The bee-hunter and the Chippewa accidentally came together, as the men moved slowly toward their own hut, when the following short dialogue occurred between them.
Is that you, Pigeonswing?” exclaimed le Bourdon, when he found his friend touching an elbow, as if by chance.
“Yes, dis me—want better friend, eh?”
“No, I’m well satisfied to have you near me, in an alarm, Chippewa. We’ve stood by each other once, in troublesome times; and I think we can do as much, ag’in.”
“Yes; stand by friend—dat honor. Nebber turn back on friend; dat my way.”
“Chippewa, who blew the blast on the horn?—can you tell me that?”
“Why don’t you ask Peter? He wise chief—know eb-beryt’ing. Young Injin ask ole Injin when don’t know—why not young pale-face ask ole man, too, eh?”
“Pigeonswing, if truth was said, I believe it would be found that you suspect Peter of having a hand in this business?”
This speech was rather too idiomatic for the comprehension of the Indian, who answered according to his own particular view of the matter.
“Don’t blow horn wid hand,” he said—“Injin blow wid mout’, just like pale-face.”
The bee-hunter did not reply; but his companion’s remark had a tendency to revive in his breast certain unpleasant and distrustful feelings toward the mysterious savage, which the incidents and communications of the last two weeks had had a strong tendency to put to sleep.
None knows his lineage, age, or name;
His looks are like the snows of Caucasus; his eyes
Beam with the wisdom of collected ages
In green, unbroken years he sees, ’tis said,
The generations pass like autumn fruits,
Garner’d, consumed, and springing fresh to life,
Again to perish—
No further disturbance took place that night, and the men set about filling up the trenches in the morning steadily, as if nothing had happened. They talked a little of the extraordinary occurrence, but more was thought than said. Le Bourdon observed, however, that Pigeonswing went earlier than usual to the hunt, and that he made his preparations as if he expected to be absent more than the customary time.
As there were just one hundred feet of ditch to fill with dirt, the task was completed, and that quite thoroughly, long ere the close of the day. The pounding down of the earth consumed more time, and was much more laborious than the mere tumbling of the earth back into its former bed; but even this portion of the work was sufficiently attended to. When all was done, the corporal himself, a very critical sort of person in what he called “garrisons,” was fain to allow that it was as “pretty a piece of palisading” as he had ever laid eyes on.