“Gone at last,” he exclaimed, after a moment’s pause, “but with poor Collins’ scalp along with them.  Cass,” he added, as he sprang to the floor, “if that turkey is fit to eat let’s have it directly, and you, Weston, look about and see if there is any more water to be had.  Make haste, now, for we shall have to tramp it to the fort as soon as it’s daylight.  The devils are gone and carried off the boat.”

Not less anxious than himself to be once more on their way to the fort, which some of them, on entering the house that night, had scarcely hoped to reach alive, the men, leaning their muskets against the side of the room, assisted in preparing the rude, but grateful meal, of which they stood so much in need, and which was to sustain them during the short-approaching march.  The table having been placed in the centre of the room, and on it the demijohn, and bread and venison, Green and Weston, the latter of whom had been unsuccessful in his search for water, seized each a leg and a wing of the ample turkey, which now denuded and disembowelled, Cass had scientifically carved in its raw state, and held them in the blaze of the fire, waiting patiently until the blackness of the outside should give promise of corresponding warmth within.  Its slayer held the body of the bird over the fire in a similar manner, the poker having been thrust into the abdomen.  They all sat, or rather stood in a squatting position with their faces to the fire.

“Well, now, I reckon we shall make six considerable shares of this,” drawled Cass, looking fondly at the carcass, which was slowly but temptingly spluttering before him at the fire.  “Are you any ways particular, Green?—­what part suits your taste best, Weston—­a leg or a wing?  For my part I always stick to the carcass.”

“Faith, and I like both, and a slice of the breast to boot.  I’m just the fellow, now the varmints are gone, that could eat all of them.”

“Yes, but you know,” returned the temporary chef de cuisine, “it must be share and share alike—­there’s two legs—­two wings and the breast, and the back slit in two—­that just makes six portions, and we’re six men in all.”

“Cast lots fiddlestick,” said Green, “what portion do you expect, Nutcrackers? unless it’s the neck, and the scaly part of the leg, the Injin had hold of when you so bravely sent your bayonet through her feathers.”

“Well, only think how cunning of the fellows,” remarked Weston, “who’d ever have thought they would try that fashion to get in, cramming an old turkey before them to clear the way, and get in his craw the first bullet that might be sent.”

“Yes, and the tight grip the fellow had of him by the leg.  Just look, Green, the mark of the devil’s hand may be upon him yet.  It was the right leg, and that’s it you have.”

“Bosh! what do you expect me to find there but the marks of your dirty paws while plucking him, I’m too devilish hungry for such nonsense, Nutcrackers; but show me the Injin that would venture to touch his legs now.  If I wouldn’t mark him, then my name’s not Seth Green.”