“I don’t think—I know. That’s what I came all the way over here fer. Wake up all the men, except them three kids, an’ give ’em rifles. Tell ’em to be ready an’ waitin’ in case the Indians decide to come over. I gotta supply of guns an’ ammunition over at the cabin, an’ I’ll look after that end if you’ll look after this.”
“I don’t think there’s no danger,” argued Brennan. “Why don’t you send Scar-Face back to sorta quiet ’em down?”
“Scar-Face has got a broken arrow in him already. He won’t live ’til mornin’.”
Brennan considered this startling news for a brief space.
“All right, I’ll do as you say, Bear.”
When Brennan and Henderson had left, Dick lay quietly, pondering over the information. Were the Indians really planning an attack? Would they dare to do such a thing, fearful as they were of the white man’s guns? He sat up, blankets tucked around him, and listened intently, half expecting to hear the sound of the invaders prowling around in the rocks above. Brennan had returned to his cronies and regaled them with the conversation he had had with Henderson. Loud bursts of drunken laughter followed the recital.
“The ol’ man’s gettin’ so he’s afeared of his own shadow,” chortled one of them. “’Magine them Nitchies tryin’ to attack us. It don’t make sense. Why I ain’t a bit scairt to fight the hull blamed outfit alone. Pah!”
“He told me to wake up ever’body an’ give ’em guns,” giggled Brennan.
Another roar of laughter greeted this remark. When it had subsided, Pierre, amid wild shouts of approval, produced a second bottle from somewhere about his person, took a long draught himself, and passed it around.
It was the beginning of a mad debauch. In disgust, Dick turned his head and silently regarded the forms of his two sleeping companions. Should he awaken them? For a moment he hesitated. He put out one hand toward Sandy, gently touching the face of his chum, smoothing back the lock of hair that had fallen over the tired forehead.