he earth or fly above the
clouds, and the time will come when he will look into this matter of the
swamp. It appears to be impenetrable, but he will conclude at last that
there is a way."

"I'm o' your mind," said Shif'less Sol. "When you're carryin' on a war
it ain't jest a matter o' guns an' ammunition, an' the lay o' the land.
You've got to think what kind o' a gen'ral is leadin' the warriors
ag'inst you. You must take his mind into account. Ain't that so, Paul?
Wuzn't it true o' that old Roman, Hannybul?"

"Hannibal was not a Roman, not by a great deal, Sol, as I told you
before."

"Well, he wuz a Rooshian, or mebbe an Eyetalian. What diff'unce does it
make? He wuz some kind o' a furriner, an' ef what you tell us 'bout him
is true, Paul, as I reckon it is, it wuz his mind that led his men on to
victory over the Rooshians an' the Prooshians an' the French an' the
Dutch."

"Over the Romans, Sol."

"Ez I told you once, Paul, it makes no diff'unce. They're all furriners,
an' all furriners are jest the same. Hannybul wuz the kind that wouldn't
give up. You've talked so much 'bout him, Paul, that I kin see him in my
fancy an' I know jest how he done. Often a big battle seemed to be goin'
ag'inst him. His men hev shot away all thar powder an' bullets. The
Shawnees an' the Miamis an' the Wyandots are comin' on hard, shoutin'
the war whoop, swingin' thar glitterin' tomahawks 'bout thar fierce
heads. The Romans already feel the hands o' the warriors on thar skelps,
an' they are tremblin', ready to run. But Hannybul swings his rifle,
clubs the leadin' Injun over the head with it, an' yells to his men:
'Come on, fellers! Draw your hatchets an' knives! Drive 'em into the
brush! We kin whip 'em yet!' An' the Romans, gittin' courage from thar
leader, go in an' thrash the hull band. Now, that's the kind o' a leader
Red Eagle is. I give him credit fur doin' a power o' thinking an'
holdin' on. Braxton Wyatt and Blackstaffe will say to him: 'Come, chief,
let's go away. They slipped through our lines in the night, an' they're
somewhar up on the shore o' one o' the big lakes, a-laffin' an'
a-laffin' at us. We'll go up thar, trail 'em down an' make 'em laff if
they kin, a-settin' among the live coals.' But that Red Eagle, wise old
chief that he is, will up an' say: 'They haven't got through. They
couldn't without bein' seen by our scouts an' watchers. An' since they
haven't passed, it follers that they're somewhar inside the ring.