“Alright, boys,” said Brown grimly, to the attentive twins, “go to it! Tell the Major ’bout what you saw an’ heard last evenin’, not two miles from this very room.”
Tom Gordon acted as spokesman. And before five minutes was up, he had Major Whistler sitting on the edge of his chair. The officer’s face was a picture of consternation, as he gave ear to the boy’s story of the midnight council of Ne-a-pope and the Prairie Wolf, and to the formidable plot of the Sac Chieftains unfolded there.
“Great Jupiter,” he exclaimed, his tone one of extreme amazement, “you say that the British will back Black Hawk with arms, supplies and gold?”
“So Ne-a-pope stated, sir,” affirmed Tom Gordon.
“And not only that, Major,” Ben added soberly, “Ne-a-pope also declared that the Foxes, Winnebagoes and Ottoways plan to join the conspiracy.”
“If those nations take up the tomahawk,” reflected the Major solemnly, “it will probably mean that every other tribe on the middle border will be itching to put on the war-paint. The whole, wide frontier might easily burst into flame.”
“That’s jest it, Major, that’s jest it!” cried Bill Brown earnestly. “An’ I’m only afeared that it’s too late to stop the Hawk from throwin’ down the gauntlet. The war-whoop may even now be ringin’ out ’cross the prairies.”
“I pray not,” said Whistler fervently, rising to his feet and standing before the fireplace with hands clenched before him.
“Whatever you do, Major,” said Bill Brown, “my services are yern fer the askin’.”
“And ours, too,” added Tom Gordon quickly, speaking up for both of the brothers.