"A matter of cleaning out a Tory nest yonder," said I.
"A filthy business and not war," quoth he. "Well, God be with all friends to liberty, for all hell is rising up against us. A thousand Indians are stripped for battle on this frontier—and the tall ships never cease arriving crammed with red-coats and Germans.
"So we should all do our duty now, whether that same duty lie in emptying barrack slops, or in cleaning out a Tory nest, or in marching to drum and fife, or guarding the still places of the wilderness—it's all one business, John."
Again we shook hands all around, then, waving aside Joe de Golyer and his proffered lantern, the celebrated rifleman passed lightly into the shadows.
"Yonder goes the best shot in the North," said Nick.
"Saving only yourself and Jack Mount and Tim Murphy," remarked Godfrey Shew.
"As for the whiskers of a porcupine," quoth Nick, with the wild flare a-glimmering in his eyes, "why, I have never tried such a target. But I should pick any button on a red coat at a hundred yards—that is, if I cast and pare my own bullet, and load in my own fashion."
Silver swore that any rifle among us white men should shave an otter of his whiskers, as a barber trims a Hessian.
"Sacré garce!" cried he, "why should we miss—we coureurs-du-bois, who have learn to shoot by ze hardes' of all drill-masters—a empty belly!"
"We must not miss at Howell's house," said I, counting my people at a glance.