“Joe, you may not _be_ a fool, but you’re acting the part of one, at any rate. You know as well as I that the Wyandots are the friends of the Americans, that the Shawnees are the allies of the British. Of course, there are traitors in both tribes; but what I have stated is true in the main. Bright Wing is my comrade—your friend. If you’re a man, you’ll beg his pardon.” “An’ that’s jest what I’m goin’ to do,” Farley shamefacedly muttered. “’Pears that I’ll never git to understandin’ Injins. They’re so _danged_ touchy.”—This in an aggrieved tone.—“But I had no business to be tormentin’ Bright Wing—he’s a redskin with a white man’s heart in his breast. Injin, here’s my hand. I didn’t mean to hurt y’r feelin’s.” “All right—me know,” murmured Bright Wing in guttural accents. Then he moved aside and seated himself upon the prow of the canoe. “Now, Joe, we must be off,” Ross began hurriedly. “You mean what you’ve said—you’re goin’ to jine the army?” Farley interrupted. Douglas nodded. “Goin’ to leave y’r land an’ everything an’ go off to fight Injins—an’ Britishers, maybe?” “The land will keep,” Ross laughed. “Little good it does me, at any rate. I have never cut a stick of timber upon it.” “That’s what I mean,” replied the other earnestly. “You ort to stay an’ clear it up an’ make a home of it. Quit y’r huntin’ an’ traipsin’ ’round with such fellers as me an’ Bright Wing, an’ settle down. It don’t make much differ’nce what _I_ do. But you’ve got book learnin’ an’ good sense. You’re wastin’ y’r time.” “I’m well pleased with the life I lead, Joe.” “That’s jest the trouble—you’re _too_ well pleased with it.” “I promise you I’ll reform when I return.” “An’ you’re goin’ away an’ leave that little sweetheart o’ your’n?” “You mean Amy Larkin?” “Of course.” “Yes, I must leave her. But I shall be back soon—in a few months, perhaps. Then I’ll marry her and settle down—become a model husbandman.” “You’re puttin’ off till to-morrer what you ort to do to-day.” “What do you mean, Joe?” “You know ol’ man Larkin don’t like you none too well—jest on account o’ y’r shiftless ways, as he calls it?” “I am aware that he doesn’t look upon me as a promising son-in-law—yes.” “An’ he _does_ think a heap o’ George Hilliard?” “Y-e-s.” “Well, you won’t be gone a month till George Hilliard ’ll be standin’ in y’r shoes.” “I have no fears on that score.” “All right!—but you’ll see. Gals is gals—they’re all false an’ fickle. A bird in the hand’s worth two in the bush, Ross. You’d better stay here an’ be gittin’ a cage ready fer y’r bird. Ol’ Sam Larkin’s got a heap o’ good land—an’ a heap more money. He’s rich. An’ Amy’s a purty nice gal—an’ the only child. You don’t want to let all that slip through y’r fingers, my boy.”