“He hasn’t? I didn’t know it. But that probably means nothing. He may be unable to attend, illness perhaps.”
“Yeah,” said Bill, with a hollow laugh, “mebbe chickenpox er the mumps.”
“It could be a straw in the wind,” agreed the officer, preparing to end the interview, “but I again repeat that I cannot set the army marching on such feeble grounds.”
“Jest a minute. I want you to listen to what these two lads has to say.”
“These two lads! What can they add to the facts?” demanded Whistler, a bit impatiently.
“Hearken, Major! you’ve heard tell o’ Ne-a-pope, Black Hawk’s righthand man?”
“Yes, surely. Met the fellow several times. And a clever, scheming rascal he is.”
“What’d you say if I told you that this same Ne-a-pope is jest back from Fort Malden in Canady, where he got a promise from the Britishers that they’ll send guns, powder an’ supplies to Black Hawk an’ his Sacs, as soon as the big chief takes the war-path?”
Major Whistler grabbed the pipe from his mouth, and stared hard at Bill Brown.
“By George,” he burst out, “I’m beginning to believe that Van Alstyne is right. Your story sounds more hare-brained every moment.”