"More than likely—if the Indians will allow it." Dave's face grew sober for a moment. "I wish I was sure that everything was all right at the post."
"Don't you imagine it is?" came quickly from the young man who had been a cripple.
"I don't know what to think—we haven't heard from them in so long. I don't like to talk of these things at home—they only worry Aunt Lucy and the rest. But it's queer father didn't send us some sort of a message around New Year's."
"I was talking to Sam Barringford a few days ago about Pontiac. Sam feels almost certain that Pontiac won't rest until he has one grand fight, and either wins or gets whipped."
"Pontiac is certainly a masterful man—his authority over the different tribes is simply wonderful. When I met him, I could see at once that he wasn't a fellow who would allow himself to be dictated to. Every one of the other chiefs had to bow to him—they couldn't help themselves."
"They are afraid of his magic."
"Perhaps, but some of the other big chiefs must know his so-called magic is simply humbug. No, he's a natural born leader, and they can't help but follow him."
Rodney gave a long-drawn sigh. "Beats all how much fighting we have been having of late year's," he said. "First it was with the French, now it is with the redskins. It seems to me we never will be settled. For two years the crops haven't amounted to anything, because we couldn't attend to them and fight the redskins too. I wish we could have peace."
"You don't wish it any more than I do, Rodney. Look at all Henry and I had to go through with,—when we were in the army. They talk about the glories of a soldier's life. I think there was more hard work than glory."
"Really?" Rodney glanced at his cousin in an odd way, and smiled. "You say that, but I'll wager a shilling that if war came again you'd be one of the first to march against the enemy."