“Why, the stubborn old goat!” protested Tom, his face reddening with indignation.
“But I’ll fix him yet,” went on Bill, smashing his big, right fist into the palm of his other hand. “I’m a goin’ to take you boys over ther an’ let you give him yer story fust-hand. Mebbe, then, it’ll sink into that thick head o’ his’n, that the pot is really b’ilin’ amongst the Injuns.”
The trio soon was crossing the old log bridge across the Chicago River. As they came to the end of the structure, they chanced to encounter a trim, blue-coated officer, who was walking down from the fort.
“Ho there, Bill Brown!” the officer called back, as if in afterthought, when he had passed them with a cheery greeting.
“What’s up, Left’nant Clark?” replied the big scout, quickly turning about.
“I’d like a word with you, Bill. Here’s some tidings that may interest you.”
“Let’s have ’em; an’ make ’em good.”
“I’ll do that. Major Whistler is here.”
“Major William Whistler?” asked Brown, his eyes opening wide with surprise.
“Yes, he’s back here to take command of his old post, Fort Dearborn. Come in late last evening from Fort Niagara, with companies G and I of the 2nd United States Infantry.”