“I don’t know yet,” Douglas answered. “I’ve not learned what she desires.”
“Well, you can’t marry her, of course.”
“What nonsense you’re talking, Joe!” Ross cried sharply. “She’s the wife of another. Let’s drop the subject.”
“Ugh! No Fleet Foot’s squaw—fat paleface’s squaw,” grunted Bright Wing sagely.
“An’ Fleet Foot takes it mighty cool, too,” Farley muttered to himself. “’Pears to me he’s thinkin’ a heap more ’bout the little red-headed gal he hain’t found, than he is ’bout this gal he has found. But I don’t blame him. Amy Larkin’s played him false—she wan’t forced into no marriage. You can’t fool me on women folks. Hain’t I had the ’xperience, I’d like to know? Oh, gosh, yes!”
The three rolled over upon the ground, and two of them were soon snoring loudly. But Ross did not fall asleep so readily. For an hour or more, he lay with closed lids thinking—thinking. At last, however, outraged nature asserted itself.
Early the next morning, the young scout managed to procure enough water to remove the stains of battle from his person. After he had washed himself, dressed his slight wounds, and eaten his breakfast, he went to call upon General Harrison.
The commander’s seamed visage was alight with genuine pleasure, as he took Ross by the hand and led him to a seat. Closely scanning his caller’s face, the old warrior remarked:
“Douglas, I’m delighted to see you—to again grasp your hand. I didn’t know you were with General Clay’s command; that you were in yesterday’s terrible battle”—the commander’s careworn features twitched—“until your two old comrades came to me and asked permission to go to your aid.”
“Did they do that?” Ross quickly inquired.