“Sure he did,” added Ben heatedly.
“You ain’t got no kick comin’, Pat,” put in another man. “You had your chance, but the lad was too much for you. He can fight like a bulldog.”
Sandy turned to Tom, who was standing by, his fists still clenched.
“An’ now, Tom lad,” he advised, “you’d better move on to the village with your brother. If Pat was any kind of a man, he’d shake hands an’ call it quits fer good. But he’s a blackhearted villain, an’ I’m warnin’ yuh to watch him well as long as yur in these parts.”
CHAPTER 8
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Indian War-cry
AT mid-afternoon of the second day following Tom’s set-to with Pat Fagan at the Mud Turtle, Bill Brown came rushing into the boys’ boarding shanty, across the river from Fort Dearborn. Excitement was plainly written on the face of the stalwart frontiersman.
“What’s stirring, Bill?” asked Ben Gordon, looking up from a pair of wool socks he was darning.