Ah! Yes! Ohio knew what Indian war meant.
And Cato, for the first time, realized whither he was going. He ceased to talk of his sweethearts and began to pray for his soul.
At last Jack came to Piqua. Piqua stood close to the boundary of the Indian country, which then spread over the whole northwestern quarter of Ohio. North of it lay the great Black Swamp, through which roved thousands of Indians, nominally peaceful, but potentially dangerous. At Piqua, too, dwelt Colonel John Johnson, the United States Indian agent, whose business it was to keep them quiet.
As Jack rode into the outskirts of the tiny scattered village, a middle-aged man with long, gray whiskers, skull cap, and buckskin trousers came up to him.
“Hello, stranger!” he bawled. “What’s the news?”
Jack reined in. “Sorry, but I haven’t any,” he replied.
“Whar you from?”
“From Dayton and the south.”
“Sho! Ain’t Congress declared war yet?”
“Not that I know of. The last news from Washington was that they were still debating.”