“I don’t know. But me and Bright Wing wants to foller the dang redskins an’ try to rescue him——”
“It’s madness to think of such a thing,” the governor interrupted. “You’ll throw away your lives to no purpose.”
“It don’t make no differ’nce,” Joe said doggedly. “Life ain’t worth much to such poor scamps as me, at best—an’ it won’t be worth nothin’ if Ross Douglas is tortured an’ killed by the Injins. No, gov’nor, me an’ Bright Wing’s goin’ after him. You’ll give us leave to go—an’ not have us desert, won’t you, gov’nor?”
Joe asked the question pleadingly, tears standing in his pale, watery eyes.
“Yes, go!” Harrison said, grasping the woodman’s calloused hand. “I discharge you here and now. And may the Almighty’s protecting power accompany you!”
“Amen! Thank you, gov’nor—an’ good-by,” Farley answered.
That afternoon Farley and Bright Wing shouldered their rifles and set out on the trail of the Indians. The next day the army started upon the return journey to Fort Harrison and Vincennes—the wagons loaded with wounded soldiers. The campaign had been short, sharp, and effective.
