While the men were unloading the vehicles and pack-horses and preparing supper, several Indians from the town ventured within the lines. Having in mind the mysterious disappearance of Bradford and the open desertion of Ben, Governor Harrison promptly ordered the red warriors to betake themselves to their own camp. At the same time he requested them to send back the negro—whom the staff officer had failed to find, and who was still in hiding at their village. This they promised to do. Ross Douglas listened silently to the idle tales of his companions, but his thoughts were far away. He was thinking of Amy Larkin—as he had thought of her a hundred times that day. He wished that he might see her, if only for a few seconds. He felt lonely and depressed. Then the disfigured countenance of Hiram Bradford arose before his mind’s eye and shut out the fair face of his sweetheart. Ross rubbed his eyes and tried to rid himself of the unwelcome mental vision. But it would not depart at his bidding. His thoughts refused to revert to Amy, but persisted in dwelling upon the scar-faced scout. It made him angry; and he arose and sauntered about in the darkness. On returning to the fire he heard a militiaman remarking: “Well, I reckon this ends the whole matter. We’ve come on a reg’lar fool’s errand—a wild goose chase. To-morrer the gov’ner ’ll hold a powwow with the Injins—make another treaty with ’em that they’ll break ’fore we’re back to Fort Harrison. Then what? W’y, we’ll march back to Vincennes an’ be discharged. Cuss it! We ort to whip the red devils while we’ve got ’em cornered. It puts me in mind o’ the ol’ story ’bout the king o’ Spain; how he marched up the hill—an’ then marched down ag’in. The idee of a man totin’ a gun every day fer six weeks, to git a shot at a redskin, an’ then when he’s got the critters holed, somebody sayin’ he can’t do it!” “I don’t know ’bout y’r not gittin’ a chance to shoot,” Joe Farley answered reflectively. “Wouldn’t be s’rprised you’d git the chance when you was least expectin’ it. Injins is dang cunnin’ varmints, sure’s you’re born. From all I’ve seen an’ heerd o’ this Prophet an’ his band, I’m o’ the ’pinion we’ll have a scrimmage with ’em ’fore we git out o’ this clearin’. An’ if we _do_, it’ll come mighty sudden—an’ in the night, most likely—an’ you’ll have a chance to shoot y’r gun off more times ’n you’re hankerin’ fer.