Black Hawk's Warpath
Date: 2022-01-08T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Black Hawk; Sauk chief; 1767-1838 -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Black Hawk's Warpath

Author: Herbert L. Risteen

Illustrator: C. R. Schaare

Release date: January 8, 2022 [eBook #67128]
Most recently updated: June 12, 2025

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Cupples and Leon Company, 1950

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67128

Credits: Stephen Hutcheson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACK HAWK'S WARPATH ***

Black Hawk’s Warpath

Fagan struck the ground with a prodigious thud.
“Black Hawk’s Warpath” (See Page 119)

H. L. RISTEEN

black hawk’s
warpath

Illustrated

Cupples and Leon Company

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, 1950, BY
CUPPLES AND LEON COMPANY

Black Hawk’s Warpath

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.

Contents

CHAPTER | | PAGE
I. | A Frontier Duel | 11
II. | Bill Brown, Border Scout | 21
III. | At Point of Rocks | 32
IV. | The Midnight Council | 42
V. | At Fort Dearborn | 51
VI. | Among the Pottawattomees | 60
VII. | Furious Fists | 67
VIII. | Indian War-Cry | 78
IX. | Shadows in the Night | 88
X. | Horsemen of the Prairie | 99
XI. | The Lodge of Black Hawk | 109
XII. | Stillman’s Run | 120
XIII. | A Daring Escape | 133
XIV. | A Thrilling Rescue | 143
XV. | Rock River Camp | 153
XVI. | Scouts of the Prairie | 163
XVII. | With Dodge’s Rangers | 172
XVIII. | White Crow’s Treachery | 183
XIX. | Pursuit of Black Hawk | 193
XX. | Musket and Tomahawk | 205
XXI. | War-Trail’s End | 216

BLACK HAWK’S WARPATH

CHAPTER 1

******************************

A Frontier Duel

“HEY, TOM! there’s a big hubbub amongst the Injuns!” exclaimed Ben Gordon to his twin brother, as he rushed into an unpainted, frame shanty in the frontier hamlet of Chicago. The two schoolboys had arrived from the east only the day before, keenly eager for a summer of western adventure.

“You don’t say, Ben! What goes on?”

“Two young braves, both sons of chiefs, are dead set on fighting a duel!”

Tom looked up soberly from the breakfast table.

“Whew!” he said, “somebody may get hurt.”

“Righto, but they’re mighty bitter, I hear. Have sworn vengeance.”

“What’s the argument about?”

“An Injun girl, I guess. Prettiest young squaw in the whole Chippeway tribe.”

Tom Gordon hastily finished his dish of stewed prunes, bolted a fat doughnut, drained his cup of black tea, and then joined his brother on the long porch which extended across the entire front of the low, rambling building. The two sixteen-year old lads were identical twins, both long of limb, freckle-faced and red-haired. Each wore cowhide boots, into which were tucked baggy trousers of gray wool. In their leather belts were sheath knives. Flannel shirts of a bright blue shade completed their simple attire.

Across the narrow Chicago River, directly facing them and clearly outlined in the morning sun, was the frontier outpost of Fort Dearborn. The stockaded fort stood on a promontory, around which the river swept to the southeast, joining Lake Michigan about a half-mile below. Above the fort, built some sixteen years before, in the year 1816, the rude cabins, shanties and other buildings of the village were strung haphazardly along both banks of the stream.

Around the village and bordering on the lake, almost the entire neighborhood was a low, boggy prairie. A man could scarcely walk across parts of it, even in the driest summer weather. And at this spring season—late April was the month—the place was well nigh impassable, except by a few devious footpaths.

During the past few days, a great throng of Indians had come pouring into the vicinity of the fort. There were, altogether, some two or three thousand savages of different tribes, but mainly of the Pottawattomee nation.

“The Injuns have summoned a grand council,” explained a soldier, “to talk over the matter of a certain treaty that the Great White Father at Washington wants ’em to sign.”

All of the leading sachems of the region had come in, with the notable exception of Black Hawk, foremost chieftain of the Sacs, and there was much speculation as to the reason for his absence. The Pottawattomees were represented by such chiefs as Alexander Robinson, the son of a Scotch father and Indian mother, Sauguanauneebee (Sour Water), Shaubena, Chepoi (the Corpse), and various others of lesser note.

Then, too, all of the principal traders of the region were on hand to deal with the Indians. Their tents and trading booths dotted the landscape, and helped to give the scene almost the festive appearance of a fair.

Tom and Ben Gordon now left their lodging shanty and hurried upriver past the village.

“There’s a big crowd of savages over that way,” pointed out Ben presently.

“Must be the place,” was Tom’s reply.

The big council, composed of all the leading chiefs of the principal tribes was already in session. Whirling Thunder, a Sac chief, and Shaubena, whose sons were involved, had turned the matter over to the solemn assemblage. The young Indian maiden, cause of the quarrel, was standing at one side with her father, the giant “Wampum,” a famous chief of the Chippeways, who had his village some three hundred miles to the north in the vast, somber “pineries.”

Tom and Ben had hardly arrived, when a coppery warrior got to his feet and launched an oration that seemed to the attentive boys to be both stirring and forceful. He was a tall, strong savage, of handsome mien; he knew all the tricks of good oratory; his voice was deep and full-toned; and he accompanied his words with graceful and telling gestures. To the boys’ surprise, however, his eloquence seemed to carry little weight. His fellow savages appeared to have small regard for his utterances. Hardly a murmur arose from the stolid circle about him.

But now there arose a stubby, thickset Indian with a stern, rugged countenance, who had sat smoking in stony silence. His speech was quite short, and it was delivered in a blunt, almost awkward manner. As an orator, he could not compare with the other; for he had neither the style nor the smooth flow of words. Yet his crude utterances bore heavily on his hearers. Nods of approval ran around the red circle; muttered expressions of agreement could be heard on every hand.

“How do you figure it out, Ben?” puzzled Tom.

“It’s got me in a fog, Tom. Why, that tall chief talked rings around him!”

“Sure did. He had a real gift of gab.”

A big frontiersman, evidently a veteran woodcrafter, who stood nearby, volunteered an explanation. He pointed out that the superb orator of the high-sounding words had in his hair only a single eagle feather, while the other, the thickest savage, had eagle feathers all around his head and trailing down his back to touch the very ground at his heels.

“You mean,” inquired Ben incredulously, “that the chief who can sport the longest string of pretty feathers has the most say-so?”

“Jest that,” smiled the affable stranger.

“But why?” questioned the doubting lad.

“Listen, younker! them purty feathers ain’t worn fer decoration mainly. Each one means a scalp that the chief has took in battle.”

“Oh, I think I see,” put in Tom thoughtfully. “A few words from this chief, who has taken many scalps, carries more weight than all the flowery oratory of a man who has no such fighting record to back up his talk.”

“You hit the bull’s-eye, boy. That’s jest it.”

The Indian council dragged along, and soon the listening twins began to tire of the seemingly endless round of speeches, not a word of which could they understand.

“They’re getting nowhere fast,” complained Ben.

“Oh, the big chiefs ’ll chew this thing over fer hours,” remarked the friendly frontiersman. “That’s Injun naitcher. Ther ain’t bigger wind-bags in the world than some o’ these here Injun chiefs. They run off at the mouth by the hour.”

“Well, Ben, if that’s the case,” declared Tom, “let’s drop back to the village for a bite to eat, and then return later.”

Accordingly, the boys left the savage chieftains to their long-winded harangues, and went down river to the fort. About mid-afternoon, they heard that the youths had finally been brought before the wise men and informed that they would be permitted to fight as proposed, the winner to take the maiden as his intended wife.

“The duel is set for an hour before sundown,” a soldier told Ben and Tom.

As the fatal hour approached, the two brothers headed inland toward the designated scene of encounter. They found a turbulent concourse of several hundred Indians and whites banked around the place, a sandy flat dotted with a few clumps of hazel brush, about a mile beyond the swamps that rimmed the lake.

There wasn’t long to wait.

“Here they come!” sang out Tom excitedly, some five minutes after their own arrival.

The two young gladiators cantered out, astride nimble Indian ponies, one black and the other a spotted little beast. Their leather saddles were gayly decked in beads, silver brooches, colored quills, and gaudy trinkets such as the traders bartered with the savages. Bright ribbons streamed from the ponies’ manes.

“Say! that one on the spotted pony is a mighty trim-looking young brave,” spoke up Ben, in open admiration.

“That’s Bright Star, son of Shaubena,” a bystander advised them.

Young Bright Star was, indeed, a lad of handsome face and lithe, graceful figure. He had a gay kerchief on his head; and further sported a shirt of lemon-colored calico, decked with many glistening ornaments. The deerskin leggings, which came up to his thighs, were very fancy, one legging being of blue and the other of deep scarlet.

“But zowie! look at the other Injun, on the black pony!” cried Tom.

“Sure is a tough-looking cookie!” Ben replied, with a low whistle of consternation.

“That must be the Prairie Wolf, Ben.”

“Wouldn’t doubt it, Tom. He really has the face to go with his name.”

The young savage was a big, raw-boned, ugly-looking Indian, with a sinister, bloated face. He had a striped kerchief of silk wrapped around his long black hair. Otherwise, he was naked to the waist. A pair of soiled skin leggings completed his dress.

“It’ll be murder!” groaned Tom. “Prairie Wolf looks strong as a bull.”

“He’ll be a wicked opponent,” agreed Ben, with a solemn shake of the head.

Crude flags had been stuck in the sand roundabout, marking out an arena; and gruff Indian guards now cleared this ring. Heading these guards, and likewise acting as seconds, were the great chiefs, Chepoi and Blue Jacket. A little outside the ring, all alone, was the dusky Indian princess. She stood erect and motionless, with arms akimbo, seemingly indifferent to the fierce combat soon to ensue.

Preparations were now complete, and the two duelists headed their horses to opposite ends of the arena. Each youth had a long, sharp-pointed spear under his right arm, while on his left he carried a shield which appeared to be made of some sort of hide or skin.

“Those shields don’t look like much protection,” observed Tom dubiously. “Whew! see the keen points on those spears!”

“You’re wrong, boy,” asserted a grizzled trader, who stood at his side. “Them shields is so tough that lots o’ times they’ll turn back a musket ball. They’re made o’ buffalo sinews j’ined together.”

It was a nervous sight to behold the two resolute Indian youths, sitting erect in their saddles with muscles tensed, while their fractious little ponies neighed and pawed the ground in impatience.

Finally, however, a stalwart redskin uttered a piercing yell that rolled out across the flat like thunder.

“The starting signal!” cried Tom Gordon, his voice fairly throbbing with excitement.

A wild, barbaric shout arose from the crowd as he spoke. The spears of the rival duelists were at once leveled. Their moccasined heels dug sharply into the ponies’ flanks, and the high-strung little animals darted forward like arrows from the bow.

“They’re off!” Ben yelled hoarsely.

Across the hard, sandy flat came the flying hoofs, the fleet ponies traveling at express speed. The intrepid young warriors were rushing upon each other at full gallop. The intervening space narrowed with lightning swiftness, and in a trice the pair met full-tilt in the middle of the ring with a shock the sound of which was plainly heard in the distant village.

Crash! the two contestants were violently dismounted by the fearful impact.

“They’re both done for!” said Tom, in a low, tense whisper.

“No!” Ben shook his head in quick denial. “Look! one is getting up! he seems unhurt!”

“It’s Bright Star!” arose the cry among the straining onlookers.

True enough! young Bright Star sprang briskly to his feet, untouched by the deadly lance. The hulking Prairie Wolf, however, lay inert among the sand and dry leaves, knocked senseless by the fall, and with a spear wound in his shoulder.

The doughty young victor now whistled to his pony, leaped gracefully to the animal’s back, and then swooped down toward the Indian girl who still stood like a statue, at the outskirts of the circle of spectators. As the boy chief neared the maiden, he leaned from the saddle with practiced skill, passed his sinewy arm around the girl’s waist, and deftly lifted her to a place on the pony’s back before him. Then, with a fling of his arm and a last, exultant whoop toward the onlookers, he shot away across the barren plain toward the wigwams of his tribesmen.

CHAPTER 2

******************************

Bill Brown, Border Scout

AFTER the finish of the Indian duel, Tom and Ben Gordon started back toward the village by the fort. The fresh, perfumed air of early spring was blowing out of the west, sweeping in from the hundreds of miles of wide, clean prairie lands that stretched away to the distant Mississippi and beyond. Redbud trees were putting forth their first pink blossoms, and the butter-colored dandelions were here and there beginning to fleck the grass. A sunset of an extraordinary brilliance made the western sky glorious.

“Well, if it ain’t my young friends, the twins!” suddenly boomed a cheery voice from behind them.

The two boys turned abruptly. What with the soft earth path they were following, they had not noticed the approach of anyone, but now they quickly saw that the newcomer was the tall frontiersman whom they had talked with briefly at the Indian council that morning.

They beheld a man not only of six-foot height, but also uncommonly big of bone and evidently very powerful. He had brown, curly hair, rosy cheeks and a superb set of even, white teeth. His dress was all of deerskin, except that on his head was a raccoon skin cap, with the short tail hanging down behind. A knife was in his belt and he was plainly a man of resolute character, but he had a smile of such wonderful friendliness, and his tone of voice was so cordial, that the hearts of the two eastern lads warmed to him at once.

“An’ what did you think o’ the Injun duel?” he continued.

“Quite a fight,” acknowledged Ben.

“And the right fellow came out on top,” added Tom, with evident satisfaction.

“I kinda think so,” the frontiersman agreed. “From what I hear, that Prairie Wolf is a nasty one, ’bout the wust young ruffian in the hull Sac tribe.”

“Do you suppose this duel will make bad blood between the Sacs and Pottawattomees?” questioned Ben.

“It no doubt will, as they is pizen enemies to start with. The tribal lands o’ the two touch each other, an’ ther’s alus a ruckus goin’ on over who’s gittin’ on whose territory.”

“Bright Star will have to watch his step,” Tom observed sagely. “The Wolf looks like the type who will plot his vengeance.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him to knife the Pottawattomee in the back, some dark night,” Ben put in.

“Well, jest ’member, lads, that ther wouldn’t be anythin’ wrong with that, ’cordin’ to Injun law. They believe strickly in an eye fer an eye, an’ a tooth fer a tooth. The white man’s code is beyond the understandin’ of a feathered savage.”

“Do you think,—err—?” Tom began.

“Oh, I’m beggin’ yer pardon,” broke in the frontiersman genially. “I’m Bill Brown, an’ I came ’rig’nally from Kentucky, but I’ve been a hunter an’ trapper an’ scout up this way fer the last ten years.”

“Well, I’m Tom Gordon,” responded Tom, “and my brother’s name is Ben.”

“Tom and Ben, h-m! Good short, honest names, an’ easy like to ’member.”

“We’re glad you like them,” went on Tom smiling. “But as I started to ask, do you think there’ll ever be any trouble again, between the Injuns and the whites in these parts?”

“You mean the fightin’ kind o’ trouble, I s’pose,” answered Bill Brown slowly. “Well, yer askin’ me a straight question, an’ I’m givin’ you a straight answer. I reckon ther’ll be more bloodshed betwixt the reds an’ whites, an’ mebbe soon.”

“And maybe soon, you say, Mr. Brown?” exclaimed Ben, his eyes kindling with excitement.

Bill Brown suddenly stopped and frowned.

“What did you call me?” he asked.

“Why, Mr. Brown, of course.”

“Now listen, lad, I’m Mr. Brown only to them as don’t like me, an’ that I don’t like. But I was sorta figgerin’ that we was goin’ to be friends.”

“We’ll surely be friends, Bill,” chorused the two boys, with one voice.

“That’s good. That’s heap good, as an Injun would put it. But to git on with yer question. You’ve heard, small doubt, o’ the famous old redman, Black Hawk?”

“The great Sac chief?”

“Yep, that’s the feller.”

“What about him, Bill?”

“Jest this. I’m back from a scoutin’ trip, ’cross the Mississippi River, an’ I’m comin’ out flat-footed an’ statin’ that the big chief is gittin’ purty nigh ready to hit the war trail.”

“Black Hawk! Across the Mississippi?” questioned Tom, in a puzzled way. “Why, I thought Black Hawk and his Sacs lived here in Illinois.”

“They once did, lad. For untold years, the Sac tribe hunted an’ fished in the valley o’ the Rock River, which is a branch o’ the Mississippi in nor’western Illinois. There they tilled the rich prairie soil. In the time o’ the fallin’ leaves an’ Injun summer, they would pile high the harvest corn in ther little villages. An’ ther would us’lly be many days o’ songs, dances an’ prayers, as they thanked the Great Spirit, Man-ee-do, fer a good corn year.”

“How did they happen to give up their lands?” Ben asked, as the tall borderer paused.

“’Way back in the year 1804, the Sacs signed a treaty, sellin’ their tribal lands to the United States Guv’ment. Then they took ther horses, squaws, papooses, an’ assorted dogs an’ moved ’cross the Mississippi.”

“Did they like their new home?” said Tom.

“Were they satisfied with the deal?” added Ben.

“Not fer sour apples. An’ who could expect ’em to. The Rock River country was the land o’ ther stories, ther corn-plantin’ an’ harvest, ther fav’rite huntin’ an’ fishin’ places, the battle-ground an’ buryin’-ground o’ ther fathers, who had fit hard to gain it an’ keep it from other hostile tribes.”

“And now Black Hawk aims to recover it?” inquired Ben.

“Aye, he feels the Great Spirit, Man-ee-do, tellin’ him to git back ’cross the Mississippi, an’ chase off the hated settlers what have put up cabins ther.”

“That will mean bloody war, sure enough,” pondered Tom Gordon, “because then the soldiers will come.”

“Black Hawk knows that,” explained Bill Brown, “but he reckons he’s so strong an’ cunnin’ that he kin ambush an’ rub out all the pale-face fighters what is sent agin him.”

“But the Sacs duly sold the land to the U. S. Government,” mused Ben.

“The Hawk says not, lad. He reasons that the land couldn’t be legally sold. The Great Spirit gave it to his forefathers to live on. They had an eternal right to the soil. The way he figgers, the treaty is a fraud; fer nothin’ could be rightfully sold, ’cept such things as could be carried away.”

“Look here, Bill,” broke in Tom, with sudden inspiration, “have you told Captain Van Alstyne at the fort what you discovered on your scouting trip, I mean that you think Black Hawk is about ready to dig up the hatchet?”

“No. I ain’t had time.”

“You just got to Chicago?”

“Only today. But I aim to see the Cap’n in the mornin’. That is,” he added sarcastically, “if he’s dressed to receive vis’ters.”

“He should be grateful for your warning.”

“No, I don’t calc’late he’ll do anythin’ ’bout it.”

“Well, why not?” protested Ben. “Maybe, if he’d send a batch of troopers into western Illinois, it’d cool off the Hawk’s war fever.”

“Bless you, Ben, the Cap’n ’ll never heed me. He’ll say it’s all a mess o’ gossip.”

“But why?”

“Because he’s a macaroni.”

“A macaroni?”

“Yep, a macaroni, meanin’ a dude sojur. He thinks that all he has to do is strut the parade ground in that Fancy Dan uniform o’ his, an’ every painted Injun this side o’ the Rocky Mount’ins ’ll be struck dumb with fear.”

The trio was now approaching the vicinity of Fort Dearborn, the log walls of which loomed up less than a half-mile ahead. At this point, the muddy path led between a swamp, on one hand, and the door of a squatty log structure, known to the garrison of the fort as the “Mud Turtle,” on the other. The Turtle was nothing more than a grog-shop and gambling dive, much frequented by the rougher element among the troopers. It was also known as a rendezvous for fur poachers, Indian renegades, white border ruffians, and, in fact, every sort of frontier riffraff of the worst stamp.

“Stay away from the neighborhood o’ this robbers’ roost after dark,” called back Bill Brown, who was in the lead, as they wound single-file along the narrow path, “er you may git yer heads caved in an’ yer pockets picked.”

“I hear it’s a good place to steer clear of,” agreed Tom.

“Yep, it’s the wust dadbusted dive this side o’ Natchez-under-the-Hill.”

As the big frontiersman swung past the Turtle and continued east along the muddy path, the towering figure of a soldier suddenly lurched from the tavern door. This soldier was clearly in a half-drunken state. He was a large man, dark of face and with piggy, close-set eyes. His faded uniform was torn and unkempt.

Catching sight of Bill Brown’s back, some ten feet ahead in the path, the tousled fellow stopped short, then wiped the back of his brawny hand across his bleary eyes. A hoarse mutter came from his throat. His mighty frame fairly trembled with rage. He began to creep stealthily up the trail, soft-stepping as a cat, meanwhile drawing a knife from a sheath in his belt. It was now plain as print that he was stalking Bill Brown!

For a split second, Tom and Ben Gordon were stupefied with amazement. Then they reacted, swiftly and sharply.

“Stop him, Tom!” rasped Ben to his brother, who was several paces nearer than he to the creeping knife-wielder.

With a quick cry of alarm, Tom Gordon sprang forward, as if propelled by a strong, steel spring. He was upon the crouching soldier before the latter could be more than vaguely aware of his intent. With a mighty shove he sent the burly fellow reeling from the narrow path. He staggered for a moment, tried desperately to retrieve his balance, and then lost his footing in the slippery mud at the swamp edge. Into the slimy, reed-grown water he pitched, a snarl of helpless wrath coming from his lips.

“Bully for you, Tom!” sang out the exultant Ben.

But the coldness of the water served to quickly clear the mind of the befuddled fellow, driving the liquor fumes almost instantly from his head. With a wild howl of rage he clambered instantly to his feet in the shallows. The glittering knife had been lost in the dark, swamp water in the course of his violent fall. But now he leaped forward, savage as a forest panther, and with his great hamlike fists swinging dangerously.

By this time, however, Bill Brown had wheeled about. A single, sweeping glance told him the story. With a swift movement of his right arm he reached inside his hunting-shirt. From an under-arm holster he drew forth a short-barreled pistol of heavy caliber, known on the border as a derringer.

“Halt in yer tracks, Pat Fagan!” he commanded, leveling the weapon with great speed.

Ben and Tom were startled by the change in the big frontiersman. All the kindliness and gentleness were gone from his voice, which now had the sharp, fierce crack of a pistol-shot.

“Don’t tell me what ter do, Brown!” raged the charging ruffian; but nevertheless he came to an abrupt halt.

