“An’ you didn’t kill that ol’ cuss of a Prophet?”
Ross remained silent.
“N’r Tecumseh, n’r none of ’em?”
“I was hardly in a position to make a wholesale slaughter of my enemies,” Ross replied laughingly. “I was a captive, and surrounded by hundreds of bloodthirsty savages. I consider myself fortunate to have escaped with my life.”
“Yes, that’s so,” Farley assented in a dissatisfied tone. “But it seems to me this campaign hain’t amounted to much. Tecumseh’s back among his warriors; an’ Bradford an’ the Prophet’s still alive. They’ll be hatchin’ more devilment, ’fore the next new moon. Howsoever, I’ve done my part an’ hain’t got nothin’ to regret. But I don’t want to be a soldier no more; I’d ruther fight on my own hook. This thing o’ drivin’ oxen from one end o’ the Indiany Territory to the other ain’t what it’s cracked up to be.”—And he sighed feelingly.—“All I want’s to git back to my cabin on the ol’ Scioto—W’y, ding-it-all-to-dangnation! There’s the Injin this blessed minute!”
Both white men hastily arose and ran to meet their red comrade, who came bounding up the slope, with the speed and grace of an antelope. Ere they reached his side, they saw him place his finger upon his lips, in token of silence.
“What is it?” Douglas asked in an anxious whisper.
Bright Wing drew a full breath and replied:
“Scar Face and many braves.”