“It—It wasn’t—Douglas, was it?”
“That’s it—Douglas,” exclaimed the militiaman, slapping his thigh. “Douglas—yes, that’s the name.”
“Ross Douglas?”
Joe’s face was ashen as he put the question.
“Now you’ve hit it!” the man shouted triumphantly. “That’s the very name I heard the Captain call him—Ross Douglas.”
Farley and Bright Wing stared at each other, in speechless amazement. Their chests were heaving; their lips, apart. The militiaman looked from one to the other in silent wonder. The Wyandot regained the power of speech and grunted:
“Duke him not dead—him here. Master not dead, too—him here. Ross here—Fleet Foot—ugh!”
“Injin, you’re a ’tarnal fool!” Farley cried angrily, his face suddenly flushing—then paling. “Fer God’s sake, don’t make no more remarks like that! You know—an’ I know—that Ross Douglas’s dead. You’re a fool!”
“Joe big fool!” Bright Wing returned sullenly.
“No, I ain’t!” Farley vociferated wildly. “I can see the length of my nose—an’ you can’t. Don’t you understand, Injin. W’y the dang skunk that’s got Ross Douglas’s houn’ has got Ross Douglas’s name—stol’d both of ’em, of course. Jest wait till he steps out o’ that tent, an’ I’ll give him the infernalest lambastin’ a man ever got in his life—I will, by—by——”