Stock-still he stood, dripping and muddy, the picture of impotent wrath, clenching and unclenching his big fists convulsively. And his face was ugly to see. All his evil passions, to be thwarted thus by a mere boy, flared forth upon it. Seldom had his heart been torn by so murderous an anger. Furthermore, it was past endurance to be held in this fashion at the point of a pistol. Black rage swelled the veins of his face. His hand stole toward his hip pocket.

“Keep yer hands up, Fagan, er I shoot!” ordered Brown grimly. “Now, Tom, jest step up an’ relieve him o’ that pocket-gun. Ah, that’s a spry lad. An’ now, sojur, jest tuck yer tail atween yer legs, so to speak, an’ slink off to the garrison.”

A fresh flood of rage swept over the fuming trooper. His eyes glowed hotly. But he knew full well that Bill Brown meant all that he said; and he was wise enough to hold his fearful passion in check. With a mighty effort he gained his self-control. A sneer replaced the black wrath in his swarthy face.

“I kin bide my time, Brown,” he warned icily, “but don’t think I’m a goin’ ter fergit the dirt yuh once done me.”

“Meanin’, I s’pose, the time I put a damper on the swindle you was tryin’ to work on that pore ol’ trader.”

“Mark my words,” continued Fagan, disregarding the accusation, “I’ll have yer mangy hide some day. An’ that goes, likewise, fer the young squirt har that shoved me in the muck.”

“Talk’s cheap, Fagan,” retorted Bill Brown. “You have to ketch a fox afore you kin skin him, you know.”

“Oh, I’ll do it, Brown. I’m strong enuff fer it, an’ I don’t know of any law in these yar parts that’ll keep me from it.”

“No, ther ain’t no law,” agreed the tall borderer readily, “’cept that o’ pistol an’ knife. But pistol an’ knife have alus kept me safe; an’ as long as a man kin shoot fast an’ straight, ther ain’t no need to show the white feather to any bogus badman the likes o’ you.”

CHAPTER 3

******************************

At Point of Rocks

THAT next morning, after the fracas at the Turtle, Ben and Tom, having nothing definite in mind for the day, decided to take a tramp north along the shore of mighty Lake Michigan. Their destination was Point of Rocks, four miles distant, where the fishing was said to be unsurpassed.

“The landlady says she’ll broil us a fresh lake trout, if we can catch one,” declared Ben.

“If we do,” proposed Tom, “what say we invite in our new friend, Bill Brown, and make it a party?”

“Good old Bill! He’s going to call on Captain Van Alstyne today about his Injun warning. Wonder how he’ll make out.”

“Well, he wasn’t overly hopeful, you know. He maintains that the Captain is a complete donkey.”

From the village a fairly well-worn Indian trail led northward along the shore. The progress of the two young fishermen was, therefore, steady and not too arduous; but the rocky point proved to be somewhat farther from the fort than they had been led to believe.

“These western miles are longer than the ones we have back east,” stated Tom emphatically, as he rested for a moment on a rock and gazed out over the wide expanse of blue-green water.

“Just what I was thinking, Tom. I’d call this more like six miles than four from the feel of my leg muscles. But perk up! Isn’t that the rocks about a half-mile ahead?”

“Maybe so. There’s some sort of a point sticking out in the lake. Must be the place.”

Vastly encouraged, now that the goal was close at hand, the two red-heads pressed forward at a faster rate.

“Say, Ben,” said Tom presently, slackening his pace, “there’s someone there ahead of us.”

“By George, there is!”

“Looks like an Injun.”

“An Injun it is, sure as I’m a foot high.”

Tom’s conjecture proved to be correct. As the boys approached the stony point, they could make out a lithe, coppery-colored figure, naked to the waist, squatting on a rock ledge that fell off steeply to the water.

“What’s that in his hand?” questioned Tom, peering intently up shore.

“Looks like a spear.”

“Must be spearing fish.”

“I reckon so. That’s the usual Injun way to catch them, I understand. Or else with nets.”

In another moment the two lads were within fifty yards of the ledge, where they could plainly see the savage fisherman.

“Well, I’ll be scalped,” exclaimed Tom, “if it isn’t Bright Star, the young Pottawattomee!”

“By golly, it is! Looks like he came out of the big duel with nary a scratch.”

“But he sure enough put his mark on the Wolf. What a thrilling fight it was! I’ll never forget it.”

When the white boys had come to within a few rods of the ledge, the lithe young chief rose to his feet fishing spear in hand.

“Ho!” he said, his tone friendly.

“Ho, Bright Star!” Tom Gordon replied, equal friendliness in his voice.

The Pottawattomee could not have failed to be surprised—greatly surprised—by this recognition on the part of the pair of whites, but, with traditional Indian impassiveness, not a muscle of his features changed. Nor did the look of his eyes alter a whit.

“How you know Bright Star?” he queried, after a moment’s interval; his association with the soldiers and traders of the Fort Dearborn neighborhood had evidently enabled him to pick up a considerable understanding of English.

“We saw you fight the young Sac chief, Prairie Wolf,” answered Ben quickly.

“Ho, ho!” rejoined Bright Star.

“You are a brave fighter,” complimented Tom.

“Ho! The words of the white boy are good.”

“But you must beware of the Wolf.”

“Ho! He want my scalp. Ho! I know.”

“You must always be alert.”

“Bright Star does not fear. Only the sitting rabbit is caught by the fox.”

The position of the sun now showed mid-day; so the twins took a quantity of food from a canvas pouch that Ben had carried over his shoulder. There was corn bread, some slices of cold roast duck, and several rosy apples. A share of this they offered to their savage companion, who accepted without demur. For a time, all three ate hungrily and in silence, washing down the tasty victuals with draughts of cold water from a clear spring that bubbled from the rocks and then ran away like a tiny rivulet into the nearby lake.

“White boys are brothers to Bright Star,” asserted the Pottawattomee presently, as he tossed away the core of an apple that he had been munching. “Bright Star wish that all white man and all red man be like brothers.”

“Maybe they will be from now on,” observed Tom hopefully.

“Ugh! it will not be so.”

“Not so, you say?”

The young chief was silent for a long moment; as if weighing well the words he was to utter. The only sounds to be heard were the gentle lapping of the waves on the rocks and the clacking of the innumerable gulls that circled over the lake surface.

“A big chief,” he said tersely, “not come to treaty council.”

“You mean Black Hawk?” asked Ben, with a quick glance at the attentive Tom.

“Ugh! Black Hawk, Sac chief.”

“We did hear,” commented Tom cautiously, “that Black Hawk is sulking in his lodge beyond the big river. Does that mean bad medicine for the whites?”

“Ugh! bad, bad medicine!”

There was a brief, tense pause.

“Have you ever seen Black Hawk?” asked Ben Gordon, finally breaking the ice.

“Ho! many time, at big fort. Painting on his blanket, blood-red hand.”

“Holy smokes, a blood-red hand on his blanket!” exclaimed Ben.

“What does that signify?” Tom inquired.

“Blood-red hand is sign,” answered Bright Star, “that the Hawk kill and scalp enemy when boy only fifteen years old.”

“Whew! he must be quite a warrior. Awful big and strong, I reckon.”

“Not tall.” Bright Star shook his head. “Not heavy. But big nose. Hair plucked out. Only scalp lock left. Brave, heap brave! Pale-face run like rabbit when he raise war-whoop.”

The Pottawattomee seemed on the verge of saying more, but suddenly closed his lips tightly, leaped to his feet, and again caught up the fishing spear which he had thrown to one side when he sat down to eat.

While the young chief again took post on the rocky ledge, spear ready, looking down sharply into the lake waters, the two white boys got out their lines, with hook and sinker attached to each.

“Guess we’ll have to catch some grasshoppers for bait,” mused Tom.

“Maybe so,” agreed Ben, “but grasshoppers don’t make the best bait in the world. Little Bennie is no Isaac Walton, but he knows that much about fishing.”

At this, the keen-eared Bright Star again threw down his spear on the ledge, and with a few long bounds stood beside them.

“Me get bait,” he said. “Heap good bait.”

For a moment or two he walked along the shore, carefully surveying the rocks at his feet. Finally he bent down and turned over a flattish stone.

“Come!” he invited, beckoning to the whites. “See!”

With a dusky finger he pointed to a queer-looking creature, seemingly half bug and half worm, which lay beneath the stone.

“Nice bug,” he stated. “Fish much like.”

“What do you call it?” quizzed Ben.

“Now, Ben,” broke in Tom, with mock severity, “do you mean to state that you don’t know the name of that peculiar little thinguma-jig?”

“Of course not. How should I? And you don’t know the name of it either, Mr. Johnny Wiseacre.”

“Yes, I do, Ben. Have you forgotten the teachings of the great Eliphalet Doolittle, Professor of Biology at good old Litchfield Academy, back home in Connecticut? No wonder you squeezed through that course by the skin of your teeth.”

“Gosh, Tom,” pleaded Ben, a trifle sheepishly, “I never could remember the names of all those confounded little bugs, beetles and butterflies.”

“Well, my boy,” went on Tom, assuming an owlish look, “the correct name for this curious little creature is helgramite. And to elucidate further, it is a larva, meaning the immature, wingless, and often wormlike form in which metabolous insects hatch from the egg, and in which they remain with increase in size and other minor changes until they assume the pupa or chrysalis stage.”

“Very well, smart Alec,” grinned Ben, “you win. But will the dad-blamed little things catch fish?”

“Bright Star says so. Let’s proceed to find out.”

For more than an hour, it looked as if the doughty Bright Star were wrong, very wrong. Not a solitary nibble did either Tom or Ben secure. And although the young savage kept constantly alert with his sharp spear, he was unable to entice a fish within suitable throwing distance.

At long last, however, just as Tom Gordon was half dozing in the warm spring sun, there came a prodigious tug on his line. After a spirited battle of some five minutes, the excited lad succeeded in pulling ashore a fine, large fish.

“What a whopper of a trout!” cried Ben, thwacking the gleaming creature on the head with a stick, as it leaped and floundered in the grass.

Perhaps a half-hour later, Ben hooked a second trout, of about the same dimensions. This left Bright Star as the only one who hadn’t caught a fish; and although the trio continued their efforts until twilight, the young brave was not able to spear one of the speckled beauties.

“Rock-bug heap good bait,” he said glumly. “Spear no catch um.”

“Never you mind, Bright Star,” said Tom consolingly, “I’ll make you a present of mine. We can’t possibly use two fish of that size.”

By the time that the big fish were cleaned, wrapped in cool, green, wide-bladed grass and packed away in their pouches, the twilight had deepened rapidly. A dark cloud-bank had come up in the west to mar the end of the bright blue day; and night would now fall with surprising swiftness.

“High time to leg it for the fort,” said Ben, viewing the suddenly darkening sky with some apprehension.

“We’ll never make it in daylight,” replied Tom, “that’s plain to see.”

“Well, the path is pretty fair, and we shouldn’t have too much trouble, even though it is a mite rough in spots.”

In another hour, pitchy blackness enveloped them, and travel became increasingly slow. A hasty, careless step on the rough trail might mean a sprained, or even fractured, ankle. Luckily, it was a windless, quiet evening. The restless airs over lake and prairie were still for once, and the boughs of the scattered groves of trees, through which they passed, did not move. After a time, however, they came to the realization that they had lost the path; but almost at once they blundered onto another trail, which Bright Star assured them ran parallel to the first.

Suddenly, Tom Gordon, who was in the van as they trod the dark path, came to an abrupt halt, and despite all his resolute nature and self control, shuddered violently.

“Great Scott,” he cried hoarsely, “that gave me a start! I’m all over goose-pimples as big as buckshot!”

“What in thunder’s the matter, Tom?” yelled Ben, hastening forward with Bright Star.

“Look up in the trees!” replied his excited brother. “See those long, dark objects! What in blazes are they?”

“Search me. What are they, Bright Star?”

“Indian burial place,” the Pottawattomee informed them.

“Oh, that’s it,” said Tom. “This is an ancient Injun burying ground. These are mummies swinging from the boughs.”

“Wow,” groaned Ben, “what a ghostly place! Let’s get out of here in a big hurry!”

They pressed on as rapidly as possible, trying hard to steady their frayed nerves; but the two white boys were conscious that even the taciturn Bright Star was upset by the incident. He feared that the mummies swinging in the trees were those of hereditary enemies of his tribe. This invasion of their sacred resting place might bring down upon the trio a dreadful curse. At the best, it most certainly was not a good omen.

CHAPTER 4

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The Midnight Council

SOON after the nerve-shaken boys had left the gruesome Indian burial ground, Bright Star’s roving eye caught a pin-point of flame far down the shore. He quickly announced his discovery to Ben and Tom. At first they believed it to be a brilliant star, low on the horizon, but a longer look convinced them that it was a real, earthly light.

“Prob’ly the flame from a fire,” declared Tom.

“I only hope so,” Ben answered. “This night air is on the chilly side. It’ll feel good to toast our shins by a campfire for a few minutes.”

“No doubt someone from the village,” surmised Tom. “Let’s hurry on.”

“Ugh!” warned Bright Star sharply. “Go slow. Maybe enemy.”

“Good advice, Bright Star,” admitted the boy readily. “I keep forgetting I’m on this wild, western frontier.”

Accordingly, they stole stealthily down the sandy path toward the mysterious light. They all kept their eyes fixed on the blaze, which burned steadily and grew larger as they advanced.

“That’s the flame from a campfire. I’m fairly certain now,” stated Ben presently; and the others nodded assent.

They paused for a moment and listened intently. Then they continued their advance. Soon they were near enough to know absolutely that it was the light from a campfire. It was obscured, at moments, by dark figures passing before it, and those figures must be men.

“We could make a detour around it,” proposed Ben, as they again made pause.

“Maybe enemy,” Bright Star warned anew.

“Friend or enemy,” whispered Tom determinedly, “I’m going to find out. My bump of curiosity is itching something fierce.”

So they set about stalking the campfire. The sand was so soft now that it gave back no sound at all, and there were bushes in plenty. Presently they were near enough to see that the campfire was large, surrounded by some eight or ten men.

“Injuns!” whispered Ben, as they lay flat in the sand and drew their bodies yet closer.

Lying there among the dark bushes, and with their eyes growing more accustomed to the fitful, flickering fire-light, they made out that the principal figure among the savages was a tall, rugged warrior, forbidding of visage and wild of hair; and with a soiled bandage on one shoulder.

“Prairie Wolf!” muttered Bright Star tensely.

“The Wolf!” echoed Ben and Tom, almost with one voice.

The sinister, young Sac chief sat where the full light of the fire fell upon his dark face, and in the luminous glow he looked very cruel and very powerful. Evidently the spear wound had been rather slight, and he would speedily recover from the experience.

The other Indians, grouped closely about, were apparently members of his band. The blazing fire threw out much heat, and the half-naked savages reclined near to it, enjoying the warmth. The boys surmised that they had arrived only a short time before, for there were evidences that the fire had been only recently built. The Prairie Wolf was talking to the group, and judging from the deference paid to him by the rest, it was plain to see that he was the leader of the pack.

The boys, now that they had recognized the Wolf, were extremely anxious to hear what he was saying, and they gradually crept even closer. They were soon within fifteen or twenty yards of the fire, lying among the screen of thick brushes. There they had fulsome reward for their skill and daring; for, from this point of vantage, they were able to hear quite clearly. They did not catch all the words, but they caught enough for Bright Star to make a connected story, as he translated the Indian jargon in the lowest of whispers to Ben and Tom.

The bulk of the talking was being done by the Prairie Wolf and a scrawny, thin-faced Indian, with a yellow kerchief tied around his head and a faded green blanket wrapped around his bony body.

Young Bright Star gave a perceptible start, when he caught sight of this skinny savage in the green blanket.

“Ne-a-pope!” he whispered agitatedly.

“Who?” queried Tom.

“Ne-a-pope!”

“Who’s he? Never heard of the old jigger.”

“Big Sac chief, second to Black Hawk.”

“Hm—! What’s he doing here?”

Bright Star put his finger to his lips; then listened with the utmost attention for a few moments.

“Ne-a-pope come from Canada,” he went on finally. “At Fort Malden, across river from Detroit, he make talk with British.”

“Don’t tell me the British aim to aid Black Hawk and his Sacs?” muttered Ben.

“Ne-a-pope say British help Black Hawk. Much gun, bullet, food, blanket come pretty soon. Come in big boats on big lake, by way Mil-wa-ke.”

“Hm—! Bill Brown was right. There’s big mischief afoot. Only he didn’t know the half of it.”

The Pottawattomee again put his finger to his lips, at the same time pointing violently toward the fire. A short, rotund Sac brave had arisen from the group about the fire and was advancing directly toward them! For a moment the hearts of the three watching boys fairly stopped beating, and they held their bodies so rigid and tense that they ached all over. Then they relaxed, all of a sudden, like punctured balloons, as the advancing brave bent low to pick up an armful of oak faggots, which he toted back to the lagging fire.

“Black Hawk also get red wampum and tobacco from many Indian nations,” continued Bright Star, after a period of further listening. “Ottoways, Chippeways, Foxes and Winnebagoes. All promise to take war-path at signal.”

The talk about the campfire then drifted to other subjects, and somewhat later faded out altogether. The weary savages lay down to sleep, in a circle about the fire, leaving one, lone Indian to keep watch.

Now the three lads in the thicket began their slow retreat. They were so careful about it, that it was all of a half-hour before they were far enough beyond the circle of the firelight to rise safely to their feet. But after that, they sped along the trail, which was plain before them; for the night clouds had now cleared away and a full moon and many big stars were shining.

About a mile from the fort, Tom and Ben took leave of Bright Star, who now took a side-path toward his own village. Before parting, the three made plans to meet again the next afternoon at the lodge of the young warrior’s father, the great chief, Shaubena. There they would talk over the fateful news that they had just heard, also any new developments that might meanwhile arise.

A half-hour later, Ben and Tom reached their lodging-place. It was now midnight and the two lads were very weary of body and dreadfully sleepy. They tumbled into bed without a moment’s delay and within five minutes were deep in slumber, dreaming mighty dreams, in which single-handed they were putting to rout the famed Black Hawk and his horde of painted braves.

When Tom finally awoke, it was nearly mid-morning. The bright sunlight was streaming in at the uncurtained windows. The boy quickly sprang out of bed, and began to hurry into his clothes. Brother Ben opened his eyes at the same time, and sat up, stretching and yawning.

“Get up, Ben,” said Tom energetically. “We’ve got to see Bill Brown and see him quick. That talk we overheard last evening at the campfire proves that Bill is dead right on this Black Hawk business.”

After eating breakfast, rather hurriedly, they went over to Bill Brown’s lodging shanty. Luckily, they found him in, and were speedily pouring out the exciting story of last night’s adventure. The tall frontiersman was at once alert. The news stirred him greatly. He rose nervously from his chair and began to pace back and forth across the bare, sliver-torn, pine floor.

“Ne-a-pope, you say!” he exclaimed. “Black Hawk’s second in command! An’ he’s been at a council with the pesky Britishers in Canada. Jumpin’ Jehosaphat! That is whoppin’, big news. Mebbe that fat-head of a Cap’n Van Alstyne ’ll pay some heed now.”

“You saw him yesterday?” asked Ben.

“Yep, an’ got roundly insulted fer my trouble.”

“Why, the stubborn old goat!” protested Tom, his face reddening with indignation.

“But I’ll fix him yet,” went on Bill, smashing his big, right fist into the palm of his other hand. “I’m a goin’ to take you boys over ther an’ let you give him yer story fust-hand. Mebbe, then, it’ll sink into that thick head o’ his’n, that the pot is really b’ilin’ amongst the Injuns.”

The trio soon was crossing the old log bridge across the Chicago River. As they came to the end of the structure, they chanced to encounter a trim, blue-coated officer, who was walking down from the fort.

“Ho there, Bill Brown!” the officer called back, as if in afterthought, when he had passed them with a cheery greeting.

“What’s up, Left’nant Clark?” replied the big scout, quickly turning about.

“I’d like a word with you, Bill. Here’s some tidings that may interest you.”

“Let’s have ’em; an’ make ’em good.”

“I’ll do that. Major Whistler is here.”

“Major William Whistler?” asked Brown, his eyes opening wide with surprise.

“Yes, he’s back here to take command of his old post, Fort Dearborn. Come in late last evening from Fort Niagara, with companies G and I of the 2nd United States Infantry.”

“To take command, you say,” repeated the veteran borderer, as if still unable to believe his ears. “Hm! that makes Van Alstyne second fiddle.”

“Are you sorry?” asked Clark, with a sardonic smile.

“Oh, I kin skeercely stand it,” grinned Bill. “I’m cut plumb to the heart.”

“I reckoned you would be,” guffawed the officer, as he resumed his walk across the bridge.

“Must be good news, Bill,” guessed Tom Gordon, when Brown had rejoined the boys. “You have a satisfied look on your face, like a tabby-cat that’s just swallowed a canary.”

“Thunderin’ good news, younkers!” exulted Bill. “Major William Whistler, a vet’ran border man, who understands the Injuns an’ ther ways, got here last night to take command o’ the fort.”

“No?” chorused the boys.

“Yep, come up the Great Lakes from Fort Niagara with a fresh batch o’ sojurs.”

“Does that mean that we won’t have to talk with old gas-bag Van Alstyne, after all?” put in Ben, with a sigh of relief.

“Yep, boys, it’s Major Whistler now; an’ praise be fer that.”

“You know him personally, Bill?” Tom asked.

“That I do. Did a lot o’ scoutin’ fer him, some five years ago, at the time o’ the Winnebago War, ’way up in the Wisconsin forests, when the great chief, Red Bird, hit the Tomahawk trail.”

Without further talk the trio now headed for the fort gate, determined to see the new commander, and to lay before him the startling story of the conspiracy that wily Black Hawk was forming against the pale-face usurpers.

They had not gone a dozen paces, however, when a jagged rock, nearly the size of a man’s fist, went hurtling past their heads and struck the log pickets with a thud.

Quick as a flash, Bill Brown bounded across the road, pistol in hand, toward a cluster of sheds and shanties, which seemed to be the direction from which the missile had been thrown. He was just in time to see a hulking, blue-coated figure dodge away among the maze of buildings, where he was lost from view.

