“It calls fer the firin’ squad in time o’ war; but in peace time an army deserter on the frontier us’lly gits fifty lashes on the bare back with a rawhide cat-o-nine-tails, well laid on. Then he has his head an’ eyebrows shaved an’ is chased out o’ camp by a squad with fixed bayonets, whilst the drummers an’ buglers play “The Rogue’s March.”” “Why, that’s almost worse than death,” exclaimed Tom Gordon, his face a picture of horror. “Yep, ’tis, lad. No gainsayin’ that. But punishment fer desertin’ has to be harsh, the officers say. Totherwise, sojurs would be desertin’ right an’ left, ’cause garrison life on this far border gits so dull an’ lonely that men kin skeercely stand it.” “Pat Fagan is a mean scoundrel,” went on Tom, “and he has his knife out for me, that I know; but yet I can’t wish him such an awful fate as that.” “Chances are they’ll never take him alive,” Bill commented. “I think that--” The veteran scout broke off his speech abruptly, as a light footstep sounded in the hall outside the room, and the lithe figure of the young Pottawattomee, Bright Star, darkened the door. “Oh, good!” said Ben, jumping to his feet with a smile of welcome. “Here’s Bright Star!” “Ho!” the youthful savage greeted them, raising his hand in salutation. “Have a seat, Bright Star,” invited Ben. “What brings you to the village this afternoon?” “Prairie Wolf gone!” the young chief told them. “With his whole band?” inquired Bill attentively. “Ugh! all tepee gone.” “Going back to join the main tribe, I reckon,” hazarded Tom. “Wolf travel toward setting sun. Pottawattomee spies see big pale-face with Wolf.” “A big pale-face, you say?” meditated Bill. “Hm! what’d he look like? How was he dressed?” “Wear blue coat. Heap tall and heavy.” “Hear that, boys?” asked Brown. “I’m a great hand to hope fer the best, but who do you reckon that feller was?” “Pat Fagan,” Tom replied instantly. “An you, Ben? You ain’t a bad one at guessin’.” “Pat Fagan, and it isn’t any guesswork either. It was the big rascal, sure as shooting.” “I reckon that means,” reasoned the borderer, “that Pat’s a goin’ to become a white renegade. An’ he’ll be a powerful bad one, depend on that. Wouldn’t s’prise me, not at all, if he gits as black a name on the frontier as Simon Girty, the turrible white renegade who was the terror o’ the Kaintuck country, some forty years gone by. Folks still shudder down that way when they hear the name o’ Girty. No deviltry was too fierce er cruel fer him.” Talk then turned to other matters, and, after another half-hour, both Bright Star and Brown took their leave. It seemed, however, that Bill was scarcely out of the room, when he was back once more, to summon the boys. “Messenger jest in at the fort!” he related, trying to keep a calm voice. “His horse’s all in a lather. The sojurs say he’s come from down-state, with a dispatch from Gov’ner Reynolds.” “S’pose it’s Injun business, Bill?” conjectured Ben.