Fagan lay flat on his back for a half-minute, panting heavily and looking at Tom with an evil gleam in his eye. Finally, he got to a sitting posture. Then, as he put one hand back of him to help him rise to his feet, he felt in the grass a broken axe-handle that had been thrown aside there. Pat’s fingers closed tightly over the hardwood handle. With a murderous look on his face he lurched swiftly to his feet. “Watch sharp, Tom!” yelped Ben frantically. “He’s got a club!” Fagan swung back his brawny arm. “I’ll cave in yur skull, yuh young polecat!” he snarled at Tom. Before the big ruffian could strike, however, Sandy the trapper, Ben and three or four others of the onlookers threw themselves upon him. With great effort they dragged him cursing and fuming to the earth. “Thur’ll be none of yer foul play, Pat Fagan!” rasped Sandy. “He didn’t fit fair!” glowered the enraged soldier. “I’l have his blasted hide some day, that I will!” “Oh, shet yer big mouth,” ordered the trapper sternly, as he and the others struggled to hold down the half-crazed man. “It was a whale of a fight, an’ he licked yuh fair an’ square.” “Sure he did,” added Ben heatedly. “You ain’t got no kick comin’, Pat,” put in another man. “You had your chance, but the lad was too much for you. He can fight like a bulldog.” Sandy turned to Tom, who was standing by, his fists still clenched. “An’ now, Tom lad,” he advised, “you’d better move on to the village with your brother. If Pat was any kind of a man, he’d shake hands an’ call it quits fer good. But he’s a blackhearted villain, an’ I’m warnin’ yuh to watch him well as long as yur in these parts.” CHAPTER 8 Indian War-cry At mid-afternoon of the second day following Tom’s set-to with Pat Fagan at the Mud Turtle, Bill Brown came rushing into the boys’ boarding shanty, across the river from Fort Dearborn. Excitement was plainly written on the face of the stalwart frontiersman. “What’s stirring, Bill?” asked Ben Gordon, looking up from a pair of wool socks he was darning. “Yes, what’s stirring?” Tom echoed curiously. “You look as flustered as a wet hen.” “Got over here as fast as I could,” explained Bill, hastily catching his breath. “Jest heard at the fort that big Pat Fagan’s been posted as a deserter.” “Pat Fagan, a deserter?” repeated Tom, his eyes growing wide with surprise. “Yep, it seems that he had so much fun poked at him amongst the garrison, over the trouncin’ you gave him tother evenin’ at the Turtle, that he couldn’t stand it no longer. He was heard to say last night that he was fed up an’ aimin’ to light out; an’ shore ’nuff, this mornin’, when the roll o’ the comp’ny was called, he was reported missin’ ’thout leave.” “Great guns!” observed Ben, “that’s pretty grim sort of business. Desertion is punishable by death, isn’t it, Bill?”