“Looked a heap like that cowardly skunk, Fagan,” scowled Bill, as he came back to the angry boys, “but I warn’t sure ’nuff to risk a pot-shot at him. Well, if the ornery critter wants trouble, we ain’t the fellers to dodge it.”

CHAPTER 5

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At Fort Dearborn

MAJOR WHISTLER’s quarters in Fort Dearborn proved to be a very fine room, a finer room, in fact, than the two eastern lads had supposed existed on the untamed, western border.

There were several colored prints on the walls, racing and hunting scenes mostly; and all of two score books on a tidy shelf aside the ample stone fireplace. Also, over the fireplace, were crossed swords, long, slender blades with handsome hilts. The walls themselves were of boards, so from the inside a person would never know he was in a log building. The floor was of well-matched hardwood, with fur rugs scattered about. And here and there were low, lazy-looking chairs, fashioned of maple with strong, raw-hide seats.

“Well, if it isn’t my old scouting pardner, Bill Brown,” greeted the Major genially, as he shook hands. “And who are these two lads? Say, how do you tell them apart? They’re alike as two peas in a pod.”

“’Tis quite a chore to tell tother from which,” grinned the scout, “but anyway, ther names is Tom an’ Ben Gordon; an’ ther a pair o’ fine, stout lads.”

“They look it,” agreed the Major amiably. “Now sit down, all of you.”

He pulled a briar pipe from a table drawer, and was silent for a moment as he filled and lighted it.

“Well, what’s new on the border, Bill?” he then asked.

“Plenty, Major. The Injuns are buzzin’ like a mess o’ hornets.”

“No?”

“Yep, in fack, we bring word of a big Injun plot,” went on Bill solemnly, coming at once to the point.

“An Indian plot? Say, look here! I didn’t know I was coming west to get into something of that kind again. I presumed that all was peace and quiet on this middle border.”

“Van Alstyne, then, didn’t tell you o’ the talk I had with him yesterday?”

“Van Alstyne? No, not a word.”

“Hmm!”

“Of course, I arrived only last evening, and have had little time to confer with him. But it is strange that he did not mention such an important matter, that is, if he places any faith in the reports.”

“Aye, ther’s the rub, Major.”

“He doubts your story?”

“Yep, sent me packin’ out o’ here. Puts no stock in such wild tales, says he.”

“Well, well!” mused Whistler, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe.

At this juncture, the door of the room suddenly opened, and in stepped Captain Van Alstyne, himself.

“May I speak with you, Major?” he said, casting a frosty look at Bill Brown.

“I’m busy right now with these gentlemen, Captain, but if you—”

“I must inform you, Major,” replied the stoutish, plump-jowled officer, with another toplofty glance at the tall scout, “that Brown has been here before, just yesterday to be precise.”

“So he tells me. Says he has important news, bearing on an Indian plot.”

“I went over all that with him yesterday, Major.”

“You’re skeptical?”

“Pshaw! just a parcel of idle rumors.”

“You think so, eh?”

“Rubbish it is, just rubbish! You’ll waste your time giving ear to such moonshine.”

“How ’bout lettin’ the Major hisself decide as to that?” broke in Bill Brown, stifling his mounting anger. “He knows me from way back. Knows that I ain’t the man to peddle a bundle o’ gossip.”

“That’s right, Bill,” nodded the Major. “I always found you true blue, all wool and a yard wide.”

“Well, it’s entirely up to you, sir,” snapped the Captain, perceiving that he had lost his case, and stepping out the door, “but I must repeat that Brown’s story is sheer balderdash. These ragamuffin, western Indians will cause no trouble. I, myself, am too busy a man to spend precious time listening to such a pipe-dream.”

“You won’t think it’s a pipe-dream,” snorted Bill Brown indignantly, “when you find an Injun arrer stickin’ in the seat o’ yer pants.”

Major Whistler sat bolt upright in his chair, his lean, long-fingered hands gripping the edge of the table before him.

“Listen now, Bill,” he said, his eyes cold as steel, “you really think that Indian arrows soon will be flying?”

“Aye, Major; an’ white-man bullets, too.”

“A bold statement, my friend, a very bold statement. Present your proof.”

“I will, Major. It’s time fer Bill Brown to put up, er shut up.”

“Very well. Lay all your cards on the table.”

“It’s thisaway,” Bill began, “I’m jest back from a scoutin’ trip ’cross the Mississippi, in Ioway Terr’tory, amongst the Sac tribes.”

“Black Hawk’s people?”

“Yep, an’ the chief is fumin’ with rage at the whites, fer settlin’ his ol’ stampin-ground along Rock River. He’ll be comin’ back ’cross the Mississippi any day now. Pale-face scalps ’ll soon be flutterin’ on his lodge pole.”

“Bill, I can’t believe it.”

“You’d better believe it, Major. Time is runnin’ powerful short.”

“But you offer no definite proof.”

“Oh, I ain’t got a letter from ol’ Black Hawk hisself, settin’ forth his hostile intentions,” admitted the borderer, with a tinge of resentment in his voice.

“I hardly expected that,” chuckled Whistler.

“But I have trustworthy Injun friends in adj’inin’ tribes. They tell me that Black Hawk’s runners has been amongst ’em, passin’ the red wampum, an’ proddin’ ’em to sign up fer the comin’ war with the pale-faces.”

“It may well be so, Bill,” pondered Whistler worriedly, “but I can hardly order out the troops on such slender evidence as that. Why, a cry would go up from the eastern press that I’m persecuting the poor, innocent savages.”

“What’s more, sir,” continued Brown, pressing his point, “how do you explain it that Black Hawk’s not been here fer the big Injun council?”

“He hasn’t? I didn’t know it. But that probably means nothing. He may be unable to attend, illness perhaps.”

“Yeah,” said Bill, with a hollow laugh, “mebbe chickenpox er the mumps.”

“It could be a straw in the wind,” agreed the officer, preparing to end the interview, “but I again repeat that I cannot set the army marching on such feeble grounds.”

“Jest a minute. I want you to listen to what these two lads has to say.”

“These two lads! What can they add to the facts?” demanded Whistler, a bit impatiently.

“Hearken, Major! you’ve heard tell o’ Ne-a-pope, Black Hawk’s righthand man?”

“Yes, surely. Met the fellow several times. And a clever, scheming rascal he is.”

“What’d you say if I told you that this same Ne-a-pope is jest back from Fort Malden in Canady, where he got a promise from the Britishers that they’ll send guns, powder an’ supplies to Black Hawk an’ his Sacs, as soon as the big chief takes the war-path?”

Major Whistler grabbed the pipe from his mouth, and stared hard at Bill Brown.

“By George,” he burst out, “I’m beginning to believe that Van Alstyne is right. Your story sounds more hare-brained every moment.”

“Alright, boys,” said Brown grimly, to the attentive twins, “go to it! Tell the Major ’bout what you saw an’ heard last evenin’, not two miles from this very room.”

Tom Gordon acted as spokesman. And before five minutes was up, he had Major Whistler sitting on the edge of his chair. The officer’s face was a picture of consternation, as he gave ear to the boy’s story of the midnight council of Ne-a-pope and the Prairie Wolf, and to the formidable plot of the Sac Chieftains unfolded there.

“Great Jupiter,” he exclaimed, his tone one of extreme amazement, “you say that the British will back Black Hawk with arms, supplies and gold?”

“So Ne-a-pope stated, sir,” affirmed Tom Gordon.

“And not only that, Major,” Ben added soberly, “Ne-a-pope also declared that the Foxes, Winnebagoes and Ottoways plan to join the conspiracy.”

“If those nations take up the tomahawk,” reflected the Major solemnly, “it will probably mean that every other tribe on the middle border will be itching to put on the war-paint. The whole, wide frontier might easily burst into flame.”

“That’s jest it, Major, that’s jest it!” cried Bill Brown earnestly. “An’ I’m only afeared that it’s too late to stop the Hawk from throwin’ down the gauntlet. The war-whoop may even now be ringin’ out ’cross the prairies.”

“I pray not,” said Whistler fervently, rising to his feet and standing before the fireplace with hands clenched before him.

“Whatever you do, Major,” said Bill Brown, “my services are yern fer the askin’.”

“And ours, too,” added Tom Gordon quickly, speaking up for both of the brothers.

“Good!” praised Whistler. “That’s the proper spirit. We’ll need every man who can tote a gun, if this plot of Black Hawk’s develops as he plans.”

“What steps do you aim to take?” questioned Brown.

“My first move,” the officer responded, “will be to send a detachment of sixty mounted troops—all I can spare from the garrison—straight across country to Rock River.”

“A smart plan,” nodded the giant scout approvingly. “If the Hawk ain’t already raised his war-cry, that may make him think twice, afore he does it.”

“It will take perhaps three days to organize this expedition. Meanwhile, I’m sending urgent dispatches east to the Secretary of War, Mr. Lewis Cass at Washington.”

“Cass is a western man,” commented Brown.

“Yes, he was once Governor of Michigan Territory.”

“He’ll see right off that big things is in the air,” declared the scout.

“I think so.”

“Oh, he knows that Black Hawk ’ll be a tough foe, an’ that this won’t be no taffy-pull.”

“Cass is a man of action,” agreed Whistler. “I have an idea that he’ll send out General Winfield Scott, famous old Fuss and Feathers, with a strong body of regulars.”

“An’ how ’bout gittin’ word to Gov’ner Reynolds at Vandalia?” offered Bill. “It’ll be up to him to call fer volunteers, if the Hawk breaks loose.”[A]

[A] Vandalia was the first capital of the State of Illinois.

“Yes, that is the duty of the governor of the state. I must get dispatches to him without delay.”

There was some further talk about Black Hawk, mostly speculation as to what his plan of campaign would be, in case he unsheathed his scalping-knife. Then Brown and the two boys took leave of Whistler, after being assigned by him as roving scouts, to accompany the coming foray of the sixty troopers.

“Many of these soldiers are greenhorns, fresh from the east,” stated the Major to the frontiersman. “The aid of a veteran scout like you will be invaluable to them, I am sure.”

By the time the three had left the fort and returned to their lodgings, it was early afternoon.

“Let’s grab a snack,” proposed Ben, “and then hot-foot it to the Pottawattomee village.”

“Say, it’s good you thought of that, Ben,” observed Tom. “We did tell Bright Star that we’d be out to see him this afternoon.”

“I reckon I’ll trot along, too,” declared Bill Brown. “I have several good friends amongst the Pottawattomees. Mebbe, twixt the three of us, we kin pick up some news that’ll be more er less useful to the Major.”

CHAPTER 6

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Among the Pottawattomees

THE tepee of wise, old Shaubena, noted sachem of the Pottawattomees, and father of the dauntless Bright Star, was pitched some distance west of Fort Dearborn. When within a mile of the Indian village, Bill Brown and the two Gordons came upon a section of the regular foot-trail that was covered with water, as the spring freshet was now at its height. A slight detour to the north was thus made necessary.

“Look there!” exclaimed Ben Gordon, with a low cry, as the three came to the crown of a sloping ridge, giving them a view up an open glade that led off in a north-westerly direction.

“Down!” called Bill Brown, as his keen eyes followed the boy’s pointing finger. “Down! this may mean danger!”

Quickly throwing themselves prostrate behind some nearby rocks, the three whites looked up the narrow glade, directly upon an Indian camp of a half-dozen tepees. Well hidden behind the great, gray boulders, the trio occupied a splendid point of vantage, and, while secure from observation themselves, they could easily see all that went on in the savage encampment.

The six Indian tepees had been pitched in a rough circle, and, in the open, level space within, ten dusky braves, naked to the waist, were doing a dance of singular violence.

“Sacs!” declared Bill Brown, almost at once.

“How do you know, Bill?” Ben queried.

“’Cause they alus mark ’emselves with white clay, an’ ornament ’emselves with leaves, when they dance.”

Sure enough! The boys now perceived that the glistening, naked bodies of the capering dancers displayed no paint except white, transverse streaks, with which they were covered. Also, around their heads, were green chaplets of leaves. And their legs, and even their guns—which all brandished before them—were wreathed in the same manner.

“Is that their war-dance, Bill?” whispered Tom Gordon.

“Yep, an’ it’d chill a man’s blood, wouldn’t it?”

The three lay in tense silence for some moments, as they witnessed the ferocious posturings of the Sacs.

“Ah!” said Ben Gordon presently. “See who comes!”

The flap of one of the tepees was thrown back, and a tall, coppery figure emerged into the daylight. The hidden watchers recognized him immediately. It was the Prairie Wolf, the sinister young Sac chief.

“Must be the Wolf’s camp,” muttered Bill Brown; and the two boys nodded agreement.

The three watchers remained for a short time more, as the bronze-skinned, eagle-faced warriors continued their wild, barbaric dancing.

“Nothin’ more to see,” averred Bill at length. “Tain’t wuthwhile to lay here any longer.”

They slid away down the far side of the ridge, and continued their travel toward the camp of Shaubena.

“What’s the meaning of that war-dance, Bill?” asked Ben, after an interval.

“I’m a doin’ some heavy thinkin’.”

“Could it be,” conjectured the boy thoughtfully, “that the Wolf and his Sacs have got word from Black Hawk that he has taken the war-trail?”

“A smart guess, Ben,” declared Tom. “I’ll bet my hat that you’ve hit it. Else why should they daub themselves all over with that white clay and everything?”

“Mebbe so, lads,” admitted Bill Brown. “I wouldn’t bet a plugged nickel that you ain’t right.”

About a half-mile beyond the Wolf’s encampment, where the path dipped into a shallow hollow, near the river edge, there was a low rustling of the bushes, beside the trail. Shouldering into the thicket, Bill Brown found two squaws crouching in the greenery, trying hard to conceal themselves from sight.

They were greatly relieved when the stalwart scout addressed them in the Pottawattomee tongue.

“What are you doing here?” he questioned.

“Digging Indian potatoes”—(a species of artichoke.)

“Are you from the camp of Shaubena?”

“Yes.”

“Where does he pitch his tepee?”

“On the other side of river.”

“’Cross the river? Hm! that’s bad.”

“Maybe they have a canoe,” put in Tom hopefully.

“Have you a canoe?” asked the veteran borderer, turning again to the squaws.

“Yes, we have canoe; but canoe is very small.”

They thereupon conducted the three whites down the hollow to the water’s edge, where the canoe was drawn up.

“Small canoe is right,” chuckled Bill, as he looked at the dugout. “Durndest runt of a boat I ever seed.”

He then explained to the Indians that one of them would have to take the whites across one at a time. And in this way the three eventually got to the opposite bank dryshod. Safely over, the big scout took from his knapsack a piece of blue cloth, a present which made the two, wide-eyed squaws clap their hands with childlike delight.

What with these delays, it was nearly sundown when the trio arrived at the Pottawattomee camp. Here they found the friendly Bright Star awaiting their coming. Bill Brown at once left them, to search out a brave by the name of Little Fox, who had been his companion on a scouting foray, some years before; but the two boys were ushered into the spacious tepee of Shaubena and seated cross-legged about a tempting array of food and drink. There was roast wild-turkey, hominy, strawberries and a large pot of steaming black tea, very strong, in the Indian manner.

After the conclusion of the savage banquet, the visitors lolled back on fur rugs, and there was much animated conversation for upwards of an hour. Among other things, Bright Star was told of the war-dance in the camp of the Prairie Wolf.

“Bad!” he said. “Ugh! scalping-knife soon red with blood.”

Bill Brown now made his appearance; and the two boys took their leave of Bright Star and prepared to turn back toward the distant fort.

“Listen, lads,” said the scout perplexedly, “I’m in a purty sort of a pickle.”

“How come, Bill?”

“Little Fox is so plumb tickled to see me, that he’s invited me to spend the night in his tepee.”

“Go ahead. That’s fine.”

“Not so fine as you think, mebbe. His tepee is chock-full o’ fleas. Not jest them ord’nary, little everyday fleas, but pesky sand-fleas,—big as butterflies, I vum.”

“Well, good scratching Bill,” chuckled Tom.

“Maybe we can pick you up a package of flea powder somewhere in the village,” hooted Ben.

“An’ by the way, boys,” went on Bill, a strange look coming over his face, “what did you have fer supper; if I may be so rude as to inquire.”

“Roast turkey, Bill,” Tom said. “Gee, it was scrumptious!”

“Roast turkey, eh? An’ it was scrumptious. Hm! guess what ol’ Bill had set afore him.”

“Can’t imagine,” Ben said.

“Well, brace yerselves! Roast dog!”

“Roast dog?”

“Yep, roast dog,” lamented Bill; shaking his head sadly, as he patted his mid-section.

“Wow, that’s the limit!” groaned Tom. “If your Injun pal, Little Fox, ever asks me in for supper, I’m going to have a pressing engagement elsewhere.”

“About twenty miles elsewhere,” added Ben.

“You see,” explained Bill, “an Injun holds it a pizen insult, if you turn down food that’s offered. An’ the same goes, if he gives out an invite to stay fer the night. You jest can’t say no, er he’ll be yer mortal foe fer life.”

“Looks like you’re in for it, Bill,” grinned Tom. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

“Hope you have a comfortable night,” gibed Ben, “and also a tasty breakfast.”

“But to git ser’ous, boys,” went on the frontiersman, his face very sober, “I hate to have you hikin’ back to the fort alone, now that dark is here.”

“Are you spoofing, Bill?”

“Not a bit of it. Yer path lays right past the Mud Turtle.”

“What of it?”

“Yer li’ble to bump into that scoundrel of a Pat Fagan. He hangs ’round ther a hull lot.”

“Well, if we do,” asserted Tom defiantly, “we’re apt as not to give him another dunking in the swamp. He prob’ly needs a bath again by this time.”

With this, they walked off through the tepees. After a short search, down by the river’s rim, they found an Indian brave, who readily agreed to set them once again across the stream. Arriving on the other bank, they turned their faces toward the distant settlement. A bright, full moon made the path clear before them; and in the cool of the April evening, they stepped out with long, sure strides that fairly ate up the miles.

CHAPTER 7

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Furious Fists

A NARROW shaft of yellow lamplight shone from the wide-open door of the Mud Turtle, as Tom and Ben Gordon approached the unsavory gambling den and grog-shop at the edge of the swamp; and a wild medley of songs, shouts, oaths, threats and cat-calls assailed their ears.

“Big crowd at the Turtle tonight,” spoke up Tom, just a tinge of uneasiness in his tone.

“Sure is,” agreed Ben. “Listen to that hullabaloo, will you! They’re fairly lifting the roof.”

“S’pose that blackguard of a Fagan is in there, Ben, as Bill warned us?”

“Hard to tell. We’ll just slide by, quiet like, and minding our own business. Those crazy galoots are making such an uproar that they couldn’t hear a crack of thunder outside.”

“Let’s hope so. I don’t crave to fall in the hands of big Pat and his gang of hoodlums.”

Gazing ahead, in the brilliant moonlight, they were relieved to see that there was not a solitary soul outside the noisy tavern; and it appeared, much to their satisfaction, that they would be able to get by the dangerous dive without being molested.

“Looks like old Lady Luck is with us,” said Ben happily, as they drew up within a few yards of the open door.

When they had come almost opposite the door, however, a runty, wizen-faced fellow, dressed in deerskin breeches and a cotton shirt open at the throat, shot out of the place as if propelled from a catapult. As he reached the outside, he suddenly tripped and pitched forward. And lucky he was; for just as he did so, a glass bottle sailed over his head and plopped into the shallow swamp with a kerplunk that sounded like a diving frog.

The runty fellow was up in a flash.

“Watcha trip me fer?” he demanded of Tom Gordon, who had been very nearly bowled over.

“I didn’t trip you,” answered the boy quietly.

“Skeered to ’fess up, eh?” he leered, doubling up his fists ominously.

“Listen lunkhead,” repeated Tom, somewhat nettled by the chap’s manner, “I say that I didn’t trip you.”

“Of course, he didn’t trip you,” Ben asserted firmly. “So run along and peddle your papers.”

An ugly look came over the fellow’s face.

“Threatenin’ me, be yuh?” he bawled. “I’m bad Pete Higgins! Guess yer didn’t know that.”

“I don’t care whether your name is Higgins, Wiggins or Spriggins,” replied Tom, snapping his fingers in the chap’s face.

“Say, do yer want ter go back ter the village in chunks, ’stead of all in one piece?”

“If you don’t stand aside, you’ll land on your neck in that mud-puddle.”

“And quick!” rasped Ben.

The sottish fellow gave a snarl, for all the world like a mad dog, raised his fists, and started forward. But then he stopped abruptly, froze in his tracks, and stared long and hard into Tom Gordon’s face.

“Tarnation,” he said finally, evil intent in his very tone, “I know yer now! Yer the young squirt what Pat Fagan’s lookin fer!”

“Out of the way, fellow!” ordered Ben, who was now becoming thoroughly alarmed. “Come on, Tom! Let’s get going.”

At these words, their stubby opponent wheeled about with surprising ginger and once more dashed into the Turtle. Before the somewhat astounded boys could take more than a step or two, he was out again. And worse still, far worse, back of him loomed the hulking figure of the dreaded Pat Fagan! The big border ruffian rushed forward, seized Tom’s shoulder in a powerful grasp and began to laugh.

“Good fer you, Pete Higgins!” he exclaimed. “It’s sure ’nuff the young varmint what shoved me in the swamp.”

“I figgered so, Pat.”

“Yep, an’ I aim ter tan his hide in good shape. What luck!”

What bad luck, indeed, for Tom Gordon! Fagan showed his jagged, tobacco-stained teeth in an evil grin, while he still held a firm grip upon the boy’s shoulder. A gleam of triumph shone in his eyes.

“Come, boy,” he threatened, as the lad kept a tight-lipped silence, “what have yer got ter say fer yerself?”

The burly soldier’s awful grip tightened on Tom’s shoulder. His five fingers seemed to sink like daggers into the boy’s flesh. Pain shot all through Tom, and a sudden passion of rage filled his every vein. The anger and the pain together gave him a fierce impulse, backed by double his usual strength. Fagan held him by the left shoulder, but quickly clenching his right fist, he rammed it into the soldier’s stomach with great violence.

Powerful as he was, Fagan’s grip was torn loose; and, despite himself, he staggered back, with the wind half knocked out of him.

“I’ll skin yer alive!” he wheezed, holding his midriff and frantically trying to regain his wind.

