Brennan lost no time in obeying the summons.
“Yes, Bear, what is it?”
“Scar-Face jes’ got back to camp from the river,” Henderson informed him. “He tells me that we’d better watch out fer the Indians tonight. They’re gettin’ dangerous. The hull outfit is buzzin’ around like a swarm of mad hornets. He thinks they’re comin’ over.”
“What fer?”
Henderson cleared his throat.
“All on account o’ that Indian kid La Lond cracked over the head this afternoon. He’s the chief’s son.
Brennan laughed. Alcohol had given him unlimited courage—of a sort. Just then he was worried more about the diminishing contents of the bottle than the chance possibility of an attack by Indians.
“Let ’em come,” he declared drunkenly. “What do we care? You ain’t afraid of a few Nitchies with bows an’ arrers, are yuh, Bear?”
“There’s close to two hundred of ’em, not countin’ a few strays they may be able to pick up. We ain’t got fifteen men.”
“Well, what do yuh think we’d better do?”