"And yet game ought to be plentiful," went on his younger cousin. "There
wasn't much hunting in this vicinity during the war. Nearly everybody who
could go to the front went."

"There were plenty who couldn't be hired to go, you know that as well as I
do. Some were afraid they wouldn't get their pay and others were afraid the
French or the Indians would knock 'em over." Henry Morris took a deep
breath. "Beats me how they could stay home--with the enemy doing their best
to wipe us out."

"I can't understand it either. But now the war is over, do you think we'll
have any more trouble with the Indians?" continued Dave Morris, as he and
his cousin started forward through the deep snow that lay in the woods
which had been their hunting ground for the best part of the day.

"It's really hard to tell, Dave. Father thinks we'll have no more trouble,
but Sam Barringford says we won't have real peace until the redskins have
had one whipping they won't forget as long as they live."

"Well, Sam knows the Indians pretty thoroughly."


"No one knows them better. And why shouldn't he know 'em? He's been among
them since he was a small boy, and he must be fifty now if he's a day."

"I can tell you one thing, Henry," continued Dave warmly. "I was mighty
glad to see Sam recover from that wound he received at Quebec. At first I
thought he would either die or be crazy for the rest of his life."