"YOU are a Pottawattamie, and YOU a Chippewa," said le Bourdon, as
he courteously handed to his two red guests pipes of theirs, that he
had just stuffed with some of his own tobacco--"I believe you are a
sort of cousins, though your tribes are called by different names."

"Nation, Ojebway," returned the elder Indian, holding up a finger,
by way of enforcing attention.

"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