“Dale, I’ll live to hear how your red friends have danced your scalp. Then I’ll go out and shoot some of them. That white Injun beside you will be one of the first to stick burning splinters into your carcass. He’s lived with redskins too long to forget his red tricks. Come on, fellers.”
This sorry disturbance depressed the spirits of the settlers. War was on, and there was none of the Howard’s Creek men who believed that any change in their attitude could prevent the Ohio Indians from slaying at every opportunity. No matter how much they might decry the acts of Hughes and his mates in time of peace, there was no denying the fighting-value of the quartet when it came to war.
No word was spoken until the last of the four killers had filed away to secure their horses and be gone. Then Davis said:
“Time to eat, Ericus. Let’s go back and see how the women-folks is gettin’ along.”
“Keep that white scum from this creek until I can carry a bag of talk to Cornstalk and Logan and you won’t need any armed bullies to protect you,” said Dale.
“We ain’t askin’ of ’em to look after us, nor you with your white belts, neither,” shrilly proclaimed Uncle Dick.
Some of the younger men laughed.
Dale reddened, but turned to walk with his cousin without making any answer. He all but bumped into me.
“Why, Morris!” he greeted, staring at me in surprise. “You bob up everywhere. Will you go with me to the Scioto villages?”
“Go as what?” I cautiously asked. The men gathered closer about us.