MAJOR WHISTLER’s quarters in Fort Dearborn proved to be a very fine room, a finer room, in fact, than the two eastern lads had supposed existed on the untamed, western border.
There were several colored prints on the walls, racing and hunting scenes mostly; and all of two score books on a tidy shelf aside the ample stone fireplace. Also, over the fireplace, were crossed swords, long, slender blades with handsome hilts. The walls themselves were of boards, so from the inside a person would never know he was in a log building. The floor was of well-matched hardwood, with fur rugs scattered about. And here and there were low, lazy-looking chairs, fashioned of maple with strong, raw-hide seats.
“Well, if it isn’t my old scouting pardner, Bill Brown,” greeted the Major genially, as he shook hands. “And who are these two lads? Say, how do you tell them apart? They’re alike as two peas in a pod.”
“’Tis quite a chore to tell tother from which,” grinned the scout, “but anyway, ther names is Tom an’ Ben Gordon; an’ ther a pair o’ fine, stout lads.”
“They look it,” agreed the Major amiably. “Now sit down, all of you.”
He pulled a briar pipe from a table drawer, and was silent for a moment as he filled and lighted it.
“Well, what’s new on the border, Bill?” he then asked.
“Plenty, Major. The Injuns are buzzin’ like a mess o’ hornets.”
“No?”
“Yep, in fack, we bring word of a big Injun plot,” went on Bill solemnly, coming at once to the point.