By this time, word had spread within the Turtle that some sort of a fight was shaping up outside. A mixed crowd of soldiers, trappers, traders and half-breeds—about a dozen in all—came tumbling out the door, eager for the expected excitement.

“What goes on here?” asked a chunky, heavily-bearded trapper, dressed in a fringed buckskin suit.

“Fagan’s ketched the young sprout what heaved him in the swamp,” explained the man Pete. “He’s goin’ ter give him a goin’ over.”

“Aw shucks, Pat,” protested the trapper, “he’s only a kid. Don’t use him up!”

“Now jest keep yer big beak outen this, Sandy!” retorted the vengeful Pat, who had by this time recovered his breath.

“Sandy’s right,” broke in another of the crowd. “He’s jest a young gaffer. Tain’t sportin’ to smash him up.”

“Be fair, Pat!” yelled someone else.

“Keep yer blabs shut, every last man of yuh!” bellowed Fagan, doubly enraged by this interference.

“Well, if ye must play the bully,” went on the trapper known as Sandy, “go over yonder an’ fight, aside the shanty, where there’s a good bit more room.”

Fagan turned and stripped off his flannel shirt. His huge, hairy arms and his big, knotted hands looked dangerous.

“I kin give him all the fight he kin swaller right har,” he snarled. “’Fraid if I give him more room, he’ll turn tail an’ run.”

Fagan had a deeper reason, in truth, for wanting to fight in the narrow space between the door of the Turtle and the swamp. He was banking on a quick, rough-and-tumble scuffle, and he knew, full well, that his extra weight, in close quarters, would give him a better chance. He was smart enough to realize that his wind wouldn’t be nearly as good as the younger, leaner, clean-muscled Tom’s; and the narrow, cramped space would tend to give him added advantage.

But the watching crowd overruled big Pat on that score.

“Ye may as well give in, Pat,” urged his crony, Pete.

Now the whole crowd moved over. Tom, stripped down the way Fagan was, had a determined fire in his blue eyes.

“Don’t fret, Ben,” he said to his brother, whose face was white and drawn, “I think I can take his measure.”

“Keep the big cuss runnin’ aroun’, lad,” put in the trapper, Sandy, giving Tom a friendly tap on the shoulder. “He’s soft from wild livin’, and in the long run ye’ll have his tongue a hangin’ out.”

In the bright moonlight, in the big open space beside the shanty, the two fighters squared off. Tom, slim and straight, but sinewy, was outweighed by at least thirty pounds. Pat Fagan’s sloping shoulders and hairy chest and long arms gave him an ominous, bear-like appearance.

The onlookers knew right off what kind of a fight each contestant would try to make it. Fagan would be for rushing in close, grabbing, wrestling, hugging; mauling Tom after he had him on the ground. Tom’s tactics would be to keep off the burly soldier by quick footwork, sidestepping, dancing away, darting in cunningly with sharp, swift jabs; blows that would sting big Pat, tantalize him, make him mad, keep him charging in like a wild bull, until his wind was gone. Then would come Tom’s big chance, smashing straight in with hard punches that carried the whole weight of his body behind them.

The watching crowd stood in a wide circle, bodies tense, fists clenched, heads poked forward, eying every move of big Pat and Tom, as they warily circled and edged in. Ben Gordon’s heart was pumping fiercely. Would Tom be able to fight his kind of fight? Or would the ponderous Pat succeed in overpowering him with his sheer, brute strength? If Pat could do it, then it would be a speedy fracas, and soon over with. If Tom, then it would probably drag along for half an hour. Ben’s pulses beat savagely when Fagan suddenly lunged.

As Pat rushed forward, he worked his brawny arms like a windmill. His wide swings, though clumsy, were heavy and they drove Tom back. One of them caught the lad a glancing blow on the cheek, leaving a red, raw streak. But Tom was the better boxer. While he was forced to yield ground, his fists, at the same time, were working straight and true, like pistons. One hefty punch cut Pat’s lip and made the blood run.

Pat fumed; then dove forward again, attempting to encircle Tom’s waist with his gorilla-like arms.

“Watch out, Tom!” screamed Ben, torn with alarm.

But the agile Tom was smart enough to escape the trap. Quick as a rabbit he whirled sidewise, at the same time plunging his elbow hard into Pat’s stomach. Then he dodged low, underneath Pat’s hairy arms, and threw himself to one side, out of danger. In a trice he was up, alertly facing his opponent again.

Fagan stood stock-still, glowering sullenly at his nimble adversary. He panted heavily for a few seconds, then charged once more. This time he got a partial clutch on Tom’s arm, and yanked him toward him. The boy wrenched loose, but the same time unluckily lost his balance and went sprawling backwards.

“Pat’s got him now!” gloated the wizened Pete; and Ben gave another yell of alarm, as he saw his brother go down, flat as a pancake.

Pat leaped eagerly toward the prostrate boy, expecting to pin him to the ground and beat him half senseless. But Tom was quick as a cat. He turned over with lightning speed and rolled swiftly to one side. Pat came down clawing nothing but the air, mud and grass. Hot with thwarted fury, he scrambled to his feet and faced Tom again.

Now Pat rushed anew; but it was noticeable that his rush was shorter and more feeble. This time he stumbled and went down on his hands and knees, as Tom slipped easily away.

“C’mon!” snarled the infuriated soldier. “Stand up an’ fight like a man, yuh slinkin’ ’fraidy-cat!”

It was clear that Fagan was trying to get Tom mad, so that he would wade in and mix it hammer and tongs. But Tom, though young in years, had an old head on his shoulders. He was too cagy to be caught in Pat’s snare. He merely danced about with fists ready, and on his face a cool and exasperating smile.

Fagan made another bull-like rush; but to no avail. Tom dodged away like a shadow. Now Pat stood stock-still again. The look of surprise was growing on his puffed, bloody face; for he had taken several, straight, heavy punches. Furthermore, he was now blowing and puffing like a heavey horse. On the other hand, Tom was still breathing pretty evenly, but his arms and shoulders were getting sore and bruised from warding off Pat’s desperate swings.

And thus it went for some time more,—with the ponderous soldier ever charging and the agile lad always cleverly evading his rushes. Then, all at once, Tom changed his strategy. His keen eye detected that the mountainous Fagan was half groggy and badly blown. Quick as a bounding deer, the boy sprang forward, catching the surprised soldier with his guard partly down. Tom bounced first his right fist, and then his left, off Pat’s face. But the heavy-set fellow wasn’t knocked over. His head rocked, he was stung hard, but he lunged blindly forward, notwithstanding. One big hand caught Tom by the arm, while the other crept halfway about the boy’s waist.

The next moment or so was a whirlwind of excitement. The crowd was all jumping up and down and yelling like wild Indians. Tom, agile as he was, couldn’t break free, and he couldn’t get enough force in his blows, cramped as he was, to put Fagan down for good. It was a desperate tussle, now, to see which fighter could throw the other and come down on top. It was just the kind of fight that Tom had tried to avoid. But he was still strong and quick, while the hulking Pat was muscle-weary and spent; so the match now looked pretty even, in spite of the soldier’s greater bulk.

Suddenly, the wily Tom got his heel back of Pat’s and tripped him handily. Pat fell hard, so hard that his savage clutch loosened. With a quick twist of his body Tom wrenched himself free and bounced to his feet again, alert for whatever might come.

Fagan lay flat on his back for a half-minute, panting heavily and looking at Tom with an evil gleam in his eye. Finally, he got to a sitting posture. Then, as he put one hand back of him to help him rise to his feet, he felt in the grass a broken axe-handle that had been thrown aside there. Pat’s fingers closed tightly over the hardwood handle. With a murderous look on his face he lurched swiftly to his feet.

“Watch sharp, Tom!” yelped Ben frantically. “He’s got a club!”

Fagan swung back his brawny arm. “I’ll cave in yur skull, yuh young polecat!” he snarled at Tom.

Before the big ruffian could strike, however, Sandy the trapper, Ben and three or four others of the onlookers threw themselves upon him. With great effort they dragged him cursing and fuming to the earth.

“Thur’ll be none of yer foul play, Pat Fagan!” rasped Sandy.

“He didn’t fit fair!” glowered the enraged soldier. “I’l have his blasted hide some day, that I will!”

“Oh, shet yer big mouth,” ordered the trapper sternly, as he and the others struggled to hold down the half-crazed man. “It was a whale of a fight, an’ he licked yuh fair an’ square.”

“Sure he did,” added Ben heatedly.

“You ain’t got no kick comin’, Pat,” put in another man. “You had your chance, but the lad was too much for you. He can fight like a bulldog.”

Sandy turned to Tom, who was standing by, his fists still clenched.

“An’ now, Tom lad,” he advised, “you’d better move on to the village with your brother. If Pat was any kind of a man, he’d shake hands an’ call it quits fer good. But he’s a blackhearted villain, an’ I’m warnin’ yuh to watch him well as long as yur in these parts.”

CHAPTER 8

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Indian War-cry

AT mid-afternoon of the second day following Tom’s set-to with Pat Fagan at the Mud Turtle, Bill Brown came rushing into the boys’ boarding shanty, across the river from Fort Dearborn. Excitement was plainly written on the face of the stalwart frontiersman.

“What’s stirring, Bill?” asked Ben Gordon, looking up from a pair of wool socks he was darning.

“Yes, what’s stirring?” Tom echoed curiously. “You look as flustered as a wet hen.”

“Got over here as fast as I could,” explained Bill, hastily catching his breath. “Jest heard at the fort that big Pat Fagan’s been posted as a deserter.”

“Pat Fagan, a deserter?” repeated Tom, his eyes growing wide with surprise.

“Yep, it seems that he had so much fun poked at him amongst the garrison, over the trouncin’ you gave him tother evenin’ at the Turtle, that he couldn’t stand it no longer. He was heard to say last night that he was fed up an’ aimin’ to light out; an’ shore ’nuff, this mornin’, when the roll o’ the comp’ny was called, he was reported missin’ ’thout leave.”

“Great guns!” observed Ben, “that’s pretty grim sort of business. Desertion is punishable by death, isn’t it, Bill?”

“It calls fer the firin’ squad in time o’ war; but in peace time an army deserter on the frontier us’lly gits fifty lashes on the bare back with a rawhide cat-o-nine-tails, well laid on. Then he has his head an’ eyebrows shaved an’ is chased out o’ camp by a squad with fixed bayonets, whilst the drummers an’ buglers play “The Rogue’s March.””

“Why, that’s almost worse than death,” exclaimed Tom Gordon, his face a picture of horror.

“Yep, ’tis, lad. No gainsayin’ that. But punishment fer desertin’ has to be harsh, the officers say. Totherwise, sojurs would be desertin’ right an’ left, ’cause garrison life on this far border gits so dull an’ lonely that men kin skeercely stand it.”

“Pat Fagan is a mean scoundrel,” went on Tom, “and he has his knife out for me, that I know; but yet I can’t wish him such an awful fate as that.”

“Chances are they’ll never take him alive,” Bill commented. “I think that—”

The veteran scout broke off his speech abruptly, as a light footstep sounded in the hall outside the room, and the lithe figure of the young Pottawattomee, Bright Star, darkened the door.

“Oh, good!” said Ben, jumping to his feet with a smile of welcome. “Here’s Bright Star!”

“Ho!” the youthful savage greeted them, raising his hand in salutation.

“Have a seat, Bright Star,” invited Ben. “What brings you to the village this afternoon?”

“Prairie Wolf gone!” the young chief told them.

“With his whole band?” inquired Bill attentively.

“Ugh! all tepee gone.”

“Going back to join the main tribe, I reckon,” hazarded Tom.

“Wolf travel toward setting sun. Pottawattomee spies see big pale-face with Wolf.”

“A big pale-face, you say?” meditated Bill. “Hm! what’d he look like? How was he dressed?”

“Wear blue coat. Heap tall and heavy.”

“Hear that, boys?” asked Brown. “I’m a great hand to hope fer the best, but who do you reckon that feller was?”

“Pat Fagan,” Tom replied instantly.

“An you, Ben? You ain’t a bad one at guessin’.”

“Pat Fagan, and it isn’t any guesswork either. It was the big rascal, sure as shooting.”

“I reckon that means,” reasoned the borderer, “that Pat’s a goin’ to become a white renegade. An’ he’ll be a powerful bad one, depend on that. Wouldn’t s’prise me, not at all, if he gits as black a name on the frontier as Simon Girty, the turrible white renegade who was the terror o’ the Kaintuck country, some forty years gone by. Folks still shudder down that way when they hear the name o’ Girty. No deviltry was too fierce er cruel fer him.”

Talk then turned to other matters, and, after another half-hour, both Bright Star and Brown took their leave. It seemed, however, that Bill was scarcely out of the room, when he was back once more, to summon the boys.

“Messenger jest in at the fort!” he related, trying to keep a calm voice. “His horse’s all in a lather. The sojurs say he’s come from down-state, with a dispatch from Gov’ner Reynolds.”

“S’pose it’s Injun business, Bill?” conjectured Ben.

“Wouldn’t s’prise me a whit. You know how I been lookin’ fer thin’s to explode any day now.”

“Let’s get down there and find out for certain,” proposed Tom, hurriedly pulling on his jacket.

“What are we waiting for?” cried Ben.

As the trio hurried across the old log bridge, they could see a cluster of people gathered about the river gate of the fort. There were soldiers, trappers, traders, half-breeds and villagers talking animatedly, with much waving of hands and nodding of heads.

“Somethin’s poppin’, that’s fer certain,” affirmed Bill, at the same time breaking into a trot.

“What’s brewing, Sandy?” called Tom, a moment later, as they reached the fringe of the crowd and caught sight of the friendly trapper.

“Plenty! Chief Black Hawk’s crossed the Mississippi with his Sacs!”

“When?” asked Bill Brown, his face muscles very taut.

“’Bout five days ago, I guess, on the twenty-sixth of April.”

“Wonder where he crossed?” the big scout went on.

“At the Yellow Banks, they say, jest below the mouth o’ the Rock.”

“Is he camped ther?”

“No, he didn’t tarry. Reports say he’s takin’ the trail up the east bank o’ the Rock.”

“Whew!” cried Bill, “right into the heart o’ Illinois. I’ll bet ther’s terror amongst the settlers.”

“Bound to be,” nodded Sandy. “I’ll wager that many outlyin’ places has been attacked afore now.”

“An’ that means scalps,” observed Bill sadly. “Scalps hangin’ from Sac belts.”

“Yep, it do. By now many a painted Injun has tumbled offen his pony, a white-man musket-ball in his vitals. On tother side, many a pale-face has wakened in his cabin at night, to hear yells, see the flamin’ arrers piercin’ the dark, an’ knives an’ war-axes flashin’ in the red light.”

“Not a pretty picture,” put in Ben Gordon, shivering in spite of his resolute spirit.

“Naw,” Sandy assented, “it ain’t. But it’s goin’ to git worse afore it gits better.”

“What’s the Gov’ner done ’bout it, Sandy?” continued Brown. “Did you hear?”

“Called fer volunteers to ‘repel the red murderers,’ as he puts it.”

“Whar’ll the volunteers rendezvous?”

“At Beardstown.”

“Well, they should raise a pile of volunteers,” Tom remarked, “with excitement running high, as it no doubt is.”

“Yep,” nodded Bill, “ther’ll be a sight of ’em flock in. But how hard they’ll fight is a horse of a diff’rent color.”

“You said it, pardner,” agreed Sandy, with a dubious look on his grizzled face. “I don’t put much stock in the fightin’ qual’ties o’ these fly-by-night volunteers. Ther purty much a rabble. Chances are ten to one they’ll run like sheep when they clap eyes on ther first screechin’ Injun.”

Bill Brown was about to make further comment, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Turning quickly about, he found a blue-coated orderly waiting to talk with him.

“Major Whistler wants to see you at his quarters at once,” said the orderly. “Also the two lads here. Better get up there as soon as you can, as he’s in a thunderin’ sweat over this Injun monkey-bus’ness.”

“Will the sentry let us through?” immediately asked Bill, who knew that a closer guard would henceforth be maintained at Fort Dearborn,—now that the Sacs had taken the war-path.

“I was comin’ to that,” went on the orderly. “Here’s a pass from the Major entitlin’ you to come and go freely at all hours of the day and night.”

Within the fort, the three found a scene of varied activity. It was evident that preparations were being pushed forward at all speed, for the coming expedition against the rampaging Sacs under mighty Black Hawk. The boys saw soldiers walking back and forth, rifle on shoulder, across the parade ground, and beyond them other soldiers. Most of them were straight, sinewy and alert men, well equipped to cope with any danger or other problem that might present itself.

When they had been ushered once again into the familiar quarters of Major Whistler, that harried officer came straightway to the point.

“You’ve doubtless heard, men,” he said crisply, “that the die is cast. Black Hawk has raised the war-cry. I am, therefore, straining every nerve to get the mounted detachment ready to start west tomorrow.”

“An’ we’re to go with ’em?” questioned Bill Brown.

“Most certainly,—as I told you.”

“Very well, Major. We’ll be on hand. What time is the start?”

“At the crack of dawn.”

“Any special orders?”

“Yes,—also one other item, that may or may not be to your liking. But it can’t be helped, I assure you of that.”

“Hm!” said Bill, a trifle perplexed.

“Now as to the orders, you are to act as scouts for the detachment, spying ahead of the line of march. Above all, try to keep those red knaves of Black Hawk’s from setting an ambush. That’s what I fear most.”

“It’s been the redskins’ fav’rite mode o’ warfare,” admitted the scout, “from Braddock’s day on.”

“In that connection,” continued the officer, rubbing his cheek reflectively, “I wonder if it might not be a smart plan to get some friendly Indians to go along with you,—to aid in the scouting. Not that I don’t consider you the best in the business, Bill, but an Indian has unique gifts in the scouting line that no white man ever possesses.”

“Yer right, sir,” Brown freely acknowledged. “Now take trackin’. An Injun is ace-high at that game. It’s born right in ’em.”

“Well, I’m glad that you agree with me.”

“Have you any certain Injun in mind, Major?”

“No, I haven’t; but I did think that a Pottawattomee would probably be the best. It seems a sure thing that most of that tribe will remain loyal to us.”

“Here’s a suggestion, sir,” broke in Tom Gordon eagerly. “If it’s a Pottawattomee you want, how about the young brave, Bright Star?”

“Bright Star! Hm! where have I heard that name before?” replied the officer, wrinkling his brow in deep thought.

“He fit quite a duel with the young Sac bully, Prairie Wolf,” explained Bill Brown, “only a day er so afore you got here.”

“That’s it,” nodded Whistler. “One of the lieutenants was telling me about the affair. From his account, this Bright Star must be a capable young warrior. He’ll fill the bill nicely. Think you can line him up?”

“I’m sure of it, sir,” Tom responded confidently. “I’ll go to the tepee of his father, the Chief Shaubena, as soon as I leave here.”

“Do that, lad. But now I must acquaint you with the other development I mentioned,—namely, that Captain Van Alstyne will be in command of the detachment.”

“That ain’t welcome news, sir,” said Bill Brown frankly.

“Wow!” exclaimed Tom and Ben expressively.

“It’s this way,” countered Whistler. “Van’s second in rank among the garrison. According to the army code, I had to offer him the charge of the party. He at once accepted. That wrote finis to the matter. I admit that you will find him bull-headed at times, and he has an immense contempt for all Indians; but no one ever questioned his courage. He has a stout heart.”

“Well, Major,” concluded Brown, “we kin only try to make the best o’ what looks like an unpromisin’ sitchiation; but as someone said, ‘When you make a bad barg’in, hug it all the tighter.’”

CHAPTER 9

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Shadows in the Night

AT daybreak, the next morning, the trumpet sounded “Boots and Saddles” at Fort Dearborn; and a few moments later, the little band of sixty mounted troopers rode out from the village. Bill Brown, Tom and Ben Gordon, and the young chief, Bright Star, were in the forefront of the column, acting as guides and scouts. It was a perfect May day, sunny and cloudless, with the songbirds piping gayly, the trees and shrubs leafing out, and the measureless blue arc of the sky stretching ahead of them to the western horizon.

The two red-heads, Ben and Tom, looked back along the column, both thinking that here, indeed, was a gallant little fighting force. Every man carried a musket, a heavy pistol, 100 rounds of ammunition for the musket, 30 for the pistol, and a large, strong hunter’s knife. Everyone had rations for ten days, already cooked, in his roomy haversack. At the tail of the column, six pack-horses bore picks, shovels, camp-kettles, extra rounds of ammunition, medical supplies, salt and tea.

“This is something like it, isn’t it, Bill?” said Tom Gordon, drawing a deep breath of the fresh, bracing air.

“Let’s hope so, lad,” replied the scout, with a dubious glance in the direction of Captain Van Alstyne, whose pompous figure awkwardly bestrode a big, dapple-gray horse.

All morning the little detachment advanced steadily, always keeping the same formation, as they followed a well-defined Indian trail that trended due west. The three white scouts and Bright Star led, Captain Van Alstyne was just behind, with Lieutenant Clark at his side; and then came the blue-coated troopers in a close group. A little past noon, they halted for a short rest and to water the horses in a stream. The hungry men also partook of food from their pouches. Then they resumed their journey.

“Makin’ mighty good time, Cap’n,” volunteered Bill Brown affably. “Reckon we’ll reach the Fox River afore nightfall.”

“And how far might that be from Fort Dearborn.”

“Nigh onto forty mile.”

The warm sun began to cool, the afternoon passed its zenith, and the band rode on, mostly in silence.

This trail, Tom and Ben noted surprisedly, was not anything like a highway, but was merely a narrow path, deeply indented by the hoofs of the horses on which the Indians rode in single file. So deeply was it sunk in the sod which covered the prairies, that it was difficult, sometimes, to distinguish it at a distance of a few, paltry rods. Furthermore, in this almost flat, open country there were no landmarks. One low elevation was so exactly like another, that if the trail were lost, there was about as little hope of regaining it as of finding a pathway in the midst of the ocean.

Now and then the route led through marshy stretches of country, where progress was slow and difficult. Myriads of wild geese, brant, and ducks rose up screaming at their approach. At other times, the trail meandered through dense thickets of alder, willow and wild-plum. At late afternoon, just as they had passed one of the densest parts of such thickets, they rode out onto a pleasant, little plain, where the view was more open before them.

“The Fox River!” called Bill Brown, pointing ahead.

“Humph!” snorted Van Alstyne irritably. “About time! I thought we never would come to the end of those wretched thickets.”

