Why, as to that, it is not easy to see whom he was to scalp, seeing that he was quite alone in the world, until it pleased his Creator to give him a woman for a companion.”
“Tell 'bout dat,” returned Pigeonswing, with interest—“tell how he got squaw.”
“Accordin' to the Bible, God caused this man to fall into a deep sleep, when he took one of his ribs, and out of that he made a squaw for him. Then he put them both to live together, in a most beautiful garden, in which all things excellent and pleasant was to be found—some such place as these openings, I reckon.”
“Any bee dere?” asked the Indian, quite innocently. “Plenty honey, eh?”