“An’ by the way, boys,” went on Bill, a strange look coming over his face, “what did you have fer supper; if I may be so rude as to inquire.” “Roast turkey, Bill,” Tom said. “Gee, it was scrumptious!” “Roast turkey, eh? An’ it was scrumptious. Hm! guess what ol’ Bill had set afore him.” “Can’t imagine,” Ben said. “Well, brace yerselves! Roast dog!” “Roast dog?” “Yep, roast dog,” lamented Bill; shaking his head sadly, as he patted his mid-section. “Wow, that’s the limit!” groaned Tom. “If your Injun pal, Little Fox, ever asks me in for supper, I’m going to have a pressing engagement elsewhere.” “About twenty miles elsewhere,” added Ben. “You see,” explained Bill, “an Injun holds it a pizen insult, if you turn down food that’s offered. An’ the same goes, if he gives out an invite to stay fer the night. You jest can’t say no, er he’ll be yer mortal foe fer life.” “Looks like you’re in for it, Bill,” grinned Tom. “We’ll see you in the morning.” “Hope you have a comfortable night,” gibed Ben, “and also a tasty breakfast.” “But to git ser’ous, boys,” went on the frontiersman, his face very sober, “I hate to have you hikin’ back to the fort alone, now that dark is here.” “Are you spoofing, Bill?” “Not a bit of it. Yer path lays right past the Mud Turtle.” “What of it?” “Yer li’ble to bump into that scoundrel of a Pat Fagan. He hangs ’round ther a hull lot.” “Well, if we do,” asserted Tom defiantly, “we’re apt as not to give him another dunking in the swamp. He prob’ly needs a bath again by this time.” With this, they walked off through the tepees. After a short search, down by the river’s rim, they found an Indian brave, who readily agreed to set them once again across the stream. Arriving on the other bank, they turned their faces toward the distant settlement. A bright, full moon made the path clear before them; and in the cool of the April evening, they stepped out with long, sure strides that fairly ate up the miles. CHAPTER 7 Furious Fists A narrow shaft of yellow lamplight shone from the wide-open door of the Mud Turtle, as Tom and Ben Gordon approached the unsavory gambling den and grog-shop at the edge of the swamp; and a wild medley of songs, shouts, oaths, threats and cat-calls assailed their ears. “Big crowd at the Turtle tonight,” spoke up Tom, just a tinge of uneasiness in his tone. “Sure is,” agreed Ben. “Listen to that hullabaloo, will you! They’re fairly lifting the roof.” “S’pose that blackguard of a Fagan is in there, Ben, as Bill warned us?” “Hard to tell. We’ll just slide by, quiet like, and minding our own business. Those crazy galoots are making such an uproar that they couldn’t hear a crack of thunder outside.” “Let’s hope so. I don’t crave to fall in the hands of big Pat and his gang of hoodlums.”