“Travel is better tother side o’ the Fox,” the big scout consoled him.

“Let’s trust so. If I had my way, I’d let the plaguey Indians have this accursed country. It isn’t fit for white habitation.”

They presently made camp for the night on the far bank of the Fox, having swum their mounts across the channel. After the horses had fed in the rich grass and the men had eaten their supper, Bill Brown took charge,—at the order of the Captain, who seated himself somewhat disconsolately on a handy log and proceeded to pull off his heavy cavalryman’s boots to rest his weary feet.

Every trooper was instructed by the veteran scout to hobble his horse, and to see that his lariat was knotted properly. He was told, also, to drive his picket pin firmly into the ground, and before going to sleep for the night he must see that it was still right. Careful instructions were likewise given in case of surprise. Every trooper was to seize his horse’s lariat with one hand and his musket with the other. He was then to stand by his horse to prevent a stampede, about the worst thing that can happen to a mounted troop.

“Lot of nonsense,” the Captain remonstrated. “As if those beggarly redskins would venture to attack a contingent of United States Regulars. Bah! Preposterous!”

After they had tethered their mounts, Bill Brown, Bright Star, and the two Gordons walked down to the edge of the river. The sun had now set, but some of its last rays lingered over the opposite bank, tinting the sand and the alders and willows as if with blood. A chill breeze had sprung up from the west, and the water in the river looked dark and cold. Suddenly, a strange shiver, a premonition, as it were, of something ominous to come, ran through every nerve and vein of Tom Gordon.

“What’s the matter, Tom?” asked Bill Brown, who had been watching the boy closely.

“Nothing, Bill, at least not anything real; but I have a queer foreboding of something evil, soon to come.”

“Yer prob’ly over-tired, lad. It’s been a long, hard day, an’ you ain’t saddle-broke yit. Hop along an’ git as much sleep as you kin, afore it’s yer turn to stand watch.”

Tom and Ben, and even the hardy, steel-sinewed Bright Star, were so weary that they were glad to accede to Bill’s suggestion. They drew their blankets closely about their bodies, pillowed their heads upon the haversacks which had been given them as part of their outfits, and speedily shut their eyes. For a few moments, Tom Gordon heard the occasional stamp of a horse’s hoof, a trooper passing nearby, once the hoot of an owl in a copse down river, and then he heard nothing more. He was sound asleep and he did not wake until shortly after midnight, when he was summoned to stand the second watch.

Tom had as his comrade on this watch a young Irish trooper by the name of Jim Martin, who had only recently joined the service. Jim took the northern side of the camp, and walked back and forth in a wide arc from out on the prairie to the river bank. Tom had a similar arc on the south. Now and then they would meet on the prairie side of the circle. At these times, they would exchange a word or two and pass on.

“’Ave yer seen anythin’ alarmin’?” asked Jim, after about an hour’s watch.

“No, not a thing, Jim.”

“Ner me neither, b’jabbers. I’m after thinkin’ ther ain’t a red thafe within miles of the place.”

Another hour passed and it seemed to Tom that the watch might well be relaxed, as Jim Martin had hinted. The countless stars winked and danced in the most friendly fashion, and the light breeze had died away entirely. He again met his companion, and they exchanged the usual word of greeting. Tom passed on, traversing the familiar arc once more. His path led through a clump of willows, and just beyond them in a close group were the horses.

Tom’s eyes, good at any time, had become used to the darkness, and he could now see quite well. He saw clearly the outlines of the horses, most of them lying down, but two standing on the side nearest him. Suddenly, the peculiar spell, or premonition, that he had had down by the river bank at sundown, came over him once again. He stopped short, completely hidden in the willow clump, and looked out.

And now Tom’s heart rose up in his throat! Was that a shadow that he saw just behind the standing horses? How could it be, he thought; for it was moving. Pshaw! Maybe a shadow from a swaying bough. But say, there was no wind! How could a bough sway? A powerful feeling swept over him that danger, fearful danger, was close at hand. He clutched his rifle tightly, as the first slight trembling of his hands passed away. He was now cool and steady.

Nothing happened, however. After a moment or two, the boy took a step forward, but he was yet hidden among the trunks of the willows. There had been no sound as yet from the horses, but now one of them stamped uneasily and then shied slightly to one side. Tom thought that he heard light steps, so light as to be almost inaudible.

And now he heard them again. There was danger. Real danger. It was not mere fancy. He bounded forward and a shadow darted from behind the horse, the shadow of a feathered Indian. The warrior with a thrust of his knife cut the lariat of the horse, struck him on the flank, and gave voice to a shrill, wolfish howl. Tom threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired at the same instant.

“Up! up!” he cried. “Indians!”

As he paused to reload his gun, he saw that his hastily fired bullet had missed the savage, who now scurried off to the west. The fleeing brave could clearly be seen in the moonlight. The boy could make out that he was fully armed and in all the panoply of war-paint. Then, as he looked more sharply, he was fairly agape with amazement.

“Prairie Wolf!” he exclaimed; and sent another bullet whistling through the night air; but there was only a low, derisive whoop, as the shadow faded like a phantom into the nearby thickets.

Jim Martin rushed down from the northern arc of the circle, Bill Brown was out of his blanket in a moment, thoroughly alert and awake; and Lieutenant Clark and several of the troopers, together with Ben Gordon and Bright Star, were not far behind.

“Watch the horses!” yelled Bill loudly. “Ther gittin’ ready to stampede!”

Tom and Jim jumped forward and seized the lariats of two of the nervous beasts. The rest of the party likewise hurled themselves into the milling group. Everybody seemed to be all hands, grasping as many lariats as possible. For a moment or two the frightened beasts reared and struggled, but soon they subsided into silence; and, although they stood quivering, they made no further effort to break loose.

“You saved us, Tom, my boy,” said Bill Brown warmly. “The Sacs, the skulkin’ varmints, was bound to run off our horses, but you saw ’em in the nick o’ time.”

“Brave lad,” praised the Lieutenant. “If the red snakes had stampeded our mounts, we wouldn’t have been much better off than sailors in the middle of the ocean without a boat.”

Tom Gordon flushed with pride in the darkness; and his heart was glad that he had passed his first test in the hard, cruel school of Indian warfare.

By this time the heavily-snoring Captain Van Alstyne had finally roused from his deep slumbers. He now bustled up, with evident irritation.

“What goes on here?” he demanded testily. “What’s the cause of this infernal racket?”

“Injuns, Cap’n!” explained Bill Brown.

“Indians, humph! I don’t see any.”

“Well, Tom here saw one, with his own eyes, tryin’ to stampede the horses.”

“Bosh, boy,” cried the moon-face officer, “most likely a shadow. Get your nerves under control, if you’re to be any good out here on this wild border.”

“Oh, I saw a warrior, sir,” protested the boy. “He was in full array, feathers and war-paint.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you dreamed the whole thing,” snapped Van Alstyne. “Probably asleep at your post. In the future, I want guards set who will stay awake and keep their wits about them.”

“I was the second guard, sir,” broke in Jim Martin. “I never set eyes on the red jack-a-napes, but I heard him howl.”

“Heard him howl?”

“Aye, sir,—just like a wild wolf.”

“No doubt was a wolf. That explains it all.”

“But the lariat on one o’ the horses was cut with a knife, Cap’n,” observed Bill Brown, choking back his anger. “Come, I’ll show you.”

“I’ve lost enough sleep now,” objected the Captain, stalking off toward his waiting blanket. “Maybe the wolf bit the lariat in two. I understand that the beasts have teeth of extraordinary sharpness. Post fresh guards and get this camp settled down again. And be lively about it.”

When morning came, and while the troopers were getting ready to break camp, Bill Brown quietly took the keen-eyed Pottawattomee, Bright Star, and the two Gordons to the edge of the camp area.

“I want to look fer tracks,” he told the young brave.

For a moment or two Bright Star moved about at random, for all the world like a beagle-hound on a rabbit trail, head bent low and eyes fixed to the ground. Then he suddenly set off, straight toward the west.

“Indian,” he said, pointing to a faint print, “one Indian.”

“By cracky,” said Bill Brown, “I should get Van Alstyne an’ rub his long nose in it.”

The single track led on for upwards of a half-mile, where they came upon a hurriedly abandoned campsite. There was a broken tepee-pole, some scraps of deer meat, fragments of clothing, an old moccasin, and a few stray feathers from a war-bonnet. Bright Star ran busily about the place, looking intently at the ground.

“Maybe six, seven, eight Indian,” he told the others, after a time. “Also one pale-face. Big man.”

“Hear that, fellows,” cried Tom, his eyes glinting. “That’s our old pal, Pat Fagan, for sure. He’s turned renegade and joined up with Prairie Wolf and the Sacs, just as we figured.”

“Shall we tell Captain Van Alstyne about this?” inquired Ben.

“Naw,” replied Bill Brown, deep resentment in his tone, “he won’t believe ther’s an Injun war on, till he gits a flyin’ tomahawk in the back o’ his skull.”

CHAPTER 10

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Horsemen of the Prairie

ALL that day, and the next morning, too, the band of troopers from Fort Dearborn continued their steady travel westward, over the rolling prairies of the Illinois country. The four scouts—three whites and one red—led the march, and from time to time the agile Bright Star would alight from his horse and examine the trail they were following. His study always revealed that the Prairie Wolf and his Sacs, together with the deserter, Pat Fagan, were fleeing before them.

“Heading for the Rock River, to join up with the main Injun force under Black Hawk,” conjectured Ben Gordon.

“Maybe we can catch up with them and wipe them out, before they make a junction,” Tom added, raising himself in his stirrups and searching the rolling plain with his strong, young eyes.

“Ugh,” said Bright Star, shaking his head soberly, “it will not be.”

“I reckon the young chief is right,” Brown agreed. “The Wolf an’ his men are movin’ powerful fast, an’ while the trail is growin’ warmer, it don’t look as if we kin catch ’em afore they hit the river.”

“They’ve maybe reached Black Hawk by now,” concluded Ben.

At noon the usual pause was made. Food and black tea were served, and then the sixty remounted. For two hours more the trail led directly west, then veered very slightly to the north. A few more miles and suddenly, upon coming over a low rise of ground, they saw before them the dark, wide, rapid waters of a sizable stream.

“Rock River!” sang out Bill Brown.

“Zounds, at last!” grumbled Van Alstyne. “The more I see of this God-forsaken country, the less I like it. If I ever get to Washington, I’m going to introduce a bill in Congress proposing that we give the whole miserable region back to the Indians. It would seem that—”

“Look, Captain!” broke in Ben Gordon excitedly, “look up there, will you!”

The stoutish officer turned awkwardly in his saddle, and gazed north along the river bank where the boy was pointing.

“What of it, lad? what of it?” he asked waspishly. “I see nothing but a tumble-down cabin and barn, no doubt deserted by some poor settler who had his belly full of this detestable hole.”

“Why, that’s Dixon’s place, Cap’n,” Bill Brown informed him, “er what’s left of it. John Dixon ’stablished a ferry an’ stoppin place here ’bout four years past, back in 1828. His buildin’s was sure ’nuff standin’ two weeks ago, when I come through on the way to Dearborn. ’Pears to me that Black Hawk an’ his Sac ruffians has been here since.”

“Cabin burn. Ugh!” offered Bright Star, squinting his eyes upriver.

“Very likely struck by lightning,” sniffed Van Alstyne. “You’ve all got Black Hawk on the brain. I still believe that the bally old chief is sitting before his lodge fire, over in Ioway, toasting his toes.”

“No siree!” protested the scout sternly, “this is Injun doin’s. Let’s press on!”

When they reached the place, they found it to be a complete ruin. From the foundations, and what Bill Brown knew of the place, it could be determined that there had been several structures,—house, barn, shed and three other outbuildings. Nothing now remained but a few fragments of charred walls, and a portion of roof on the low shed.

“Yep,” repeated Bill solemnly, “torch an’ tomahawk did this deviltry.”

“I wonder what was the fate of those who lived here,” mused Ben sadly.

“Sliced to ribbons by the Injun knives, lad. Mebbe the kids an’ women-folk was carried off to captivity.”

“Ugh, ugh!” interjected Bright Star, pointing suddenly to the rear of the ruined barn.

“What’s got into that confounded redskin now?” said Van Alstyne peevishly. “That ’ugh, ugh’ fol-de-rol of his is beginning to get on my nerves.”

“What is it, chief?” asked Brown quickly, ignoring the Captain’s complaint.

“Mounds of earth, behind barn. Maybe burial place.”

“These are graves, that’s a certainty,” nodded Lieutenant Clark, when the group had moved over to the place pointed out by the Pottawattomee.

“Four of them, and newly made,” Ben said soberly.

“No doubt the graves of the Indian victims,” commented Van Alstyne acidly. “Evidently Black Hawk and his painted braves are unique among the savages. They murder the settlers and then give them civilized burial.”

“Yer right on one score, Cap’n, fer a change,” answered Bill Brown calmly. “The mounds cover the bodies o’ the pore folk kilt by the Injuns. But these Christian graves are the work o’ white men, who must’ve come along arter the massacre an’ found the corpses.”

“White men?” returned the Captain. “But who?”

“Guess you didn’t notice that trail we crossed, when we rode in here?”

“How should I? I’m no blinkin’ blood-hound.”

“It was ther, plain as the nose on yer face. Come on, let’s go over an’ take a close squint at it. It may tell us a lot.”

Moving away from the river, and out onto the prairie, perhaps a hundred yards, they looked down on the broad trail of many unshod horses and marks of wagon wheels. There it was, clearly imprinted on the soft, prairie earth.

The trail could not speak, but still it was like a living thing. It lay silently before them, yet standing out on the brown soil, wide, vivid, and full of significance. It told the keen-eyed Bright Star and Bill Brown, the veteran scout, that here a white army had passed, many men, hundreds of them, heading hurriedly northward, up the river. This was the story the trail told.

“Gad, you are right, Brown,” admitted Van Alstyne, as his eyes beheld the tell-tale evidence. “A large force of men has gone this way.”

“And not long ago,” Tom Gordon declared. “The prints look fresh.”

“Mighty fresh,” nodded Brown. “I’d say that they was made this very mornin’.”

“I think I can offer a solution, Captain,” averred Lieutenant Clark, “as to who these men were.”

“I hope so, I hope so, Lieutenant. As far as I know, they may as well be men from Mars. I can see that there were a lot of them, and that they’ve churned up the earth like a herd of cattle; but as to their identity, there you have me.”

“Here’s my idea of it, sir,” went on Clark, pulling a map from his pocket. “You remember that Governor Reynolds, in his dispatches, said that a large number of volunteers would rendezvous at Beardstown. Now take a look at this map. Beardstown is some seventy-five miles due south of here. I think that this fresh trail was made by the Beardstown volunteers. Their scouts have brought them word that Black Hawk is moving northward, up the Rock River, and they are hot on his heels.”

“By George, Clark, that’s capital reasoning. At times I haven’t thought too highly of your ability, but I am beginning to believe that you will develop into a first-rate officer.”

“Thank you, sir; but what course do you feel that we should now follow?”

“Well, let me think. I have it,—just the thing. I’ll take four troopers with me and press rapidly up the trail. Five of us can travel much more rapidly than the whole detachment. I’ll come up with the volunteers before dark and spend the night in their tents.”

“And we’ll camp here, and follow along in the morning?” queried Clark.

“That’s it. A body of men the size of the volunteer force must necessarily travel slow. You should have no trouble in overtaking us some time tomorrow,—probably no later than mid-afternoon.”

“Very well, sir,” said Clark uneasily, “but wouldn’t it be wise to take Bill Brown or one of the other scouts with you?”

“Nonsense, Lieutenant, nonsense! When old Black Hawk’s spies carried him word of this pursuing army, he no doubt turned tail and skedaddled north as fast as his ponies will trot. I imagine he won’t stop running till he gets to Lake Superior, or maybe Hudson Bay. And good riddance, say I!”

“It’s up to you, sir,” was Clark’s final comment, “but I would earnestly advise you to be wary.”

“Pshaw!” boasted Van Alstyne, “I feel as safe as strolling down the Bowery in good old New York City; but if you insist, I will take along young Ben Gordon.”

Ten minutes later, the Captain, Ben Gordon and the four troopers—one of whom was Jim Martin—rode out of Dixon’s Ferry, and with a final wave of farewell struck up the broad trail to the north; while those who were left behind proceeded to pitch camp for the night, on the open bank of the wilderness river.

Sunset was soon at hand; and after the big, molten orb had gone down in the west, mists and vapors began to roll in from the northeast, promising a chilly and dark night. The little band of Indian hunters built bright fires, however, over which they cooked bacon and made the customary tea. The food and drink heartened them wonderfully, and, although it was felt necessary to put out the blazes as soon as the cooking was over, the effect of the warmth lingered on.

At the behest of Lieutenant Clark, Bill Brown, Bright Star and Tom Gordon went up the trail, scouting in the twilight. The three scouts came back, after a while, and reported that nothing could be found on the prairie to the north. There seemed no danger of a night attack, and the men could probably sleep undisturbed till the morning; although double guards would be posted as a precaution, now that they were in the very heart of the Indian domain.

This first detail of guards had hardly begun its rounds, however, when one of them, on the down river side of camp, detected the sound of voices to the south. There was silence for a few moments, and then the anxious guard again heard a distant shout or two. He at once passed the word along to summon Lieutenant Clark.

“What’s the trouble, Jones?” asked the officer tersely,—as he hurried up with Bill Brown, whom he had hastily aroused from sleep.

“Voices down the trail to the south, sir,” said the guard.

The three listened intently for a moment. Again there came a distant call, followed by an answering whoop from farther away.

“Those are white men,” asserted Bill. “I’ll vouch fer that.”

“I think so, Bill; but at any rate we’d best be cautious.”

“Well spoken, Left’nant.”

“Now, Jones,” went on the officer, “we’ll hold our tongues for the time being. When those fellows, whoever they be, advance within ten paces or so, challenge them. Is that clear?”

“It is, sir. Yes, sir.”

There was no further shouting down the trail, but, after a short interval, there was a noise near at hand, and a muttered imprecation as someone stumbled over a rough spot in the path.

“Halt! who comes there?” abruptly barked the sentinel.

There was a dead silence for a half-moment. Then came the gruff response out of the pitchy dark, “Who the blazes wants ter know?”

“Who comes there?” again challenged the sentinel.

“Keep yer shirt on!” was the answer. “We’re the ’rig’nal iron-jawed, brass-mounted, copper-bellied Injun chasers from the wilds o’ Sangamon County. Folks down that way call us ‘Sudden Death.’ So stand back an’ give us room to pass!”

“Not till you properly identify yourselves,” cut in Lieutenant Clark grimly.

“Say, feller, listen har! I take six rattle-snakes an’ a bar’l o’ whiskey fer breakfast, when I’m feelin’ my us’al self. Blood’s my fav’rite drink, an’ the moans o’ the dyin’ is soothin’ to my ears. But ef yer gwine ter git yer back up ’bout the matter, I’ll break down an’ state that my name is Pete Perkins.”

“Pete Perkins!” burst out Bill Brown, unable to conceal his surprise. “Why, you double-dyed ol’ rascal, are you still pollutin’ the earth?”

“Whoopee! that sounds powerful like ol’ Bill Brown, the Kaintock border-man with the petrified gizzard.”

“You appear to know this party, Bill,” laughed Lieutenant Clark. “Let him come on, sentinel.”

“Whoopee, that’s good!” cried Pete, jumping up and cracking his heels together three times before he lit. “I’m comin’ on; but don’t git over near me, ez I’m fust cousin ter the cholera, an’ close related ter the smallpox on my father’s side.”

There followed a few moments of quick question and answer, and it was learned that Perkins was the advance scout for a large force of volunteer militia that followed a mile behind.

“We be more’n a thousand strong,” declared the voluble scout, letting fly a torrent of tobacco juice, “all hossmen, ’cept ’bout tew hunderd foot sojurs.”

“Who is in command?” asked Clark.

“Brigadier-Gen’ral Sam Whiteside, the best dad-blamed Injun fighter on the frontier. An’ in jest a half-hour yew kin confab with him person’ly. The men has marched twenty mile terday, over muddy roads. But ol’ Sam set his sights fer Dixon’s Ferry, this mornin’ when we busted kemp, an’ I’ll be durned ef we didn’t make it.”

CHAPTER 11

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The Lodge of Black Hawk

THAT same evening, in an Indian lodge on the banks of Sycamore Creek, a small stream flowing into the Rock River about thirty-five miles north of Dixon’s Ferry, an important conference was taking place.

The Indian lodge was that of the famed Sac chief, Black Hawk. It was a large lodge, covered with grass mats and very nicely arranged. Four sticks of wood, placed to form a square in the center, answered the purpose of a hearth, within which was a crackling fire of birchwood, the smoke escaping through an opening in the top. Against the sides, hanging from the poles or framework, were various skin bags containing food and other belongings. Sundry ladles, small kettles, and wooden bowls also hung from the cross-poles; and dangling from the center pole, by an iron chain, was a larger kettle, in which a meat stew of vension, rabbit and squirrel was seething over the brisk fire.

On the floor of the lodge, between the warm fire and outer wall, were spread mats, upon which were seated three dusky Indians of the Sac tribe.

One of these, on the north side of the lodge, was Black Hawk himself, dressed in a buckskin suit. The noted sachem was only some five feet, five inches in height, and rather spare as to flesh. His somewhat pinched features exaggerated the prominence of the cheekbones of his race. As to other facial characteristics, he had a full mouth, a pronounced Roman nose, bright and piercing eyes, no eyebrows, a high forehead, and a head well thrown back with a pose of quiet dignity. His hair was plucked out, with the exception of the scalp-lock, in which, on occasions such as this, was fastened a bunch of eagle feathers.

On the south side of the lodge, across the fire from Black Hawk, sat the sinister Ne-a-pope, dark of visage and wrapped in his familiar, faded green blanket. The third brave, seated on the west, was none other than the burly young chief, Prairie Wolf. Ne-a-pope and the Wolf, together with the soldier deserter, Pat Fagan, had arrived at Sycamore Creek only an hour before, after their hurried journey across country from Fort Dearborn.

“Ho, Ne-a-pope,” spoke up Black Hawk, “you are back from your long journey.”

“Aye,” responded Ne-a-pope, “I have returned.”

“You had talks with the British in Canada?”

