“Oh, no; but we might be able to hold a parley with him. I think he would prefer to arrange matters peaceably with us if he could. He must know that he can not drive back our party without considerable loss to himself.”
“Yes, and from what I have heard old Gummery Glyndon say, I should fancy that these Indians don’t like to take any risks. Do you know, Percy, I’d like to have a scrimmage with the red-skins. I think it would beat bear-hunting all hollow—Smoholler!”
Percy Vere laughed at this pun upon the Prophet’s name.
“It might not be so funny as you imagine,” he answered; “particularly if we should happen to get the worst of it, and you should have your hair lifted.”
Percy Cute passed his fingers through his shock of flaxen hair, reflectively.
“I would not like to be obliged to experiment on Professor Ike’s Restorative in that fashion,” he said. “I’m afraid the soil is too poor for another crop, even with that help. But I’m not going to let any Indian take my top-knot if I can help it. I’ll trust to my arms, while my powder and bullets last.”
“And failing these?”
“My dependence will be in my legs.”
“You are too fat to run fast.”
“Not if a crowd of red-skins was after me. The way I could get over the ground then would be a caution to bedbugs.”