"He came over from Iowa to have a dog-feast an' a talk with the Pottawatamies an' plant corn for his people, he said. Anyway, if he'd meant war, he wouldn't have brought his women an' children, would he? But our people was scart, an' said it was contrary to the treaty. 'Tain't likely, though, that our boys would have killed the flag of truce bearer, or shot Black Hawk's scouts, or run away, as they did finally, but a wagon breakin' down that had a barrel of whisky aboard, some of our soldiers drank all they could an' filled their canteens with the rest. It was their drinkin' of this stuff that brought on the trouble, an' for that reason it ought to be called the "Canteen War."
"So that is where you got the malaria, was it?" Uncle Job interrupted. "But were you in the battle of Bad Axe, too, in that war?" he went on, tilting his chair against the wheelhouse and crossing his legs, as if going to make a night of it.
"Well, I should say I was; but shakin' an' as full of malary as a 'possum is of fat."
"Tell us about it, please," Uncle Job demanded, lighting a cigar and offering one to Blott.
"Well, we lined up there finally, with Black Hawk's warriors an' twelve hundred Injun women an' children in the willows on the water's edge between us an' the river. When we'd got 'em cornered they wanted to surrender, but this our fellers wouldn't have, an' disregardin' the white flag, as before, shot 'em down like rabbits whenever one showed his head."
"That was cruel."
"Yes, but clean-like an' satisfyin' to our boys, who didn't want any prisoners, but was in for finishin' it onct for all."
"Was there no outcry?"
"Not a cry. The men an' squaws just dropped in their tracks like lead when we shot 'em down, them as was only hurt tryin' to creep away into the swamps."
"Did the Indians show fight?"