Seating himself by the fire, Ross smiled as he extended his hands toward the red blaze.
“Well, you see, it’s this way, Ross Douglas,” Farley replied, winking at the militiamen: “Y’r dog come in with such a pow’rful appetite that he was likely to eat us out o’ house an’ home. I had to choke him off ’r ther’ wouldn’t ’ave been anything left fer us human critters. An’ I’ve been watchin’ him keerful ever sence, fer fear he’d begin on me ’r the oxen. You ort to give him somethin’ to improve his eatin’ capacity, Ross—you re’ly ort. I’m ’feard he’s goin’ into a decline.”
Douglas rubbed his hands and joined in the laugh that went around. Bright Wing sniffed the savory odors of the cooking food and grunted:
“Duke him much smart dog—him smell meat far off. Him find it soon—very quick. Him walk far—work hard. Then him eat.”
Again the militiamen roared in glee. The prospect of a warm supper and a night’s rest had put them in a good humor. The Wyandot’s stern visage relaxed into a smile; but Joe cried in an injured tone:
“Well, if workin’ hard gives anybody a right to eat, I ort to eat ’bout a ton to-night. A man that’s tramped twenty miles in the cold an’ wet—an’ whacked bulls every step o’ the way—ort to feed on the fat o’ the land. Nothin’s too good fer him. He’s earned a right to go to glory—wher’ ther’ ain’t no fightin’ Injins n’r drivin’ oxen, if I’ve been rightly informed.
“But still things ain’t as bad as they might be. Mortals ortn’t to complain, fer fear things might git worse. An’ nobody ever hears me doin’ it. The only time in my whole life that I ever give way to a fit o’ complainin’, was when a dozen women was wantin’ to marry me at once—an’ I had to leave the settlement to git red of ’em. Gol-fer-socks! I never saw the like—I never did. They was jest crazy over my beauty. But ther’s no use in rakin’ up the past an’ makin’ you fellers feel sorry. From the way that pone smells it’s gittin’ done. Le’s have supper. Whew! But the steam o’ that coffee tickles a feller’s nose. Eat, drink, an’ be merry, I say; fer to-morrer the redskins may have our scalps an’ the buzzards be pickin’ our bones.”
The hungry scouts and militiamen needed no second invitation. Seating themselves about the camp-fire, they ate and drank with a relish born of exercise in the open air. After they had finished, and filled and lighted their pipes, they talked over the events of the day and speculated about what the morrow would bring forth.
The wind fell and the rain ceased, but the broken and ragged clouds continued to scud across the starlit heavens. The twinkling camp-fires burned low. Drowsy officers sought the shelter of their tents. Privates rolled themselves in their blankets and, with their feet to the fading embers, fell asleep. Silence rested upon the camp—broken only by the faint murmur of voices here and there, or the restless pawing of some tethered steed. Beyond the barricade of wagons a double line of sentries was on guard.