“That’s right, Bill,” nodded the Major. “I always found you true blue, all wool and a yard wide.”
“Well, it’s entirely up to you, sir,” snapped the Captain, perceiving that he had lost his case, and stepping out the door, “but I must repeat that Brown’s story is sheer balderdash. These ragamuffin, western Indians will cause no trouble. I, myself, am too busy a man to spend precious time listening to such a pipe-dream.”
“You won’t think it’s a pipe-dream,” snorted Bill Brown indignantly, “when you find an Injun arrer stickin’ in the seat o’ yer pants.”
Major Whistler sat bolt upright in his chair, his lean, long-fingered hands gripping the edge of the table before him.
“Listen now, Bill,” he said, his eyes cold as steel, “you really think that Indian arrows soon will be flying?”
“Aye, Major; an’ white-man bullets, too.”
“A bold statement, my friend, a very bold statement. Present your proof.”
“I will, Major. It’s time fer Bill Brown to put up, er shut up.”
“Very well. Lay all your cards on the table.”
“It’s thisaway,” Bill began, “I’m jest back from a scoutin’ trip ’cross the Mississippi, in Ioway Terr’tory, amongst the Sac tribes.”