“Gad! It’s true, then,” spoke the old Englishman. “The frontier pot’s boilin’; eh, Gist?”
The third man, who was a stout, gray-eyed, red-faced man weathered by sun and wind, heat and cold, nodded.
“Yes, my lord. ’Tis high time for action, or we lose the west and are penned in like sheep.”
“French come with soldiers. Bury plates to make the land theirs, and order English out,” said Robert. And he insisted: “Washington march his company and stay.”
“Tanacharison does not understand,” said Washington, gravely. “He has heard of the Ohio Company. That is not my company. I have no company. I am George Washington. It is my brother Lawrence Washington who is head of the company.”
“Huh!” said Scarouady. “He chief?”
“A soldier chief. Older than I am.”
“Wah!” Scarouady grunted. “Too many Washington. Where he?”
“He is far,” replied George Washington, with the sign. “But the company is coming to the Ohio. It is making ready. You tell him, Chris. It’s well we’ve camped here. This man,” he added, to Scarouady, “is Christopher Gist, a great trader and hunter.”
“Brother,” spoke Christopher Gist, in the Mingo dialect, which was a sort of trade tongue used among all the Indians. “I see you are a chief.”