“Aye, we took council for many hours.”

“What was decided?”

“The British will send help, oh Black Hawk.”

“It is well,” the chief rejoined, his eyes glowing brightly at the news. “When and where will the red-coats come?”

“By way of Mil-wa-ke, so they said. It may be that they have started up the lakes ere now.”

“Your words lift my drooping spirits, oh worthy Ne-a-pope,” confessed Black Hawk.

“Your heart is heavy?”

“My heart is heavy, very heavy.”

“Why so?”

“It is this way. When I took up the war-hatchet against the hated pale-face, I had reason to think that the Foxes, Winnebagoes and warriors of other tribes would rush to my side. They had sent me the red wampum.”

“None have come in?”

“Only a handful.”

“Why is this so?”

“The Pottawattomee chief, Shaubena, and others of his powerful nation, have passed among them, saying that Black Hawk is a madcap, a fool to fight the swarming pale-faces, who number as the leaves of the trees.”

“The accursed Pottawattomees have been bought with pale-face gold!” cried Ne-a-pope, his face writhing with fierce anger.

“It may well be,” admitted Black Hawk. “Also, I begin to fear that the Foxes and Winnebagoes are old women, afraid to raise the war-cry. The ancient courage of their fathers has gone. Their hearts are faint and their muscles feeble.”

“Mayhap Fox and Winnebago await the day when Black Hawk gives battle to the pale-face soldiers,” put in the sullen Prairie Wolf, who had been listening silently to the conversation.

“Did I not cross the Wapt-pa-ton-ga (Great River),” replied Black Hawk, somewhat stung by the Wolf’s blunt statement, “and throw down the gauntlet? What did noble Fox and brave Winnebago do then? I will tell you. They skulk in their lodges, like beaten dogs.”

“Aye, but they only await a victory. That will bring out their war-paint. Advance, oh chief, with your valiant warriors.”

“The Prairie Wolf speaks words of great wisdom,” nodded Ne-a-pope vigorously. “When Fox and Winnebago hear how the white soldiers ran at our fierce charge, and see the many scalps hanging from Sac girdles, they will flock to our side. We will drive the thievish pale-faces from our lands forever!”

“Your tongues are sharp,” Black Hawk replied thoughtfully, “but it may well be that your advice is of the best.”

“Ho!” said Ne-a-pope.

“Ugh!” urged the Prairie Wolf. “Sac, Winnebago and Fox will stand as one. Death to the pale-face!”

At this juncture there was a sudden sound of “hogh!”, the mat which hung over the entrance of the lodge was raised, and a Sac warrior entered with that graceful bound which is peculiar to the race. He was a tall, finely-formed savage, with a grave, open countenance. It was Walking Cloud, famous medicine man of the Sacs.

“Ho, Walking Cloud,” greeted Black Hawk with the utmost friendliness, for he had deep respect for the big medicine man, “what news do you bring?”

“At sunset, oh Black Hawk, white men make camp down river.”

“Near at hand?”

“One hour’s journey.”

“Ugh! is the number big?”

“Big, very big. Many guns, horses, wagons.”

“Do the soldiers have blue coats?”

“Our scouts say they wear coats of deerskin.”

“Ho!” said Black Hawk. “Men from village and farm.”

“Good!” exclaimed Ne-a-pope. “Blue-coats from fort have not yet come.”

“Blue-coats from fort maybe camp for night at the ferry,” observed the Wolf, shrewdly hitting the nail on the head.

“Let us then, oh Black Hawk,” urged Ne-a-pope, “give attack before the blue-coats come.”

“Blue-coats heap brave,” warned the Wolf. “Fight like wild-cats.”

“Your words are well meant,” mused Black Hawk, “but I yet hope to keep more blood from spilling.”

“Ugh!” snarled the Wolf disgustedly.

“How so?” asked Ne-a-pope skeptically.

“At daybreak I will send out three braves with a white flag to the pale-face camp. I will demand that the pale-faces withdraw from the Sac lands within the hour. Otherwise, I will order an attack.”

“A wise plan,” declared the medicine man, Walking Cloud, disregarding the protestations of Ne-a-pope and the Wolf, “and one which will place the blame for further warfare on the pale-faces. If they do not retreat, give them the tomahawk.”

“It is a fool’s scheme,” averred Ne-a-pope bluntly.

“It will do no good,” agreed the Prairie Wolf, shaking his head doggedly.

“Nevertheless, I will try it,” persisted the Hawk, rising to his feet to conclude the council. “Go to your lodges. I will summon you at sunup.”

When dawn came, the Sac encampment awakened to sudden activity. The sun was barely above the horizon when Walking Cloud and three other braves rode out from the lodges toward the camp of the whites. On the end of a spear the Cloud bore a white flag, signifying that the Sacs wished to have a conference with the white militia.

Accompanying the four Sacs, on their all-important mission, was a white man—none other than the giant deserter, Pat Fagan. Black Hawk had prevailed on the big renegade to act as an interpreter, not knowing whether or not the whites had one in their ranks. Fagan had at first refused pointblank, but when told that the whites were volunteer militia, and not regulars, he agreed to go along, albeit with some reluctance. He also foolishly beguiled himself with the idea that he would be safe under the white flag of truce, although a deserter; even if he were recognized, which appeared unlikely, as he had donned Sac raiment—including a feathered headdress—and rubbed his face and body with a dark stain.

The Indians, with their white flag flying prettily in the light breeze, had progressed across the green prairie to within a mile of the volunteer camp, when they suddenly found themselves face to face with a little band of white horsemen who emerged from behind a thick grove of trees. With a sinking heart the renegade, Fagan, quickly discerned that one of the approaching whites was his old commander at Fort Dearborn, Captain Van Alstyne. A low cry of consternation came from the deserter’s lips, as he made the startling discovery.

“You lyin’ red varmint!” he said hoarsely to the impassive Walking Cloud, who luckily did not understand the epithet.

Walking Cloud, moreover, was innocent of the accusation. What had happened was that Van Alstyne and his party had reached the volunteer camp at a late hour, the previous evening, long after the Sac spies had scouted the place. Hence, the spies had seen no blue-coated regulars.

A second later, Fagan’s alarm grew even more pronounced; for, at Van Alstyne’s side, he saw the trim figure of young Ben Gordon. At this, the agitated renegade drew a quick rein on his Indian pony; but then abruptly let the beast go forward again, as he saw that it was now too late, by far, to permit of withdrawal. Gritting his teeth in abject rage, he steeled himself for the ordeal, hoping against hope that neither the Captain nor young Ben would penetrate his Indian disguise.

The two approaching parties, red and white, now slowed their mounts to a walk, meanwhile eyeing each other with the uttermost caution. At length, when they were not more than a few rods apart, Captain Van Alstyne threw up his hand in a gesture of warning.

“Who comes here?” he challenged.

“Messengers from Black Hawk,” mumbled Pat Fagan, trying hard to mask his voice.

“What does the chief want?”

“He demands you git out from the Injun lands.”

“Ho, ho!” snorted Van Alstyne, “Black Hawk has a short memory. The United States Government bought these lands from the Indians thirty years ago.”

“Black Hawk claims it a swindle,” went on Fagan, his words scarcely more than a mutter.

“The red fraud is trying to crawl out of his bargain,” rejoined the Captain, with a contemptuous leer. “Return to him at once, and tell him that we ask his immediate surrender.”

“The Hawk laughs in yer face,” replied the renegade. “It’ll be bloody war now.”

“Ha!” taunted Van Alstyne scornfully, “the red blather-skite is afraid to fight. This is nothing but bluff on his part. We’re on to his game.”

Meantime, Ben Gordon had been studying the Indian interpreter with increasing suspicion. The voice, the carriage, the very manner of the burly brave had a familiar note. For a few moments the boy was puzzled; but abruptly it came to him. His keen eyes pierced the savage disguise. This was none other than Pat Fagan, the border bully, who had sworn his vengeance!

And now, as the Sac messengers turned their horses to depart, Ben gave quick spur to his nimble pony. With three or four long bounds he was at the side of the astounded renegade, who suddenly found the muzzle of a rifle in his very face.

“Hold, boy!” shouted Van Alstyne hotly, likewise spurring his mount forward. “Put down that rifle! These Indians are miserable scoundrels, but nevertheless they are under a flag of truce.”

“This one is no Indian, sir,” declared Ben firmly, the barrel of his rifle not moving a jot.

“No Indian! why, the red villain looks the part.”

“I repeat, sir, that he is no Indian.”

“Then, by the sun and moon and stars, lad, who is he?”

“Pat Fagan, deserter from the garrison at Fort Dearborn!”

“Fagan, the deserter? Are you sure, lad?”

“Dead sure! He has—”

As Ben Gordon spoke, he turned his head a bit, to look the officer directly in the face. With the speed of a striking rattler, Fagan knocked up the rifle barrel and wheeled away on his fleet Indian pony, his body bent low over the beast’s neck. Like a flash, his four Sac companions were also away.

Instantly, Ben Gordon’s gun sprang to his shoulder, and he sent a bullet humming after the fleeing renegade. Three or four others of the party likewise fired, at the same time urging forward their mounts in pursuit.

“Spare the savages!” cried Van Alstyne, in consternation. “Honor their flag of truce! But get Fagan!”

Alas! the warning came too late. An ill-aimed shot from a soldier musket struck one of the flying Sacs. For a moment, it seemed that the brave would retain his saddle. He swayed desperately, then caught at the mane of his mount. A second afterward, however, he threw up his hands, raised a quavering death-song, and toppled heavily to the earth, not a breath of life in his coppery body.

As the pursuit continued, it began to look as if the big deserter would make good his escape. The Sac ponies were proving to be faster steppers than the mounts of the military. The gap between the two parties started to widen, almost imperceptibly at first, then more rapidly. Fagan rose in his stirrups, turned about and gave voice to a loud yell of defiance.

“Wahoo!” he cried.

The taunting call was hardly out of his mouth, however, when a hissing bullet struck his pony squarely in the back of the head, penetrating the brain. The speeding beast collapsed instantly, throwing the surprised Fagan forward in a wild, whirling somersault that ended only when he struck the ground ten feet ahead, with a prodigious thud.

“He’s knocked cold!” called Ben Gordon, as he sped up on his sweating horse.

“Good!” said Van Alstyne, checking his mount nearby. “That’ll make him easier to handle. Get a lariat, somebody, and tie him hand and foot! We’ll see that he gets his medicine in a hurry.”

CHAPTER 12

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Stillman’s Run

BY the time that Van Alstyne and his party had got back to their camp, the deserter, Fagan, had recovered his senses, though still a bit woozy. Otherwise, surprisingly enough, he showed no ill effects from his terrific tumble.

“I didn’t think he’d have a sound bone in his body,” Ben Gordon asserted. “He hit that ground like a ton of bricks.”

Van Alstyne at once hurried off to confer with Major Isaiah Stillman, square-faced, straw-haired commander of the militia force of three hundred men. The two of them put their heads together and agreed to call a drum-head court-martial immediately. Van Alstyne himself was to act as judge-advocate, by authority of his rank as an officer in the regular army of the United States. Stillman and four other of his volunteer officers were to comprise the court, which had complete jurisdiction in all cases, including capital offenses in time of war.

The sullen Fagan was duly arraigned before this court, but refused the offer to testify in his own behalf. Principal witnesses called against him were Ben Gordon, Jim Martin and the three other troopers. After hearing all the evidence, the court deliberated for ten minutes, and then declared itself as ready to report.

“What is the verdict of the court, Major Stillman?” asked Van Alstyne, amid the most intense quiet from the soldier audience.

“Guilty, sir!” replied Stillman, in a firm voice.

“Stand forth, Fagan,” sternly ordered Van Alstyne, “and receive your sentence.”

“It is the order of the court,” went on the Major, “that the defendant, said Patrick Fagan, be taken before a firing squad of eight soldiers tomorrow morning, May 15th, at daybreak, and shot dead, as punishment for desertion and giving aid and comfort to an enemy in time of war.”

The doomed man was then taken from the court, mouthing horrid threats against all concerned, and bound to the wheel of a heavy wagon within the camp. To make him doubly secure, a soldier with fixed bayonet was delegated to stand guard six paces distant. Fresh guards were to be posted each hour.

As for Van Alstyne, he now had a chance to acquaint Major Stillman more fully with the facts regarding the Sac messengers and their flag of truce.

“So the Hawk sent us an ultimatum?” chortled Stillman, as he ushered the Captain into his tent.

“Yes, Major,” smiled Van Alstyne, “the red upstart says it’s either get out, or he’ll put you out.”

“I don’t envy him his job, Captain. My men are spoiling for a fight with these Sac butchers. It will be as easy for us as sticking pigs.”

“Why, of course it will, Stillman. That red trash can’t stand up to white soldiers. What rot!”

“You’re quite right, especially a picked force such as I have. Crack shots, every one of them, and bold as bears.”

“They look to be a hardy breed,” observed the Captain.

“That they are. Not the kind of men who will scare easily, or turn tail at the whiz of the first arrow. I dare say that any one of them could whip three Sacs in a hand to hand fracas.”

“Ha! I only wish, Major, that the Sac roustabouts would try an attack on this camp.”

“Not a chance, sir,” scoffed Stillman. “Our position is too strong for them to risk an assault.”

“It is, indeed, a strong position,” nodded Van Alstyne, “camped in this grove as we are, with open prairie for two miles all around. It’d be suicide for the redskins to charge us. We could pick them off like pigeons.”

“You say that your detachment of sixty troopers will come up from Dixon’s Ferry today?” asked Stillman, suddenly changing the subject.

“Yes, I so ordered. They should be here by evening, at the latest.”

“Good! we will rest them overnight, and then make a quick sally against Black Hawk tomorrow. We’ll whip him soundly and put an end to his big notions. The gall of the red rascal, thinking he can scare us!”

Van Alstyne now left the tent, to lead away his horse to the south side of the grove, where all the mounts were picketed. He had been gone only a few minutes, when young Ben Gordon burst into the tent, his face aglow with excitement.

“Sac horsemen, sir!” he cried. “Charging across the prairie!”

“Bosh, lad!” the Major exclaimed, nevertheless jumping up from his campstool. “Probably another white flag!”

“No, Major! the Sacs mean business this time! fully armed and painted for battle!”

From without the tent there now arose a confused bedlam of shouts, yells, threats and bickering. The hubbub mounted with every succeeding second. The volunteer camp was in a growing uproar. Something was clearly amiss.

Stillman stood stock-still for a long second, on his face a look of complete amazement; then bent low and darted through the tent flap, with the boy close at his heels. Shouting at the top of his voice, he took to issuing orders right and left; but such was the turmoil among the frightened volunteers, that scarcely a man gave heed. All about, men were running hither and yon like scared rabbits, looking for their weapons, and casting fearsome glances through the trees toward the open prairie to the north.

“Gad, there is a body of savages out there!” roared Stillman, dashing to the edge of the grove and gazing intently northward.

And as Ben Gordon looked out over the Major’s shoulder, an army of red horsemen seemed to rise out of the prairie, perhaps three-quarters of a mile distant. The line stretched far to right and to left, and every Sac brave was bent forward a little over his pony’s neck, like those that ride to the charge. Their coppery bodies glistened in the morning sunlight, and the long feathers in their hair streamed out defiantly. Some of them carried shields of buffalo hide, upon which they beat with a low, booming sound that was ominous to hear.

“Steady, men! steady!” called Stillman, as some of the nearby militia began to show signs of panic.

In the middle of the Indian line, Ben Gordon could now see, sat a sinewy chief on a white pony. This Indian’s appearance was wild and ferocious. Many plumes and feathers were in his hair. His face was covered with war-paint, red and black in fanciful designs, even to the nose, which was large and prominent. The head was covered with a warbonnet, a barbaric thing of vari-colored feathers, with two stubby, black buffalo horns projecting from it, at the temples. He was naked to the waist, and had a broad, blood-red scarf bound about his middle.

“Black Hawk!” cried Ben.

He saw the famed chief raise his hand, and then a wild cry burst from a hundred savage throats, a blood-curdling cry, so filled with hatred, ferocity and triumph that every man shuddered. Then the whole Indian line swept forward, like a moving red wall.

Ben Gordon felt himself recoiling, instinctively, but he swiftly and sternly checked himself. A volunteer to his right, however, threw down his gun and ran off through the grove. The boy could see, to his amazement, out of the corner of his eye, that numerous others were doing likewise.

“Ther’s thousands of ’em!” shrieked a panicky fellow, streaking to the rear.

“We’ll all be skulped!” screamed another, firing his gun wildly in the air in his blind terror.

“Er burnt at the stake!” a third bawled, his face distorted with fright, as he scurried away.

“Stand firm!” roared Stillman, his face gray with rage and suspense, “you infernal cowards!”

Ben Gordon, seething with anger, caught one of the fleeing men by the shirt collar.

“Get back there!” he yelled. “Fight like a man!”

“Out of the way, bub!” snarled the fellow furiously, his fearful fright giving him the strength of two, as he pushed the boy with great violence. “I’d ruther be a live coward then a dead hero.”

Nearer came the red riders. The boy was fearfully excited. The little pulses in his temple were beating hard, and he saw the charging Sacs as in a red mist. It looked to him as if they must sweep all before them.

To add to his dismay, he saw that the line of white defenders was growing steadily thinner. All over the camp frenzied volunteers, beset with an unreasoning fear, were throwing themselves on their horses and galloping desperately to safety. Stillman and some of the other officers ran frantically about, exhorting the fleeing men to stand firm, even thwacking the craven fellows with flats of their swords, in short, doing their utmost to rally the panic-stricken men.

All to no avail. Soon, almost the entire white force, hundreds strong, was milling about in a confused throng. Climbing posthaste on the nearest horses, they deserted their impregnable camp and fled southward in the greatest consternation, although the oncoming Sac horsemen were still upwards of a half-mile away on the open prairie to the north.

Thus, out of the whole detachment of three hundred men, there presently remained in the grove only Stillman, a few of his officers, Ben Gordon, Jim Martin and the three troopers, together with about twenty of the volunteers who had stood fast, in the face of the wild Indian charge and the equally wild panic in the white camp.

This pitiful remnant of the once potent white army took refuge at the northwest corner of the grove, near the creek, where the timber was thickest. The deadly muzzles of their rifles faced toward the green prairie to the north, from whence the screeching red horsemen were whirling in, like a dark storm-cloud.

“Hold your fire!” cried Stillman, as a half-dozen of the volunteers started a scattering volley.

The trigger of Ben’s rifle fairly burned against his finger, but he tensely awaited the command to shoot. Nearer, yet nearer, came the savage horde, and it seemed that in another minute the Indians would be upon them.

“Fire!” Stillman shouted, the single, sharp word of command cracking out like the snap of a whip-lash.

Thirty eager fingers pulled trigger at once. Flashes of fire rimmed the timber edge, and a cloud of smoke floated out over the lush prairie. The deadly bullets crashed into the line of whooping Sacs. Several ponies and riders went down. Three coppery bodies lay inert on the sod. Wounded horses, screaming with pain, galloped wildly about. The Sacs whooped with rage and fired back, those of them who possessed muskets. Dust and smoke mingled, and heavy with odors and vapors, drifted over the whole hectic scene.

When he finally pressed the trigger, Ben aimed pointblank at a tall Sac warrior. As the rifle spat fire, he saw the warrior no more. After that he fired as fast as he could, shooting at whatever Indian was nearest. The little pulses in his head were beating harder than ever, and he fought as in a wild dream, but nevertheless he fought furiously.

He remembered afterward that he could feel Jim Martin at his right and one of the other troopers at the left, while Stillman was posted only a few yards away. Where was Van Alstyne, he vaguely wondered? Great guns! Had he, too, fled the scene. Ben thought not. The Captain was full of blind folly, but he did not look the coward.

The crash of the thirty rifles was now so steady that it sounded like the roll of thunder. Mingled with it was the fierce yelping of the savages and the sullen, nerve-racking pounding of their war-drums. The whites, on the other hand, seldom shouted, but fought for the most part in grim silence. Bullets found their mark in the white ring also. Men were wounded, but they hid it for the time, bravely keeping their places among the defenders. Ben felt something hot searing his shoulder like a flame, but he knew that he was merely grazed and it slipped from his mind the next moment, in the excitement of battle.

But now the charging Sacs suddenly veered, and rode around the flank of the grove to the east, shouting their defiant war-cries with renewed strength. In a moment they had swept into the eastern part of the encampment, which had by now been practically deserted by the fleeing volunteers, almost the last of whom was a quarter-mile distant on the prairie, scudding madly for Dixon’s Ferry, teeth chattering with fear.

The little band of thirty whites in the timber raised a glad shout of victory. The ring of fire spouting from their guns had beaten off the men of Black Hawk—for the time being. But Major Stillman knew well enough that the attack would eventually come again. The second time it would be more difficult to beat back, as the wily Sacs could now creep up on the defenders from the rear, through the tents and trees of the grove.

Their skirmishers, slipping along the ground like red snakes, would press closer and closer, ever more dangerous. Hawk-eyed sharpshooters would pick off the helpless whites one by one. Gradually the little band of defenders would be cut down, caught in this tight trap, virtually unable to protect themselves against the skulking, well-hidden marksmen.

Meantime, the triumphant Sacs were busily engaged in pillaging the big camp. Raucous shouts and gleeful yelps resounded from the far side of the grove. Now and then there was a terrified scream, closely followed by a gunshot. The few white volunteers who had attempted to hide among the tents were being ferreted out and mercilessly killed and scalped.

One of the first of the screeching Sac braves to burst into the militia camp had been the young chief, Prairie Wolf. As his nimble pony whirled into an aisle between the rows of tents, the Wolf’s questing eye fell upon a strange scene. A stoutish, blue-coated army officer, pistol in hand, was fairly pushing what appeared to be a big Indian toward the northwest, with the evident idea of getting his reluctant prisoner to the whites in the timber by the creek.

What had happened was this. Captain Van Alstyne, at the moment of the Indian alarm, had been picketing his horse at the extreme south side of the grove, which was, of course, the side farthest removed from the point of Black Hawk’s attack. As he hurried back, toward the scene of trouble, he was caught up in the frenzied rush of the frightened militia-men.

For a few seconds the Captain stood as one paralyzed. He was completely dumbfounded at this unexpected cowardice of the volunteers. Great Caesar! hadn’t Major Stillman, not a half-hour since, vouched for these men as the bravest of the brave, able to whip their weight in wildcats! Then the stupefied officer sprang into action, his face ablaze with honest wrath.

