The Indian’s companion was an American—tall, active, and sinewy. His complexion was swarthy; his steel-gray eyes were bold and keen. But the stern cast they gave to his countenance was relieved by a pair of smiling lips, indicating gentleness and great good-nature. A mass of soft brown hair clustered in short ringlets about his temples and rippled down upon his broad shoulders. The well-fitting suit of buckskin that he wore revealed the rounded contour of his shapely limbs; and the broad-brimmed soft hat that surmounted his silky curls set off his dark beauty to the best advantage. His weapons were of the finest workmanship, and gave evidence of the loving care their owner bestowed upon them. Apparently he was about twenty-eight years old. The man who had hailed the two voyagers—and whom they now stood facing—was a typical backwoodsman of middle age. His face was oppressively ugly—prominent nose, wide mouth, and pale-blue, watery eyes. His hair was scant and straw-colored; his body and limbs, were long, lank, and ungainly. His garb was in keeping with his character—hunting shirt and breeches of coarse linsey-woolsey, heavy cowhide boots, and peaked fur-cap. He was a grotesque, incongruous bundle of bones and sinews—a whimsical, eccentric hunter and trapper. But a more valiant, loyal, and loving heart, than Joe Farley had, never beat in man’s bosom. Now he stood leaning upon his long rifle, a quizzical smile illuminating his rugged features. “What do you want, Joe?” Douglas demanded briskly. “Want to know where you’re bound fer,” came the drawling reply. “I told you—to Vincennes, to join Harrison’s army,” Ross answered, a shade of annoyance in his tone. “You don’t mean it?” “But I do.” “Is the Injin goin’, too?” “Ugh! Me go, too,” said the redman, drawing himself up proudly. “Seems to me it’s goin’ to be a strange sort o’ war,” Farley chuckled dryly. “Injins an’ white men on one side—an’ white men an’ Injins on t’other. ’Cause that’s what it’s comin’ to. The danged Britishers has got the’r fingers in the pie ag’in—an’ ther’ ain’t no tellin’ where the thing ’ll stop. So, Bright Wing, you’re goin’ out to fight ag’in your own people, are you?” “_Not_ my people,” grunted the Indian, his black eyes flashing. “_Me_ Wyandot—me fight Shawnees.” “It don’t make no differ’nce—they’ve got red skins,” Joe remarked. “Ugh! You much big fool!” And the impulsive young warrior’s hand involuntarily sought the handle of his tomahawk. Farley’s face flushed, and he cried sharply: “Keep y’r hand off y’r hatchet, redskin. That’s a game two can play at.” Quickly Douglas stepped between the two and, turning upon Farley, said sternly: