human
Was there aught else?
gpt
Nothing except this Mohawk hatchet struck deep into the bark of Nine-Mile Tree, and sticking there.
human
Do you know what it means, Nick?
gpt
Aye. Also, it is an _old_ war-axe _newly_ polished. And struck deep into the tallest pine in Tryon. Any fool must know what all this means. Shall you speak of this to the others, John?
human
Yes, said I,
gpt
Boys, an Indian war-axe was left sticking in Nine-Mile Tree. Nick drew it out. The hatchet is an old one, but _it is newly polished_!
human
Sacré garce! whispered Silver fiercely.
gpt
Now, grâce à dieu, shall I reckon with those dirtee trap-robbers who take my pelts like the carcajou! Ha! So is it war? A la bonheur! Let them come for my hair then! And if they get Johnny Silver's hair they may paint the Little Red Foot on the hoop, nom de dieu!
human
Get along forward, boys, said I.
gpt
Some of you keep an eye on the mountains lest they begin calling to Sir John with fire----
human
A flame on Maxon!