“I must inform you, Major,” replied the stoutish, plump-jowled officer, with another toplofty glance at the tall scout, “that Brown has been here before, just yesterday to be precise.” “So he tells me. Says he has important news, bearing on an Indian plot.” “I went over all that with him yesterday, Major.” “You’re skeptical?” “Pshaw! just a parcel of idle rumors.” “You think so, eh?” “Rubbish it is, just rubbish! You’ll waste your time giving ear to such moonshine.” “How ’bout lettin’ the Major hisself decide as to that?” broke in Bill Brown, stifling his mounting anger. “He knows me from way back. Knows that I ain’t the man to peddle a bundle o’ gossip.” “That’s right, Bill,” nodded the Major. “I always found you true blue, all wool and a yard wide.” “Well, it’s entirely up to you, sir,” snapped the Captain, perceiving that he had lost his case, and stepping out the door, “but I must repeat that Brown’s story is sheer balderdash. These ragamuffin, western Indians will cause no trouble. I, myself, am too busy a man to spend precious time listening to such a pipe-dream.” “You won’t think it’s a pipe-dream,” snorted Bill Brown indignantly, “when you find an Injun arrer stickin’ in the seat o’ yer pants.” Major Whistler sat bolt upright in his chair, his lean, long-fingered hands gripping the edge of the table before him. “Listen now, Bill,” he said, his eyes cold as steel, “you really think that Indian arrows soon will be flying?” “Aye, Major; an’ white-man bullets, too.” “A bold statement, my friend, a very bold statement. Present your proof.” “I will, Major. It’s time fer Bill Brown to put up, er shut up.” “Very well. Lay all your cards on the table.” “It’s thisaway,” Bill began, “I’m jest back from a scoutin’ trip ’cross the Mississippi, in Ioway Terr’tory, amongst the Sac tribes.” “Black Hawk’s people?” “Yep, an’ the chief is fumin’ with rage at the whites, fer settlin’ his ol’ stampin-ground along Rock River. He’ll be comin’ back ’cross the Mississippi any day now. Pale-face scalps ’ll soon be flutterin’ on his lodge pole.” “Bill, I can’t believe it.” “You’d better believe it, Major. Time is runnin’ powerful short.” “But you offer no definite proof.” “Oh, I ain’t got a letter from ol’ Black Hawk hisself, settin’ forth his hostile intentions,” admitted the borderer, with a tinge of resentment in his voice. “I hardly expected that,” chuckled Whistler. “But I have trustworthy Injun friends in adj’inin’ tribes. They tell me that Black Hawk’s runners has been amongst ’em, passin’ the red wampum, an’ proddin’ ’em to sign up fer the comin’ war with the pale-faces.” “It may well be so, Bill,” pondered Whistler worriedly, “but I can hardly order out the troops on such slender evidence as that. Why, a cry would go up from the eastern press that I’m persecuting the poor, innocent savages.”