So is Joe Daviess."
"Yes, I know," said Father Orin, sadly. "Good men as well as bad must
go, I suppose, if wars must be fought."
Tommy Dye looked hard at him for a moment, and taking off his hat,
rubbed his red hair the wrong way till it stood on end. His stare
gradually turned to a sort of sheepish embarrassment before he spoke;--
"I'll swear some of the babies up yonder ain't much bigger than my
fist!" he finally blurted out. "I took the Sisters the wad I won on the
last chicken fight. 'Twasn't much, but there ain't any use taking it
over the river for the red devils to get, if they get me--and maybe they
will--for they say the Prophet is a fighter. If the Shawnees don't get
me, I can make plenty more, so it's just as broad as it's long. Anyhow,
the Sisters will know what to do with the wad. Say! I wish it had been
bigger. They took me into the room where the youngsters stay," he said
huskily, rubbing his head harder than ever. "They said--them real ladies
said--that they would raise up the children to love me, and pray for me.
When I come away they cried--them real ladies--about me, old Tommy Dye,
that ain't even a heretic.
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