“Tribe, Pottawattamie,” added the runner, in the same sententious manner.
“Baccy, good”—put in the senior, by way of showing he was well contented with his comforts.
“Have you nothin' to drink?” demanded Whiskey Centre, who saw no great merit in anything but “firewater.”
“There is the spring,” returned le Bourdon, gravely; “a gourd hangs against the tree.”
Gershom made a wry face, but he did not move.
“Is there any news stirring among the tribes?” asked the bee-hunter, waiting, however, a decent interval, lest he might be supposed to betray a womanly curiosity.
Elksfoot puffed away some time before he saw fit to answer, reserving a salvo in behalf of his own dignity. Then he removed the pipe, shook off the ashes, pressed down the fire a little, gave a reviving draught or two, and quietly replied:
“Ask my young brother—he runner—he know.”
But Pigeonswing seemed to be little more communicative than the Pottawattamie. He smoked on in quiet dignity, while the bee-hunter patiently waited for the moment when it might suit his younger guest to speak. That moment did not arrive for some time, though it came at last. Almost five minutes after Elksfoot had made the allusion mentioned, the Ojebway, or Chippewa, removed his pipe also, and looking courteously round at his host, he said with emphasis:
“Bad summer come soon. Pale-faces call young men togedder, and dig up hatchet.”