“Stop!” he cried. “Stop, you yellow-bellied cowards!”

The infuriated man might as well have tried to stop a forest fire with a bucket of water. The volunteers, half-mad with fear, tore past him pell-mell, leaped on the backs of the nearest horses at hand, and streamed south across the prairie like startled deer.

“Sorry, Cap’n,” sneered one insolent fellow, “but I got urgent bus’ness at Dixon’s Ferry. See you later!”

Another quaking chap, wild-eyed with terror, whom the officer attempted to pull from his saddle, kicked him in the face; then galloped off crazily. The enraged Captain sped him on his way with a pistol ball that hummed by his ear like an angry wasp.

Realizing, at length, that his efforts to rally the insane mob were useless, the disheartened Van Alstyne turned sadly about and headed for the northwest part of the timber, whence came the sound of heavy firing. This meant, he knew, that at least some of the whites were putting up a resolute defence.

He had progressed perhaps one third of the way through the grove, when he unexpectedly came upon the deserter, Pat Fagan, whose presence, in the heat of the fray, he had completely forgotten. The desperate fellow, long since abandoned by his soldier guard, had worked free from the ropes that held his wrists; and was now striving frenziedly to loose his legs, also. Just as he did so, however, the Captain leaped forward and clapped his pistol muzzle to the ruffian’s back.

“Forward, march!” he ordered sharply; and Fagan, choking with rage at this untimely turn of events, had no alternative but to obey.

It was at this precise moment that the dangerous Prairie Wolf sped into view, astride his pony. His savage brain at once grasped the situation. This was the white renegade, ally of the Sacs, in the hands of the enemy. With a fierce whoop he pulled a gleaming war-hatchet from his belt, and sent it whizzing at Van Alstyne’s head. The unfortunate officer wheeled abruptly, as he heard the warning hoot. The whirling blade, keen as a razor, hit him full in the forehead with stunning force, and he fell motionless to the ground.

And thus perished the headstrong, but brave, Captain Van Alstyne, struck dead by a Sac war-hatchet at the battle of Stillman’s Run, which, aptly enough, was the name bestowed by contemporary historians on the disgraceful rout of the white volunteers.

CHAPTER 13

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A Daring Escape

MAJOR STILLMAN, veteran of many years on the border, realized that the situation of his little band was extremely dangerous. So far, the triumphant Sacs had not made an appearance. Their gloating yells and whoops, echoing through the timbered area, showed that they were still entranced with the rich spoils and loot of the captured camp. Presently, however, they would again turn their attention to the whites by the creek-side. Their sharp-shooters would swarm in like angry hornets.

“We must steal away,” declared the Major determinedly, “while the red villains are occupied with their pillaging.”

“It won’t be an easy task, sir,” asserted one of the lieutenants dubiously.

“I’ve been thinking of taking to the creek bed,” rejoined Stillman.

“A corking good idea, sir,” said Ben Gordon. “The banks are plenty high enough to hide us from view.”

“Yes,” agreed the Major, “and the stream leads off to the southwest, the general direction in which we have to go.”

“It does seem like our best chance, may be our only chance.”

“The blasted Injuns might pen us up there, sir,” broke in Jim Martin, who had been an intent listener.

“If they did,” countered the officer, “we could shoot from the shelter of the banks. I doubt that we would be worse off than we are now.”

Word of the plan was quickly communicated to the rest of the troop. Throwing themselves flat on their stomachs, the anxious men wormed their way stealthily forward to the lip of the creek bank. Luckily, their movements were well hidden among the thickets and clustered timber. Jim Martin and a fellow trooper had been left behind as a rear guard, until the rest of the detachment got a slight start.

Ben Gordon was at the head of the little column, by the side of Major Stillman. They had gone perhaps a hundred yards down the bed of the creek, when a rifle cracked out sharply behind them. A second shot followed, and then all was quiet once again.

“Keep moving, men,” the leader called in a low voice. “The Sacs have sent scouts forward, and the two troopers are chasing them off. That’s just the way we planned it. It’ll make the pesky Indians think we’re still in the grove.”

Two minutes later, Jim Martin and his comrade came running up from behind, their hurried footfalls muffled by the soft sand at the creek edge.

“How did it look, Martin?” queried Stillman tensely.

“A couple of the red scamps tried to creep up, sir, like the slinkin’ serpents they are, but I think I put a ball through one of ’em.”

“Good!” said the Major. “That’ll make them think twice before they try it again. It may be a half-hour before they discover that we’re gone; and in that time we can cover a lot of distance.”

They now advanced steadily southward, at a more rapid rate. Ten minutes passed and they heard no alarm. Fifteen minutes and yet there was none. Twenty came, and by now they had reached the mouth of the creek, where it emptied into the swirling Rock River.

“Great Scott, look!” exclaimed Ben Gordon, pointing upstream a short way.

“Canoes!” cried Stillman, utmost joy in his tone.

“Yep, Injun canoes!” added the boy, gleefully eyeing the row of boats drawn up on the sloping bank, bottoms up.

“A hull danged fleet of ’em!” a soldier jubilated.

“Must belong to Black Hawk’s tribe,” opined the Major. “Mighty nice of the redskins to keep them at this particular place.”

There were six of the big bark boats, just sufficient to carry all thirty of the party. In a jiffy the craft were turned over and toted to the water. Two paddles were found underneath each.

The exultant men had hardly boarded the canoes and sunk their paddles into the water, when a long cry, piercing and full of anger, came from the grove that they had left.

“They’ve stalked the place,” laughed Stillman, “found out that we’ve gone, and are hopping mad about it. Now men, swing those blades lustily, so that we can get a good piece down river before dark.”

Keeping to the middle of the wide stream, where the strong current would aid them most, they glided smoothly down the channel. All the while they kept a watchful eye, especially to the rear, but there was no alarm. Two hours later, at twilight, they ran the boats into a little cove, where they beached them for the night. All hands were glad to step ashore, and stretch their cramped limbs, for the narrow canoes were crowded to the limit.

The wind, blowing down stream from the north, had grown quite cool with the coming of night. There was plenty of dry driftwood about, but Stillman decided not to risk a fire. Desolate howls came from the gloomy forest, as they lay down to sleep.

“Timber wolves!” said one of the men, casting a worried look at the encircling darkness. “I wish we had a fire. The beasts fear a blaze.”

The night was divided into watches of three hours apiece; but the darkness passed peacefully. Neither timber wolves nor red wolves came; and the thirty canoemen were off again the next morning at the first flush of dawn. Three hours afterward, at mid-morning, they pulled in safely at Dixon’s Ferry, thankful to the bottom of their hearts to have escaped from the clutches of the vengeful Sacs.

Taking leave of Stillman for the time being, Ben Gordon, Jim Martin and the three troopers at once went to the camp of their detachment, where they were greeted by the others as men returned from the dead.

“We gave you up for lost,” asserted Tom Gordon, pounding brother Ben on the back in unrestrained joy and relief.

“It’s a plumb miracle the Sacs didn’t lift yer scalps,” Bill Brown agreed, honest delight shining in his weatherbeaten face.

“Heap smart,” grunted Bright Star, “to get away from Hawk.”

“But where is Captain Van Alstyne?” inquired Lieutenant Clark anxiously.

“That I cannot tell you, Lieutenant,” responded Ben soberly. “I didn’t see him during the fight. Therefore, I know nothing of his probable fate.”

There followed a quick exchange of stories; and Ben soon learned that the detachment had duly started north that next morning, as ordered by Captain Van Alstyne upon his departure. The troopers, under Clark, had covered about half the twenty-five miles to Sycamore Creek, when they collided head-on with the first of the fleeing volunteers.

“But there was no stopping them,” stated Clark, his face flushing red with anger. “Such rank cowardice I never did see.”

“Yep,” added Bill Brown disgustedly, “they was the scaredest bunch o’ fellers I ever met up with. Ther eyes was fairly poppin’ outen ther heads, an’ they was a screamin’ bloody-murder that Black Hawk was comin’ with a millyun warriors.”

“They poured down that road,” continued the Lieutenant, “like a herd of buffaloes in a stampede. If I hadn’t shooed my troop to one side, I swear they’d have ground us to bits under their flying hoofs.”

“Bright Star say,” the Pottawattomee reminded them, “pale-face run like rabbit, when Black Hawk charge.”

“An’ most of ’em didn’t even stop,” related Bill, “when they hit the ferry. The miser’ble louts skedaddled fer ther cabins, fifty mile away, where they’ll scare the livin’ daylights outen everybody, with ther wild tales o’ the turr’ble Black Hawk an’ his rampagin’ braves.”

On the following morning, General Whiteside, with several hundred men, including the detachment of regulars under Clark, proceeded to the field of battle, where they buried the mutilated bodies of the dead. Among these was that of Captain Van Alstyne, whose tragic fate was thus learned by all; although they did not know, of course, that he had fallen before the whirling war-axe of the dread Prairie Wolf.

The Sac tribesmen, delirious with triumph, had by now withdrawn northward, to their old camp, after looting Stillman’s tents most thoroughly.

“There were rich stores of provisions and ammunition,” declared Whiteside, “and they all fell into the hands of Black Hawk. It’s a pity, too, for I think that the Sacs were pretty near destitute.”

“It will prolong the war,” observed Clark solemnly.

“I fear so, Lieutenant.”

“Another bad angle to it,” said Bill Brown, “is that the dad-busted militia runnin’ the way they done, it’ll give the Hawk a mighty poor notion o’ the fightin’ qualities of our troops.”

“And on the other hand,” nodded Whiteside sagely, “it’ll give the chief an exaggerated idea of the prowess of his own braves.”

“Well, it’s plain,” summed up Clark, “that the net result of the battle will be to encourage Black Hawk greatly. From now on, it’s war to the death.”

Two days later, Whiteside and his force returned to Dixon’s Ferry, there to await the arrival of additional troops; also to give his raw recruits further drilling, before exposing them to the wiles of the resourceful Sacs; for the wary general wanted no repetition of the rout at Stillman’s Run.

Meantime, there ensued a reign of terror on the border. Stories of Black Hawk and his savage cunning and cruelty spread like wild fire, carried by the fleeing volunteers. The name of the Sac chieftain became a household bugaboo. Nervous horror gripped farm and village across the wide breadth of the frontier. The rustle in the thicket of a prowling beast; the howl of a wolf on the prairie; the fall of a forest bough; the report of a hunter’s gun, were enough in this time of unreasoned panic to blanch the cheeks of the bravest men, and cause families to fly in the agony of fear for scores of miles, leaving all their most cherished possessions behind them.

Black Hawk was using his camp, some ten miles north of Stillman’s Run, as a base of operations. For two or three days, his spirits were much elevated by his smashing triumph over the volunteers; but soon there came events that somewhat dampened his enthusiasm, and gave a darker outlook for the future.

First, Indian runners came in from Mil-wa-ke, bringing tidings that the British had had a change of mind about meddling in Black Hawk’s war adventures. They now sent word, alas too late, advising the Sac chief not to take the war-path against the Americans.

“Ugh!” said Black Hawk, in reproachful tone, to Ne-a-pope and the Prairie Wolf, “your advice was bad. We have driven the Big Knives (whites) headlong in flight and taken many scalps, yet the craven Fox and Winnebago do not come to our side.”

“You were right, oh Black Hawk,” lamented the thin-faced Ne-a-pope. “Fox and Winnebago are old women. Their hearts are faint and their muscles weak.”

“Let the stinking Fox and Winnebago sit in their lodges,” the Prairie Wolf cried, fairly clicking his teeth in rage, “squaw-men that they are. The Sacs are warriors! We will fight on! Death to the pale-face!”

It was, indeed, death for the pale-face. Black Hawk, wild with hate and anger, sent out small bands of his red horsemen far and wide across the Illinois frontier.

On the twenty-second of May, at the Davis farm, on Indian Creek, twelve miles north of Ottawa, fifteen settlers, men and women, were massacred by the marauding warriors. Taken captive were two girls, Sylvia and Rachel Hall, who were carried back to Black Hawk’s stronghold. Here they were sold for two thousand dollars to the White Crow, a Winnebago chief, who had been sent out by the whites to conduct negotiations for their return. Two days later, the Crow safely delivered the anguished girls into the hands of the military.

Soon afterward, a band of eleven Sacs killed and scalped five white men at Spafford’s farm, on the Pecatonica River, a western tributary of the Rock. Neighboring settlers formed a posse of thirty men, however, and gave quick chase. They overtook the roving warriors in a swamp, and in a pitched battle lasting but a few minutes, killed all eleven savages; while of the pursuers only three were slain and one wounded.

On the next day, Black Hawk himself, with a party of picked braves, made a desperate attack on Apple River fort, a small, stockaded post in the northwest corner of the state. The little garrison sustained a heavy siege for upwards of four hours. Great courage was displayed by the whites. Women and girls moulded bullets, loaded fire-arms, cared for the wounded, and in general proved themselves true border heroines. The thwarted redmen retired with some loss, after laying waste by fire the neighboring cabins and fields.

En route home, this same war party attacked, with singular ferocity, a battalion of whites, one hundred and fifty strong, at Kellogg’s Grove, sixteen miles to the east. After a fierce encounter, the Indians were routed, losing twenty braves killed, while the whites counted but ten.

At Plum River fort, Burr Oak, Sinsiniwa, and Blue Mound, hard skirmishes were likewise fought. Bloodshed, flame, pillage and torture swept the whole northern border. Black Hawk and his feathered warriors were on the loose.

CHAPTER 14

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A Thrilling Rescue

“YIP-EE!” yowled Pete Perkins, as he burst unceremoniously into the tent occupied by Bill Brown and the Gordon twins, in the camp at Dixon’s Ferry. “Watch out! I’m the bloodiest son of a wildcat alive!”

“Howdy, Pete,” smiled big Bill. “Ain’t seen you fer days. What’s doin’?”

“Drill, drill, drill,” complained the grizzled fellow, “nothin’ but drill. In the last week I vum I’ve marched nigh ez fur ez from Rock River ter the Pacific Ocean.”

“Well, set down an’ rest yer feet, you ol’ hoptoad. They prob’ly need it.”

“Is all that drill doing you any good?” grinned Tom Gordon. “Or are you just raising a crop of corns and bunions?”

“Say! I’m a tellin’ ye that our Sangamon County volunteers is gittin’ ter be the fanciest bunch o’ sojurs in this hull kemp. Ther ain’t a braver passel o’ volunteers—”

“Please, Pete, please,” begged Ben. “Easy on the bragging. Remember, I was at Stillman’s Run.”

Pete Perkin’s face turned a brick-red. He began to bristle. His enormous chest seemed to grow larger, and his buckskin jacket strained at the seams.

“Now, younker,” he protested, “our Sangamon County boys ain’t cut from the same cloth ez them white-livered skunks that run away. They wuz a disgrace ter the great state of Illinois.”

“Oh, your company looks like a bunch of fighters, sure enough,” praised the boy, afraid that he had hurt Pete’s feelings. “I saw you drilling this morning.”

“Same here,” put in Tom, “and who in thunder is that human string-bean you have for a captain? Gawkiest appearing chap I ever saw.”

“Name’s Abe Lincoln,” Perkins replied. “An’ he may be long an’ lean an’ gawky; but don’t let that fool yuh. Weighs over a hundred an’ eighty pound, an’ is hard ez nails. He’s the champeen wrestler o’ southern Illinois. Even throwed Jack Armstrong o’ Clary’s Grove.”

“By George, I’ve heard o’ Abe Lincoln,” stated Bill Brown. “Folks ’round the country say he’s strong as an ox.”

“Works in Offut’s grocery store,” continued Pete, “down in New Salem, best durned leetle town in Sangamon County. Abe’s quittin’ the store right soon, though. Aims ter run fer the state legislaitcher.”

“Well,” went on Tom, “I hope he turns out to be a better law-maker than he is drillmaster. What he doesn’t know about military tactics would fill a very large book.”

“Don’t worry ’bout Abe,” advised Perkins. “He’s got the stuff. The Salem boys ’lected him Cap’n; an’ take it from ol’ Pete, them home boys knows a real man when they sees one. Ther was tew candidates, Jack Kirkpatrick, the sawmill owner, an’ lean, lanky, homely Abe. When it come time ter take the vote, har’s how we done it. Jack an’ Abe stood facin’ the comp’ny; an’ each sojur walked out an’ stood behint the man he wanted fer Cap’n. Why shucks, Abe’s line wuz twice ez long ez Jack Kirkpatrick’s.”

“Hm!” observed Tom, “he must be quite a fellow, at that.”

“As the sayin’ goes,” put in Bill, “you never can tell from the looks of a toad how far he kin jump.”

“Abe had a thunderin’ hard time ter begin with,” chuckled Pete reminiscently. “The fust time he give an order ez Cap’n, a feller answered, “Go hop in the river!””

“Must be some hard eggs in your outfit,” interposed Ben. “It takes backbone to handle men like that.”

“Wall, some o’ the boys wuz a mite obstrep’rous. But Abe didn’t let ’em skeer him. He stuck tew it; although, ez yer say, he didn’t know no more ’bout drillin’ than a monkey duz ’bout playin’ the fiddle. One day he wuz drillin’ tew platoons an’ we come ter a narrer gate. Abe wuz in a pickle. He didn’t know the order that would get ’em inter a column, tew by tew, fer passin’ through the gate. So what did he do—this’ll make yuh split—but give a command, ‘Comp’ny fall out fer tew minnits; then fall in ag’in tother side o’ gate!’”

“I hear yer company has a pig fer a mascot, Pete,” announced Bill Brown, with a wide grin. “I’ve heard tell o’ most every kind of a mascot, but that takes the prize.”

“Well, siree,” said Perkins, sharing in the general laughter, “a young white sow j’ined our outfit ’bout the time we crossed the Sangamon County line; an’ she’s bin with us ever since. An’ say, she’s jest the smartest critter in the hull pig tribe. Marched with us, swum the cricks, waded the swamps, an’ foraged fer food. An’ what do yer reckon we do, ter keep her from bein’ stole?”

“Couldn’t guess,” said Ben.

“Why, the cook—this’ll give yuh cramps—greased the leetle animule. She slips loose from anybody what tries ter hold her. We’re savin’ her, ourselves, fer a nice, juicy roast-pig feed, when ol’ Black Hawk fin’ly gits it in the neck.”

It was only the next afternoon, following Pete Perkin’s visit, that Tom and Ben Gordon had a chance to observe big Abe Lincoln in action. It came about this way. The boys were fishing for suckers at the river bank, when Jim Martin hurried up, his face tense and pale from anxiety.

“Come quick!” he called. “They mean to hang Bright Star!”

“No?” exclaimed Ben, as if not crediting his ears.

“Who does?” cried Tom wrathfully, as the two flung aside their poles and raced toward the camp.

“A bunch of volunteers! They’re half-drunk an’ howlin’ for Injun blood!”

The anguished boys sped across the prairie at their utmost speed, heading for a clump of trees near the burned buildings, where they could see that a small knot of men had collected. As they got nearer, they could make out that the young Pottawattomee was standing beneath the spreading limb of a big elm, his hands tied securely behind his back and a noose about his neck. One of the dozen yelping whites, who ringed him around, was trying to throw the other end of the rope over the limb above.

“Git that rope up thar, yuh clumsy pie-face!” roared a pot-bellied, black-bearded volunteer. “I’m cur’ous tuh find out how fur this redskin’s neck’ll stretch.”

“Yah,” mumbled another thickly, “let’s git the red imp dancin’ on air.”

The three racing lads, panting heavily from their hard run, had now reached the ring of men. Pushing their way through the crowd, they quickly reached the foot of the tree. The white ruffian with the rope had by now succeeded in casting it over the big limb. With a sharp cry of anger Tom Gordon reached out, grabbed the line, and with a sudden jerk pulled it down again. He had scarcely done so, however, when a thickset fellow directly to his rear punched him hard in the back of the head, sending him half-senseless to the ground. Other strong hands clutched Ben and Jim Martin, holding them so fiercely that the two lads could barely move, strong and active as both of them were.

“Git that rope up thar ag’in!” bellowed the man with the pot-belly, his tone full of menace. “I’ll kick the brains outen the next feller that sticks his nose in!”

Before the man with the rope had a chance to move, a tall, gangling form shot through the crowd, and Captain Abe Lincoln jumped to the side of the young Bright Star, who all the while had stood rigid and expressionless, with the inborn stoicism of his race.

“Men,” said Lincoln, his face hard as flint, “you can’t do this! It’s nothing but murder!”

“Now, Abe,” cried the ruffian with the fat paunch, “don’t go buttin’ in har! I swore I’d kick the brains outen the next feller who stuck his nose in.”

“You won’t kick my brains out, Jeb Whipple!” replied Captain Abe, not batting an eyelash.

Whipple cast a calculating eye up and down Abe’s sinewy frame, and decided to promptly forget his threat.

“Now look har, Abe,” he whined, “we’re out on a Injun war-hunt, an’ we wants to kill Injuns.”

“Kill all the Sacs you want, Whipple. I’m with you there. But you won’t harm a hair of this young brave.”

At these resolute words of Lincoln, there came an angry muttering from several in the crowd. The sound of threats was heard.

“If any man wants to dispute with me,” grated Abe, “let him stand forth.”

“Aw, that ain’t fair, Abe,” protested Whipple. “Yer taller an’ stronger then we uns.”

“There’s a remedy for that,” was the sharp reply. “You may choose your weapons.”

There was some further argument; but it soon became apparent that the staunch words of the border captain were beginning to have their effect. The flaring tempers of the crowd were gradually cooling. Only Whipple and three or four other hot-heads remained savage and sullen, though not daring to accept Abe’s bold challenge.

Tom Gordon had by now dragged himself to his feet, still dizzy from the force of the foul blow he had been given.

“I say, Captain Lincoln,” he spoke up, “the Pottawattomee has a military pass. He’s an army scout.”

“What’s that, lad?” cried Abe. “Jimmy, I never thought of that. Of course, he would have.”

And when the pass was produced, duly signed by Major Whistler, commander at Fort Dearborn, the crest-fallen Jeb Whipple and his hard-bitten cronies lost little time in taking their leave; while big Abe Lincoln and the three boys quickly escorted the lucky Bright Star to the safety of the troopers’ tents.

