“Miwok,” Lieutenant Connors said, his foot pinned by a shaft.
“I daresay you’re not going anywhere, Connors.”
“No, sir, the California natives who ground acorns for mush and bread. Help, sir?”
The captain pulled. “Weren’t they poisoned by tannins?”
“No!” Connor’s face paled as the arrow sprang free, blood gushing. “They rinsed the flour until the bitterness was gone.”
“Oh!” said the Captain, his penultimate word. At that moment, an arrow struck his chest, death and heartbreak invading his upper atria.
“Nuts.”