As the sun rose on the fifth day, a bird flew into the tree. He saw the hunter lying on the ground, and came close and spoke to him.
The hunter understood, for in those days men and birds could talk together.
The bird asked the man what he could do for him, and the hunter whispered, "You are strong. You can fly a long trail. Go and tell the chief of my people."
The bird flew swiftly away with the message. He did not wait until the sun was high. He did not stop to eat one berry or one worm. He did not fly high, nor fly low to talk with other birds. He went straight to the people the hunter had told him of.
The West Wind tried to blow him back. A black cloud came up to frighten him, but he went through it. On, and on, and on, he went. Straight to the wigwam of the chief, he carried his message.
The chief had called together the young men who were fleet of foot, and was about to send them forth to find the lost hunter. They were asking the chief what trails they had best take. Before the chief could reply, a beautiful dove-colored bird had flown close to his ear and had spoken to him in soft, low tones.
The chief told the young men what the bird had said, and they set off on the trail the bird had named. Before sunset, they had found the lost hunter.
Carefully they freed him from the grasp of the great oak and bore him to his people. That night there was a feast and a dance in his honor.
Ever since, the Indians have loved the birds that carry the messages, and they never shoot a pigeon.