YEPATCH WAS LUCKY that Tom’s aim was off that day, because it give Tom the idea of making him into a pirate stead of hanging him. The emigrants was probably more hoping for a hanging—some a them was so new they hadn’t seen a single one yet—but they all cheered Tom when he brung down Eyepatch. They had a hoot at the rascal’s sass and they was mostly happy to have him around to look at a while longer, specially when they learnt Tom’s plans for him. Tom was also lucky for having saved Pegleg’s wooden leg stead of burying it with him, if he ever did get buried, which just goes to show it was always good to hang on to such things as wooden legs in case a body needed them later. First, though, Eyepatch’s shot-up leg had to get chopped and healed, so they dragged him off, howling and cussing, to Doc Molligan.
Whilst they was doing that, Tom and his pals gathered round the claims table on the raised wooden sidewalk to talk about what Tom called their stragety. The others wanted to attack the redskins right then and there, hitting them with all they got, and bring the calvary into it, too. But Tom he didn’t like the idea and says they ought to powwow again with the tribe first and see if they couldn’t be learnt to be more friendlier if maybe they paid them some money or beads. Nobody thought this was a good idea, so Tom looked at me sadfully and shrugged and says, “What do you reckon, Huck?”
“I don’t see nobody getting out a nobody’s way,” I says. “So, what I reckon is that something really bad is a-going to happen.”
Some a the others yayed at this, judging something bad was good, but Tom only nodded and sighed like to say he done all he could, and he ain’t been left with no choice. Tom says if they was meaning to attack the tribe, though he wishes they warn’t, they should choose a day when the enemy ain’t expecting it, like when it’s snowing or hurry-caning or some Sunday morning before dawn. I says we should wait for the hurry-cane, but nobody else was of that opinion. Caleb he says he don’t read the weather, so he don’t know about snow in June, but there was a Sunday coming up, three days away, and Tom says that should give him enough time. He says there’s been troubles at the claim, he already had to shoot at some pesky claim-jumpers, and though he had business partners now, he didn’t trust them, so him and Bear had to go make sure it didn’t all get stole away from him. But if Caleb could plan out the attack and round up a proper Black Hills Brigade and make sure all the best shootists was there, he’d get back before dawn Sunday. He looked at me and winked over his bushy moustaches and says he knowed the greatest injun hunter in the Territories wouldn’t want to miss a chance for a few more scalps, and he hoped I was out a my sickbed by then.
Then Tom put on his white hat and slung a lecture about gold and freedom, and how a body could stake a claim to them and keep the claims safe, which I warn’t listening to. I was beginning to feel muddly and weak in the knees. After Tom had spoke, everybody got up and left except me and Caleb and Wyndell and a long line of miners waiting outside the claims registry office. Tom slapped my back before he stepped down into the mud and says I should go get some rest, I looked like a Chinaman with consumption. Somewheres further off, Eyepatch could be heard screaming and wailing and cussing the world and everybody in it. There warn’t much out here to heal with, and most of it hurt like the blazes.
Whilst we was moving the table back into the office, Caleb says he ain’t never seen Tom so charged up on peace-talking the savages, I must be having a bad influence on him.
“I hope I ain’t held responsible for his bad shooting, too,” I says, worrying if I could make it back down to the crick or not. “I been thinking about what if he’d missed the hanging rope and only shot me in the leg like Eyepatch.”
“He wouldn’t never a done that, though I cain’t say he shouldn’ta,” says Caleb flatly. He lifted up his orange too-pay to scratch his balditude, set it back down again. “Why’re you such a favrit a his?”
“Been pards since we was little.”
“Well, you ain’t wuth it.”