Pigeonswing turned to look
at his companion, in a way that seemed to inquire how far he was
really the dupe of the mysterious Indian's wiles. Then, suddenly
aware of the importance of not betraying all he himself knew, until
the proper moment had arrived, he bent his eyes forward again,
continuing onward and answering somewhat evasively.
"Don't know," he replied. "Hunter nebber tell. Chief want venison,
and he must hunt. Just like squaw in pale-face wigwam--work, work--
sweep, sweep--cook, cook--never know when work done. So hunter hunt-
-hunt--hunt."
"And for that matter, Chippewa, just like squaw in the red man's
village, too. Hoe, hoe--dig, dig--carry, carry--so that she never
knows when she may sit down to rest."
"Yes," returned Pigeonswing, coolly nodding his assent as he moved
steadily forward. "Dat do right way wid squaw--juss what he good
for--juss what he MADE for--work for warrior and cook his dinner.
Pale-face make too much of squaw."
"Not accordin' to your account of their manner of getting along,
Injin. If the work of our squaws is never done, we can hardly make
too much of them. Where does Peter keep HIS squaw?"
"Don't know," answered the Chippewa.
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