“Looks that way to me, too,” said Long Jim.
Henry shook his head.
“Some of the warriors have gone away,” he said, “but not all of them. Red Eagle, the Shawnee chief, is a man who thinks, and a man who holds on. He knows that we couldn’t sink through the earth or fly above the clouds, and the time will come when he will look into this matter of the swamp. It appears to be impenetrable, but he will conclude at last that there is a way.”
“I’m o’ your mind,” said Shif’less Sol. “When you’re carryin’ on a war it ain’t jest a matter o’ guns an’ ammunition, an’ the lay o’ the land. You’ve got to think what kind o’ a gen’ral is leadin’ the warriors ag’inst you. You must take his mind into account. Ain’t that so, Paul? Wuzn’t it true o’ that old Roman, Hannybul?”
“Hannibal was not a Roman, not by a great deal, Sol, as I told you before.”
“Well, he wuz a Rooshian, or mebbe an Eyetalian. What diff’unce does it make? He wuz some kind o’ a furriner, an’ ef what you tell us ’bout him is true, Paul, as I reckon it is, it wuz his mind that led his men on to victory over the Rooshians an’ the Prooshians an’ the French an’ the Dutch.”
“Over the Romans, Sol.”
“Ez I told you once, Paul, it makes no diff’unce. They’re all furriners, an’ all furriners are jest the same. Hannybul wuz the kind that wouldn’t give up. You’ve talked so much ’bout him, Paul, that I kin see him in my fancy an’ I know jest how he done. Often a big battle seemed to be goin’ ag’inst him. His men hev shot away all thar powder an’ bullets. The Shawnees an’ the Miamis an’ the Wyandots are comin’ on hard, shoutin’ the war whoop, swingin’ thar glitterin’ tomahawks ’bout thar fierce heads. The Romans already feel the hands o’ the warriors on thar skelps, an’ they are tremblin’, ready to run. But Hannybul swings his rifle, clubs the leadin’ Injun over the head with it, an’ yells to his men: ‘Come on, fellers! Draw your hatchets an’ knives! Drive ’em into the brush! We kin whip ’em yet!’ An’ the Romans, gittin’ courage from thar leader, go in an’ thrash the hull band. Now, that’s the kind o’ a leader Red Eagle is. I give him credit fur doin’ a power o’ thinking an’ holdin’ on. Braxton Wyatt and Blackstaffe will say to him: ‘Come, chief, let’s go away. They slipped through our lines in the night, an’ they’re somewhar up on the shore o’ one o’ the big lakes, a-laffin’ an’ a-laffin’ at us. We’ll go up thar, trail ’em down an’ make ’em laff if they kin, a-settin’ among the live coals.’ But that Red Eagle, wise old chief that he is, will up an’ say: ‘They haven’t got through. They couldn’t without bein’ seen by our scouts an’ watchers. An’ since they haven’t passed, it follers that they’re somewhar inside the ring. So, we’ll jest thresh out ev’ry inch o’ ground in thar, ef it takes ten years to do it.’”
Silent Tom looked at him with admiration.
“Mighty long speech,” he said. “How do you find so many words?”