This question was asked by the Canadian, who had hitherto, while puffing his pipe, listened indifferently to the conversation, but whose attention had now become arrested, from the moment that his fellow-laborer had spoken of the savages, so strangely disturbed by him.
“Well, I don't exactly know about that, myself,” returned the soldier, slightly raising his cap and scratching his crown, as if in recollection of some narrowly escaped danger. “I reckon, tho', when I see them slope up like a covey of red-legged pattridges, my heart was in my mouth, for I looked for nothin' else but that same operation: but I wur just as well pleased, when, after talkin' their gibberish, and makin' all sorts of signs among themselves, they made tracks towards the open prairie.”
“And why did you not name this, the instant you got home?” somewhat sternly questioned Mr. Heywood.
“Where's the use of spilin' a good dinner?” returned the soldier. “It was all smokin' hot when I came in from choppin', and I thought it best for every man to tuck it in before I said a word about it. Besides, I reckon I don't know as they meant any harm, seein' as how they never carried off my top-knot;—only it was a little queer they were hid in that way in the woods, and looked so fierce when they first jumped up in their nasty paint.”
“Who knows,” remarked Mr. Heywood, taking down his rifle from the side of the hut opposite to the chimney, and examining the priming, “but these fellows may have tracked you back, and are even now, lurking near us. Ephraim Giles, you should have told me of this before.”
“And so,” replied the soldier, “I was goin' to, when Loup Garou began with his capers. Then it was I gave a parable like, about his scentin' the varmint better nor we human critters could.”
“Ephraim Giles,” said Mr. Heywood, sharply, while he fixed his dark eye upon him, as if he would have read his inmost soul, “you say that you have been a soldier, and fought with our army on the Wabash. Why did you leave the service?”
“Because,” drawled the ex-militaire, with a leering expression of his eye, “my captin was a bad judge of good men when he had 'em, and reckoned I was shammin' when I fell down rale sick, and was left behind in a charge made on the Injins at Tippecanoe. I couldn't stand the abuse he gave me for this, and so I left him.”
“Cool, indeed,” sneered Mr. Heywood; “now then, Ephraim Giles, hear my opinion. Your captain thought you were a coward, for he judged you from your conduct. I, too, judge you from your conduct, and have no hesitation in pronouncing you to be a rogue or a fool.”
“Well, I want to know!” was the only rejoinder of the man, as he went on unconcernedly with his whittling.