“The idee o’ you complainin’ ’bout totin’ a rifle! You ort to be ashamed—you had by Jerushy! If you’d had to whack bulls from Fort Harrison—wear y’r back out a-lickin’ ’em an’ y’r breath out acussin’ ’em—you might complain. But I’m through with it at last—thank the Lord! I’ve resigned my commission. Somebody else ’ll drive ’em back ’r they won’t be druv—that’s all. The idee o’ puttin’ a free-born American along with a lot o’ niggers to drive oxen! It’s a disgrace—a shame—a blot on the Constertution! Laugh, dang y’r skins!”—His companions were hawhawing boisterously.—“Laugh at the agony of an abused man! But you chaps ’ll be laughin’ out o’ the other corner o’ y’r mouths, ’fore mornin’—’r I miss _my_ guess.” The laughter suddenly ceased. And one of the militiamen inquired gravely: “What do you mean, Farley?” “Jest this,” Joe replied impressively. “I’ll bet any man a pound o’ powder we have a rumpus with the Injins ’fore sun-up to-morrer mornin’. What do you say, Bright Wing?” The Wyandot deliberately removed his pipe from his lips, with the stem of it waved aside the cloud of smoke he blew from his lungs, and answered in guttural but not unmusical tones: “Bad Shawnees much sly, like fox. Make believe all time want peace—all time want war. Paleface camp here. Shawnee town there—two, three rifle shots away. Bad Shawnees—bad Winnebagoes—bad Senecas—all bad. But much brave—heap cunning. Big Prophet talk, talk. Night dark—palefaces sleep—Indians come and kill, Ugh!” The Wyandot resumed his pipe; the militiamen sat speechless. “There it is, as plain as the nose on a man’s face!” Joe shouted, exultingly. “Ross Douglas, you hain’t said a word. What do _you_ think?” Douglas answered quietly: “I think the savages mean to try to surprise and massacre us. But whether they’ll make the attempt to-night, I don’t know—I have no idea.” “Hark!” cried a militiaman, nervously springing to his feet. “What’s that hullabaloo ’bout?” His companions hastily arose and stood listening intently. A chorus of shouts, mingled with curses, came from the direction of the governor’s tent. “I’ll soon see what’s up,” muttered Farley, bounding away toward the spot whence the sounds came. The others seated themselves and anxiously awaited his return. The uproar suddenly ceased. A few minutes later, Joe again stood within the circle of light. A broad grin irradiated his homely features. “What was it?” bawled half a dozen voices at once. “W’y, ding-it-all-to-dangnation!” Farley exclaimed excitedly. “The _nigger’s_ come back. An’ Cap’n Wilson’s captured him an’ got him in charge.” “Where did he capture him?” Douglas asked quickly. “Right behind the gov’nor’s tent—the dang sneak was a-hidin’ in the shadder of it.”