“Is the Injin goin’, too?”
“Ugh! Me go, too,” said the redman, drawing himself up proudly.
“Seems to me it’s goin’ to be a strange sort o’ war,” Farley chuckled dryly. “Injins an’ white men on one side—an’ white men an’ Injins on t’other. ’Cause that’s what it’s comin’ to. The danged Britishers has got the’r fingers in the pie ag’in—an’ ther’ ain’t no tellin’ where the thing ’ll stop. So, Bright Wing, you’re goin’ out to fight ag’in your own people, are you?”
“Not my people,” grunted the Indian, his black eyes flashing. “Me Wyandot—me fight Shawnees.”
“It don’t make no differ’nce—they’ve got red skins,” Joe remarked.
“Ugh! You much big fool!”
And the impulsive young warrior’s hand involuntarily sought the handle of his tomahawk.
Farley’s face flushed, and he cried sharply:
“Keep y’r hand off y’r hatchet, redskin. That’s a game two can play at.”
Quickly Douglas stepped between the two and, turning upon Farley, said sternly: