Ross rubbed his eyes and tried to rid himself of the unwelcome mental vision. But it would not depart at his bidding. His thoughts refused to revert to Amy, but persisted in dwelling upon the scar-faced scout. It made him angry; and he arose and sauntered about in the darkness.
On returning to the fire he heard a militiaman remarking:
“Well, I reckon this ends the whole matter. We’ve come on a reg’lar fool’s errand—a wild goose chase. To-morrer the gov’ner ’ll hold a powwow with the Injins—make another treaty with ’em that they’ll break ’fore we’re back to Fort Harrison. Then what? W’y, we’ll march back to Vincennes an’ be discharged. Cuss it! We ort to whip the red devils while we’ve got ’em cornered. It puts me in mind o’ the ol’ story ’bout the king o’ Spain; how he marched up the hill—an’ then marched down ag’in. The idee of a man totin’ a gun every day fer six weeks, to git a shot at a redskin, an’ then when he’s got the critters holed, somebody sayin’ he can’t do it!”
“I don’t know ’bout y’r not gittin’ a chance to shoot,” Joe Farley answered reflectively. “Wouldn’t be s’rprised you’d git the chance when you was least expectin’ it. Injins is dang cunnin’ varmints, sure’s you’re born. From all I’ve seen an’ heerd o’ this Prophet an’ his band, I’m o’ the ’pinion we’ll have a scrimmage with ’em ’fore we git out o’ this clearin’. An’ if we do, it’ll come mighty sudden—an’ in the night, most likely—an’ you’ll have a chance to shoot y’r gun off more times ’n you’re hankerin’ fer.
“The idee o’ you complainin’ ’bout totin’ a rifle! You ort to be ashamed—you had by Jerushy! If you’d had to whack bulls from Fort Harrison—wear y’r back out a-lickin’ ’em an’ y’r breath out acussin’ ’em—you might complain. But I’m through with it at last—thank the Lord! I’ve resigned my commission. Somebody else ’ll drive ’em back ’r they won’t be druv—that’s all. The idee o’ puttin’ a free-born American along with a lot o’ niggers to drive oxen! It’s a disgrace—a shame—a blot on the Constertution! Laugh, dang y’r skins!”—His companions were hawhawing boisterously.—“Laugh at the agony of an abused man! But you chaps ’ll be laughin’ out o’ the other corner o’ y’r mouths, ’fore mornin’—’r I miss my guess.”
The laughter suddenly ceased. And one of the militiamen inquired gravely:
“What do you mean, Farley?”
“Jest this,” Joe replied impressively. “I’ll bet any man a pound o’ powder we have a rumpus with the Injins ’fore sun-up to-morrer mornin’. What do you say, Bright Wing?”
The Wyandot deliberately removed his pipe from his lips, with the stem of it waved aside the cloud of smoke he blew from his lungs, and answered in guttural but not unmusical tones:
“Bad Shawnees much sly, like fox. Make believe all time want peace—all time want war. Paleface camp here. Shawnee town there—two, three rifle shots away. Bad Shawnees—bad Winnebagoes—bad Senecas—all bad. But much brave—heap cunning. Big Prophet talk, talk. Night dark—palefaces sleep—Indians come and kill, Ugh!”