“Good evening, Joe,” Douglas cried. “What’s the prospect for a hot supper?” “Fair to middlin’,” Farley answered, a comical expression overspreading his ugly features. “One o’ the fellers is mixin’ up a corn pone, an’ we’ve got plenty o’ meat an’ coffee. But you come jest in the nick o’ time—you did, by ginger!” “Why so?” Seating himself by the fire, Ross smiled as he extended his hands toward the red blaze. “Well, you see, it’s this way, Ross Douglas,” Farley replied, winking at the militiamen: “Y’r dog come in with such a pow’rful appetite that he was likely to eat us out o’ house an’ home. I had to choke him off ’r ther’ wouldn’t ’ave been anything left fer us _human_ critters. An’ I’ve been watchin’ him keerful ever sence, fer fear he’d begin on me ’r the oxen. You ort to give him somethin’ to improve his eatin’ capacity, Ross—you re’ly ort. I’m ’feard he’s goin’ into a decline.” Douglas rubbed his hands and joined in the laugh that went around. Bright Wing sniffed the savory odors of the cooking food and grunted: “Duke him much smart dog—him smell meat far off. Him find it soon—very quick. Him walk far—work hard. Then him eat.” Again the militiamen roared in glee. The prospect of a warm supper and a night’s rest had put them in a good humor. The Wyandot’s stern visage relaxed into a smile; but Joe cried in an injured tone: “Well, if workin’ hard gives anybody a right to eat, I ort to eat ’bout a ton to-night. A man that’s tramped twenty miles in the cold an’ wet—an’ whacked bulls every step o’ the way—ort to feed on the fat o’ the land. Nothin’s too good fer him. He’s earned a right to go to glory—wher’ ther’ ain’t no fightin’ Injins n’r drivin’ oxen, if I’ve been rightly informed. “But still things ain’t as bad as they might be. Mortals ortn’t to complain, fer fear things might git worse. An’ nobody ever hears _me_ doin’ it. The only time in my whole life that I ever give way to a fit o’ complainin’, was when a dozen women was wantin’ to marry me at once—an’ I had to leave the settlement to git red of ’em. Gol-fer-socks! I never _saw_ the like—I never _did_. They was jest _crazy_ over my beauty. But ther’s no use in rakin’ up the past an’ makin’ you fellers feel sorry. From the way that pone smells it’s gittin’ done. Le’s have supper. Whew! But the steam o’ that coffee tickles a feller’s nose. Eat, drink, an’ be merry, I say; fer to-morrer the redskins may have our scalps an’ the buzzards be pickin’ our bones.” The hungry scouts and militiamen needed no second invitation. Seating themselves about the camp-fire, they ate and drank with a relish born of exercise in the open air. After they had finished, and filled and lighted their pipes, they talked over the events of the day and speculated about what the morrow would bring forth.