“He might as well save his breath,” remarked Tom.
“Otherwise,” went on Bright Star, “Ne-a-pope say Sacs will boil pale-face alive.”
“He’s cracked in the dome,” snorted Ben, “if he thinks he can scare us with that twaddle.”
“He’s too wise a coot to think that,” Bill Brown averred.
“Then why’s he doing it, Bill?” wondered Tom.
“To mislead us, keep us thinkin’ that the Sacs are still there in the timber.”
“Well, aren’t they?” exploded Tom.
“I’m afeared not. You know, my thick skull is jest startin’ to percolate. Come to think, I crossed the Wisconsin once at this very place.”
“You did?” inquired Ben surprisedly.
“Yep, I did. The river is shaller at this p’int, an’ well broken with small islands. An’ all night long, whilst we been a huddlin’ here in the mist an’ fog, why them pesky Sacs has been fordin’ over in a steady parade.”