3stalwarts by Unknown Page B

dark, he was sure, to belong to either tribe. They were thin, almost starved-looking. As they sat under their blankets, they made him think of snakes.
    “Morning,” he said to them, walking by.
    They said good-morning with their mouths. But their heads did not move. Nothing about them moved but their brown eyes, which were small and bright and followed the two militiamen slowly across the front of the woodshed.
    A moment later, in the woods once more, Reall said, with a quick backward glance, “Who do you think they was, Gil?”
    “I don’t know. I think they might be Cayugas. Or more likely Senecas. But I don’t know.”
    Reall drew a shuddering deep breath.
    “My God,” he said, “the way they stared at me. I’ve heard the Senecas and the Erie tribes eat human meat.”
    Reall quickened his pace. “We ought to tell Demooth right off there’s a couple of Senecas at Wolff’s. God knows what they’re up to. They must be from Niagara. Niagara’s where John Butler is. Oh, my Jesus, Gil. Maybe he’s down here too. Wolff’s looked shut up pretty tight.”
    “It always does,” said Gil. “That don’t mean anything.”
    “Wolff’s always been a King’s man. Always said so.” He looked round again. “We ought to tell them the first thing.” He had that fixed in his mind.
    The men of Demooth’s company of the fourth regiment of Tryon County militia were gathered along the barnside fence in Kast’s field, opposite the ford. There were twenty-five of them. They had the half-uneasy look of men who have been caught loafing on the job. When one happened to laugh, two or three would join him explosively. Then they would spit and look away from each other and eye George Weaver, who was standing a little down the fence.
    He said, “Captain hain’t here to-day. I ain’t got a watch. Anybody know what time it is?”
    “It ain’t time yet.”
    “Must be past ten,” said Weaver. “I’m to fine anybody’s late.”
    “There comes Martin and Reall now. There ain’t anybody else missing except them that have a lawful excuse.”
    At that moment Kast came out of his house in a brown coat. “It’s two minutes to ten,” he said. “By the clock.”
    Somebody laughed.
    “Time’s always by that clock of his, when Kast’s around.”
    Martin and Reall walked up.
    Reall cried out immediately, “George.”
    “Yes,” said Weaver.
    “There’s a couple of Seneca Indians up to Wolff’s. They’re shaved. Reckon they’re going to paint. Maybe Butler or somebody’s hanging around there.”
    “How do you know they’re Senecas?” Weaver asked sourly. He didn’t want anything to interfere with the muster. With Captain Demooth away, the whole responsibility devolved on him.
    “Ain’t I telling you, George?”
    Just then, tardily, Kast’s clock wound itself up and struck seven. The notes came feebly metallic to the waiting men.
    “That’s ten,” cried Kast. “She hurt her inwards somehow coming up here, and the bell’s never caught up to the time since.”
    Weaver took his tobacco from his mouth and cradled it behind him in his hand while with the other he held a paper before his eyes and rattled off the names.
    “Adam Hartman.”
    “Here.”
    “Jeams MacNod.”
    “Here.”
    On down the list. Now and then a man answered, “He can’t come. He’s gone to the Flats getting flour.” … “Perry’s home. Doc Petry told him his wife might most likely freshen this morning.” … “He cut his foot grubbing brush in the stump lot.”
    Obedient to the prescribed ritual, Weaver turned round to face the absent captain.
    “All present or accounted for.”
    It brought the plug in his hand into view. He recovered too late. Restor-ing it to his mouth, he roared thickly, “Shoulder arms.”
    The line raggedly shouldered their guns, some to the right, some to the left. They faced Weaver with the gravity of cornstooks. No two of them were dressed alike. Some had coats, of homespun or black cloth; some, like Gil,