“I agree with the Indian. There’s no use in running our legs off after we have eluded the foe. It’s a long way to Detroit, and we might as well rest here as on the lake shore. Boys, I apprehend no pursuit. Splitlog, of course, will not follow, and O’Neill will lead his regiment to the lakes when it joins him on the river. The Indian counsels a rest till morning. He has walked us fast, and Miss Armstrong is greatly fatigued.”
The words just written fell from Royal Funk’s lips, several hours after O’Neill’s disappointment in the ambush.
He stood on the bank of a narrow stream which, in those days, bore the rather pretentious cognomen of Beaver river. At this point a beautiful cascade added to the wild scenery, and he faced his Night-Hawks, who had just halted from a fatiguing march.
“Of course we are willin’ to rest, cap’n,” said one of the men. “That is, if you really think it best to do so, and of course you would not talk as you hev if you did not. A rest till daylight will do us no harm; but,” and the speaker approached Funk and glanced at a half-naked Indian leaning against a tree, as he lowered his voice, “but, cap’n, do you fully trust the Wyandot?”
“Why should I call him a traitor? Because he has just saved our lives, Whalley? He’s a genuine Wyandot; I’ve seen him a hundred times with Splitlog. But what have you against ’im?”
“Nothin’, cap’n, nothin’,” answered Whalley; “only I wanted to know if you thought him sound.”
“Don’t fear for Spagano,” said Funk. “He’s a faithful fellow. Remember, we would have rowed into O’Neill’s muskets if it hadn’t been for him.”
The Indian upon hearing his name pronounced left the tree and came forward.
He was a tall, muscular fellow, naked to the waist, and wore a crest of painted dove feathers.
“What Night-Hawks want with Spagano?” he asked, in broken English.