“’Cause I heard the gin’ral sayin’ so. I heard him say he’d asked foh moh soldiers, to guard the line cl’ar to the mountings. Yessuh. He’s asked Gin’ral Sherman. How far you gwine?”
“I dunno. To Omaha, maybe. Why?”
“Got some kin there?”
“No. I’m riding for fun.”
“You ridin’ foh fun?”
“Yes.”
“When you get to Omaha, then you gwine back where you come from?”
“Sure thing. I’ve got a job, at end o’ track.”
“Don’t you do it; don’t you do it, boy,” advised the cook, as darkly as his face. “Don’t you ride ’round these pahts foh fun. No, suh! An’ don’t you staht back from Omaha till Gin’ral Sherman’s soldiers have killed ev’ry one o’ them Injuns. Yessuh! You let Gin’ral Sherman an’ Gin’ral Dodge ’tend to one end o’ track, an’ you get a job at t’other end.”
Terry had to laugh, but the cook’s words struck home. Matters looked bad. The Indians had started in, that was certain; and everybody appeared to think that this was an “Injun” year. Somehow, he felt that he was deserting his post. He was leaving Paddy Miles and the gang to their troubles, and was making for safety, himself.