“Thar’ll be lightnin’ all round then, for sure,” said Jackson, in a tone of conviction. “We’ve got to fight doggoned well to whip the Shawnees this time. Who fetched the news, kurnel?”
“This stranger, hyer,” replied Boone, pointing to Abe Lark, who stood by his side.
“Glad to see you, stranger,” said Jackson, tendering his huge paws and receiving a grip that made him wince with pain, muscular and hard as his horny palm was.
“Same to you, ole hoss,” returned Lark, with a grin on his disfigured face at the expression of astonishment that came over the features of burly Jake Jackson, when he received the powerful squeeze of Lark’s hand.
“Jerusalem!” muttered Jake, looking at his hand in amazement, “that’s a reg’lar b’ar-hug an’ no mistake.”
“Wal, I reckon the man that gits a grip from me knows it,” replied Lark.
“Well, ’bout this news. Are you sartin, stranger, that the red devils are a-comin’ ag’in’ us?”
“If you don’t hear the Shawnee war-whoop inside of ten days you kin jist chaw one of my fingers off, an’ I don’t keer which you take,” replied Lark, with another grin.
“Then it will be fight, and no mistake.”
“You kin bet your moccasins on that, an’ you’ll lose ’em every time. The Shawnees have sworn to wipe out every white settlement along the Ohio. Thar’ll be nigh onto ten thousand Injuns in the field. They are hot arter blood. You’ll have to fight for your top-knots or lose ’em.”