By this time it was near sundown; so the horses were put out to grass. Then the troopers and scouts ate bread and fried salt pork and drank strong tea. A short hour after dark, they were ready for sleep. The evening was warm and humid, and many of the soldiers, deserting the stuffy tents, spread their blankets on the open prairie, where the grass was soft and thick.

Silence had barely descended on the slumbering encampment, when two army couriers, racing their ponies up the trail from the east, sped into view. They failed to heed the summons of the frightened sentinel, who had Indians very much on his mind. In his alarm, his musket fell from his nerveless grasp and discharged, cracking out on the quiet night air like a peal of thunder.

Suddenly the whole camp was in a bedlam. There was a scattering of gun-fire. Drums and fifes sounded; hoots and yells came from all sides. The picketed horses reared and struggled. Many broke away in terror, dashing helter-skelter through the tents, snorting and cavorting, stepping on the soldiers stretched out for the night’s rest. Company commanders ran wildly about, trying to form battle lines. Volunteers sprang dazedly to their feet, clutching their guns in drowsy terror. But nothing happened. The cause of the sudden alarm was soon found out. And the grumbling militia again settled down to sleep.

The two army couriers had come from Fort Dearborn, with dispatches for General Whiteside. The news they brought was not favorable.

General Winfield Scott, “Old Fuss and Feathers,” had set out from Fortress Monroe, in far-away Virginia, with nine companies of regulars and picked up a number of newly commissioned officers of the cadet class of 1832 at West Point. By way of the Hudson River and the Erie Canal, the detachment had then advanced to Buffalo on Lake Erie. Here the general leased four steamboats, among the first of that type of boat to appear on the Great Lakes. These new-fangled ships were the Sheldon Thompson, the Henry Clay, the William Penn and the Superior.

Scott put troops on the Thompson and the Clay, and supplies on the others, and put out up the lakes. Unluckily, cholera, a dread disease common at that early day, broke out on Scott’s ship, the Henry Clay. Making the port of Detroit, the General transferred his staff to the Sheldon Thompson and sent the West Pointers back home. A lot of desperately sick men had to be landed, while others, fearful of the deadly cholera, took the opportunity to desert into the neighboring forests. Two officers and fifty-three privates had already died of the malady. Scott messaged that he was forced to delay at Detroit until the cholera subsided, and he could secure replacements from the east.

To balance the loss of Scott’s troops, the Secretary of War at Washington ordered Colonel Zachery Taylor, later a Mexican War hero and President of the United States, to proceed north from St. Louis with a small force of regulars. These were to be supplemented by a fresh levy of Illinois volunteers, which Governor Reynolds was hastily assembling.

Two weeks later, when both the regulars under Taylor and the raw volunteers had arrived, there was a total force of four thousand men at the ferry. General Henry Atkinson, U. S. Regulars, was now sent to take command of this formidable array, his rank as a regular army general giving him precedence over the redoubtable Sam Whiteside, who was only a Brigadier-General of volunteers.

CHAPTER 15

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Rock River Camp

“GOTTA have the gunsmith take a look at this ol’ piece o’ mine,” declared Pete Perkins, coming up with an ancient flintlock rifle on his shoulder. “The plaguey screw won’t grip the flint hard ’nuff ter make it strike fire, an’ it’d be jest orful ter have my flint drap when I’m pullin’ trigger on a red Injun.”

“It would be downright disconcertin’,” agreed Bill Brown.

“An’ take a peek at them mocc’sins,” went on Pete, lifting up a foot to expose the sole. “Bottoms wore ez thin ez tissue paper, with all this durned drillin’. What’s more, that’s my third pair since j’inin’ the volunteers.”

“Why don’t you get the quartermaster to issue you a pair of leather boots?” Ben Gordon proposed.

“Never owned but one pair in my life. Couldn’t git used ter ’em. They wore me ’leven y’ars. Course I never put ’em on, if I could help it, an’ I most ginerally could.”

“I’m afeared this army life is gittin’ you down, Pete,” chided Bill.

“Guess what, Pete,” broke in Tom Gordon, who had sauntered up.

“Now what, younker? Be the dad-busted war over?”

“Hardly think so. But I want to tell you that there’s a fresh bunch of volunteers in from Shawneetown, way down on the Ohio River.”

“Fierce bunch, them Shawneetown boys,” opined Pete, shaking his head grimly. “Claim ter be half man an’ half alligator.”

“Well, they’ve got a chap named Mike Mitchell who they say is the rip-roaringest wrestler to ever tread the prairies.”

“Oh, they says so, do they?” snorted old Pete, his eyes shooting fire. “Mus’ be they ain’t never heared tell o’ Sangamon’s Abe Lincoln.”

“Yes, they have, Pete. That’s just it. They’re sayin’ that this man Mitchell can throw Abe half-way across Rock River.”

“Humph!” growled the frontiersman, “that I gotta see.”

“Reckon Mitchell’s bitin’ off more’n he kin chaw, Pete?” asked Bill Brown.

“Yep, big Abe ’ll do him up in three shakes of a sheep’s tail. Wall, I’d better toddle along an’ hit the hay. If thar’s anthin’ in the wide world that Pete Perkins hates, it’s gittin’ out o’ bed in the mornin’. An’ some folks say he ain’t wuth much arter he’s out, anyhow.”

The next morning, several of the Shawneetown volunteers circulated among the Sangamon County militia, offering bets that Lincoln couldn’t throw their man, Mitchell.

“We’ve sized up this long-geared Abe feller,” they scoffed, “an’ he jest ain’t got the gimp. Big Mike ’ll bust him smack in two.”

The Sangamon boys promptly got their dander up, and the wagers ran high, from money to jackknives. Pete Perkins bet everything he had, except his shirt and pants.

The match was set for afternoon at the river bank by the ferry. There had been a lot of talk. Interest was at a fever pitch, so quite a crowd collected to see how the encounter would turn out.

The Shawneetown entry, Mike Mitchell, was short and stocky in build, with a thick chest and the muscle haunches of a wild steer. His aim from the first was to get in close with Abe, where he would have the advantage of his brute strength.

But canny, cool-headed Abe was on to his game. He held off Mitchell’s clumsy rushes with his sinewy, pole-like arms. Gradually he wore down his strength, got him puffing and wheezing and out of temper. Mitchell then fouled Abe by stamping on his right foot and instep with his sharp boot heel. At this low trick, the usually placid Lincoln suddenly flew off the handle. He leaped forward, lifted his opponent up by the throat and completely off the ground. Then he shook him like a rag, and, after a moment, slammed him to a hard fall flat on his back.

As Mitchell lay on the ground, the proud boasts of his followers dragging in the dust with him, some of the Shawneetown gang, who were a hard set, started to run at Lincoln with hot threats on their lips. Big Abe leaped nimbly to one side, and put his back up against a broad-trunked tree.

“Listen, you chicken-hearts,” he hooted, “I can whip the whole pack of you, if you give me ten minutes between fights!”

Two of the Shawneetown men surged menacingly forward, fists clenched; but Mike Mitchell jumped to his feet and shoved them away. Then he shook Lincoln’s hand.

“Lay off, boys!” he commanded. “Linkin beat me fair an’ square. He’s got sand in his craw. He’s the best feller in a rasslin’ match I ever seed.”

The big bout being over, the four scouts returned straightway to their tents, highly pleased at the victory of Captain Abe. They had been there only a few moments, however, when an orderly hurried up with a message from General Atkinson, requesting them to proceed at once to his headquarters, which he had established in a big wall-tent, about a quarter-mile up river.

At Atkinson’s tent, the scouts, somewhat to their surprise, found the officer alone with a pair of dusky Indians. It was apparent, right off, that these strange braves were known to the young Pottawattomee, Bright Star, for he immediately engaged them in an animated conversation. From this, the others correctly surmised that the savage visitors were Pottawattomees, too.

“I want your young Indian companion to interpret for me with these two Pottawattomee chiefs, who are friendly to the whites,” said Atkinson, a steely-eyed man of spare build and nervous, jerky manners. “They have only a very meager store of English; but I’ve been able to make out that they bring news of some sort regarding the movements of the Sac Chieftain, Black Hawk. Their tidings may possibly be of some importance.”

Young Bright Star, on being apprised of the general’s wish, introduced the Indian sachems as Maunk-suck, or Big Foot, and Running Elk. Both savages were tall and gaunt of figure. Big Foot had a hideous scar running diagonally across his face, memento of a bygone brawl with the Sacs, a fact which helped explain his undying animosity toward them.

“What brings you to the lodge of White Beaver?” asked Bright Star, White Beaver being the name which the Indians of the region had bestowed on General Atkinson.

“Ugh!” rasped Big Foot, with a fierce grimace, “the madcap Sac, Black Hawk, has departed from his camp above Sycamore Creek.”

“Which way has he gone?”

“To the north.”

“Why so, oh Maunk-suck?”

“He fears the great army of White Beaver.”

“Ho! and whither is he bound?”

“The big swamps of Koshkonong, by the headwaters of Rock River, where Black Hawk thinks the Big Knives cannot find him.”

“Ho!” commended Bright Star, “the White Beaver gives thanks for your words. He orders that one blanket, one knife, three pounds of tobacco, one piece of blue cloth and one piece of red cloth be given to each of you. He wishes you well on your homeward journey.”

“Hm!” mused Atkinson, when the two towering, raw-boned chiefs had left the tent, “the great marshes of Koshkonong! That is bad, very bad.”

“It ain’t good,” assented Bill Brown grimly.

“I once skirted those swampy fastnesses, two years ago on a trip into the Wisconsin forests,” went on Atkinson. “I can very well see where the wily Black Hawk would consider them an impregnable position.”

“It’ll be a hard job, General,” nodded Bill, “to root the Injuns out o’ them orful bogs.”

“Well, that will be all for now, men,” declared Atkinson, suddenly popping to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, “but I have something in mind that may develop into a scouting trip for the four of you. Brown, you drop back in the morning, say about ten o’clock. If I make up my mind about the matter, I’ll give you definite instructions at that time.”

This news of an impending scouting foray was most welcome to the four. Not only the three whites were weary of the long stay at Dixon’s Ferry; but even Bright Star, possessed of the interminable patience of his race, was beginning to show signs of restlessness.

Accordingly, at mid-morning, right on the dot, Bill Brown took off again for Atkinson’s headquarters. He didn’t get back until nearly noon. Upon his return, he found Ben and Tom Gordon sitting outside their tent, fairly chewing their nails in suspense. The hawk-eyed Bright Star stood at one side, skillfully flipping his gleaming knife at a wooden tent-peg.

“Git yer travelin’ bags packed, boys,” chuckled the stalwart scout, as he approached.

“You aren’t spoofin’, Bill?” answered Ben suspiciously.

“No, I ain’t,” responded Brown, stretching his powerful frame on the soft turf. “That’s straight from the shoulder.”

“Whoopee!” yelled Tom; and the Pottawattomee raised a ringing war-cry that made several soldiers pop out of their nearby tents like scared gophers.

“Durn you, chief,” howled one of them, “you scared me outen seven years growth! Save that dingbusted war-whoop of yourn fer the pesky Sacs.”

“I spent more’n an hour with the White Beaver,” began Bill, with a twinkle in his eye. “You see, I rigged out a plan fer him to end the Sac war.”

“Yah!” scoffed Tom, “Bill Brown, greatest military strategist since Napoleon.”

“Well, you doutin’ Thomases, let’s put it thisaway, then,” continued the scout. “The White Beaver an’ me got our heads together an’ cooked up a scheme to bag ol’ Black Hawk fer keeps.”

“How?” burst out Ben.

“Where do we come in?” Tom wanted to know.

“Now jest a minnit. Let me git organized.”

He opened his shirt at the throat, reached in his pocket, pulled out a big bandanna handkerchief, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. It was a scorching-hot June day, warmest of the summer thus far.

“The four of us start nor’west fer the lead diggin’s tomorrer mornin’,” he then stated, his tone very sober and his face very serious.

“Northwest to the lead diggings!” remonstrated Tom. “Why, I thought Black Hawk was heading northeast for the Koshkonong Swamps?”

“Yah,” gloomed Ben, “we want to be in on the big chase.”

“You will be,” Bill Brown reassured them.

“Don’t look much like it,” said Tom grumpily.

“Now don’t git in a lather. Here’s what the White Beaver has in mind. He’s sendin’ us into the Wisconsin country to hunt up Colonel Dodge.”

“Colonel Dodge!” blurted Ben. “Never heard of him.”

“Well, you will, an’ plenty! I met him more’n once up in those parts. He’s a big, tall handsome gent, strong of body an’ brain. Biggest operator in the Wisconsin lead diggin’s.”

“Well, just what are we supposed to do?” snorted Tom. “Fetch down a horse-back load of lead bullets?”

“Wait!” broke in Bright Star reprovingly. “The anxious fox catches no rabbits.”

“It’s this-a-way,” continued Brown, with an approving nod in the direction of the young Pottawattomee. “’Bout ten days ago, Dodge sent a runner to see the White Beaver. Told the Beaver that he was collectin’ a force o’ mounted rangers. Now do you begin to savvy?”

“Oh, we’re to join the rangers?” Ben exclaimed.

“Right; but mainly we’re to deliver a dispatch to Dodge from the Beaver, directin’ the Colonel to head east immejutly, toward Koshkonong Swamp. Meantime, White Beaver ’ll work north from the ferry here. He aims to leave in jest three days, on June 27th.”

“And the two forces will unite at Koshkonong,” conjectured Tom, a bright gleam in his eye, “and crush the Sacs between them.”

“That’s the plan,” averred Bill, “also the big reason why we got to reach Colonel Dodge in a mighty hurry, an’ git him started east to jine with White Beaver. So roll into yer blankets early, lads, ’cause we’re off at the peep o’ dawn.”

CHAPTER 16

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Scouts of the Prairie

THE weather continued warm and dry, and by late afternoon of the second day the four, fast-traveling scouts had arrived at Kellogg’s Grove, a tiny hamlet forty-five miles to the northwest of Dixon’s Ferry. Here they talked with several settlers who had taken part some weeks earlier in the bloody skirmish with Black Hawk’s prowling braves. They also visited the graves of the ten unfortunate whites who had been shot down and scalped in the melee.

“But we kilt more’n a score o’ the Hawk’s men,” declared a survivor grimly. “We tuk two lives fer one.”

Camp was made for the night in a sheltered opening in the timber. The dry grass that littered the campsite made excellent tinder. It was lighted by sparks from the flint, and fed by broken branches and bits of light wood. Soon there shot up a cheerful flame. Bill Brown, who was a veteran axe-man, proceeded to fell a small dead tree, to serve in setting up the little tent, which they had brought along on their one pack-horse. Bright Star went to the nearby creek to get water.

Otherwise, they were traveling light, carrying on the pack-horse, in addition to the tent, only a tea-kettle, a water bucket, and some extra ammunition; while each rider toted his own tin cup and hunting knife. The knife was a handy article at meal time. Its first duty was to stir the tea, and secondly to cut the ham and bread. The meal being finished, the utensils were rinsed in hot water and set aside till morning. A wisp of dry grass was employed to wipe the knife before returning the blade to its sheath.

Afterwards, they sat before the tent until dark, chuckling at the awkward movements of the spanceled horses, as they hobbled from one spot to another in search of tender pasturage.

At the first indication of daylight, following a night of refreshing slumber, the whites were aroused by the lusty shout of Bright Star, who had stood the last watch.

“Ho! ho!” he yelled.

The pale-faces jumped up abruptly from their blankets. The fire, which had been allowed to die down in the evening, was soon nursed into a hot flame. The horses were caught and saddled, and the tent taken down, while breakfast, similar to the meal of the evening before, was being prepared. Finishing with that, they once more rinsed kettles and cups, loaded the pack-horse and tied their cups to their own saddle-bows. Then they quickly mounted and rode away, leaving behind only a heap of feebly smoking ashes to tell of their visit.

They traveled steadily the live-long day, barely making a halt at noon to bait their horses and refresh themselves with a cold lunch. They were now getting among the branches of the Pecatonica, a stream which flowed eastward to feed the larger Rock River. The country had lost its prairie character and become rough and broken. But the four sped on, sometimes down open ravines, again through narrow defiles, where they were hard put to dodge the projecting and interwoven branches.

The next morning, the nature of the landscape remained much the same. Their progress, however, was made miserable by a light, but steady, rain that set in soon after daylight. Their only recourse was to wrap their blankets about their shoulders, bend low in their saddles and forge grimly onward. Not so much as a single human habitation was seen. Neither Indian lodge nor white cabin broke the unending solitude. It was the vast, primeval wilderness, unspoiled as the day of Creation.

Suddenly however, about mid-day, a glad shout came from Bill Brown, who was leading the little procession.

“Hooray, boys!” he cried, “a fence, a fence!”

With new life in their wet, tired bodies they spurred on. Presently the crowing of a cock saluted their ears; and following the rail fence down a slope they came upon a group of log cabins, low, shabby and unpromising; but a welcome shelter from the pelting rain that was now driving in from the northeast with increasing violence.

“What place is this?” called Brown, to a man who came out from one of the cabins.

“Hamilton’s Diggings,” was the reply; and with the ready hospitality of the border he stepped forward at once to guide them to a shed, where he assisted in putting up their horses.

Afterward, he took them to the largest and most comfortable looking of the cabins. A bright little fire was burning in the fireplace, and they were cheered by its grateful warmth, chilled as they were from their long hours in the drizzling rain. Their guide then left them, saying that he would summon their host.

Forthwith, a man of medium stature, stout and well-built, with abrupt, active movements, entered the cabin, greeting them in the most agreeable manner.

“I am Captain William S. Hamilton,” said he, “proprietor of these diggings. I am happy to offer you the shelter of my cabins.”

Captain Hamilton, as they later learned, was one of the younger sons of Alexander Hamilton, the famous American statesman, who was killed in a duel by Aaron Burr in July, 1804. The Captain had spent his boyhood at “The Grange,” country-seat of his father, eight miles up the Hudson River from New York City. After spending two years at West Point, he had quit that institution in 1817; and had come into the Illinois country as a surveyor. Some years later, he had moved north to Wisconsin Territory to his present abode, where he was operating a large lead mine.

“You say you are scouts from General Atkinson’s camp at Dixon’s Ferry,” he went on, after he had learned their identity. “Hm! How goes the war with Black Hawk?”

“The Hawk is pullin’ in his horns,” replied Bill Brown. “He’s retreatin’ north into the big Koshkonong Swamps.”

“Great guns! into Wisconsin Territory?”

“Yep, but the White Beaver is on his trail.”

“What forces has he?”

“A small batch o’ U. S. Reg’lars, an’ nigh onto three thousand Illinois volunteers.”

“If those Illinois militia don’t fight any better than they did at Stillman’s Run,” observed Hamilton drily, “the Hawk is pretty safe.”

“Oh, them Illinois fellers ’ll fight a heap better this time,” Brown assured him. “They’re achin’ fer another crack at the Hawk, so’s they kin redeem ther good name.”

“They’ll have to step lively,” stated Hamilton, “if they aim to keep up with Dodge’s Rangers. There’s a bunch of first-class Indian fighters.”

“You know of the rangers?” interrupted Ben Gordon.

“Know of them, lad,” smiled their host, “why, I’m one of Colonel Dodge’s staff.”

“One of Dodge’s staff, eh?” repeated Bill Brown, picking up his ears. “That bein’ the case, Cap’n, you’d better start shinin’ up yer sword. Yer goin’ to have work to do.”

“Hm! You arouse my curiosity.”

“What’s more,” the big scout continued, “yer jest the man we’re lookin’ fer. Whar kin we locate Colonel Dodge?”

“Colonel Dodge?”

“Yep, we bear important dispatches fer him, from General Atkinson.”

“Aha! Just as I was beginning to suspect. Well, he is at Dodgeville, some forty miles north of here. Like myself, he is in the lead-mining business.”

“Forty mile, you say,” remarked Brown. “Trail fair to middlin’, I s’pose?”

“Not too bad. And say, if you’ll wait till morning, I’ll guide you up there. If we get an early start, we can make it in one day.”

At late afternoon the rain abated, and the sky quickly cleared. A bright, warm sun shone down on a dripping world. The green of tree, bush and grass was fresh and vivid, after the life-giving moisture.

“How would you like to visit my lead mine, boys?” spoke up Captain Hamilton. “It’ll serve to pass the time.”

As he led them along the path, toward the mine, he explained that the Wisconsin lead mining district, rolling away westward for sixty miles to the Mississippi River, had been opened up by the whites only during the last few years. When Americans first entered the region, they discovered traces of ancient shallow diggings, and found Indians still engaged in scooping out lead ore from “near the grass roots,” using stone picks, bone spades, wooden shovels, and old gun barrels for crowbars. The savages broke up rocks by heating them, and then pouring on cold water. They smelted the ore in primitive, hopper-like pits, dug on hill slopes.

“Here is my mine,” their guide said, as they reached the top of a low hill.

At this place a shaft, like an ordinary well in appearance, had been sunk into a thick vein of lead ore that lay directly below. Over the five-foot opening of the shaft was a two-handed well crank or windlass, fixed upon stout posts firmly planted in the ground on either side. On this windlass ran a rope of great strength and length, to which was attached a heavy wooden bucket.

“Hop in that tub, boys, two at a time,” Hamilton directed, “and we’ll drop you down in a jiffy.”

Ben and Tom Gordon took the first ride. Two powerful miners manned the cranks, and they steadily descended into the murky depths. They could readily reach out and touch the rocky walls, which had been timbered in places to prevent caving.

“Don’t think I’d care much to be a miner,” said Ben dubiously, as the patch of light at the shaft mouth faded from view above them.

At the bottom of the hole, they found two tunnels extending out in opposite directions along the course of the vein. Pillars of rock had been left at intervals along these passages to support the roof. Stalwart miners were industriously at work, hacking at the rocky walls with shovel, pick, gad and hand drill.

“When the goin’ gits too hard, we use blastin’ powder,” one of them said.

The toiling miners wore heavy shoes, and warm felt hats were on their heads. Over their deerskin garments they had “wamuses” (jackets) and overalls made of bed-ticking. For lighting they used wax candles set in gobs of gummy clay, which seemed to stick to the rock walls at any and all angles. Wheelbarrows were employed to take the crude ore to the foot of the shaft for hoisting to the surface.

Presently the two boys rode the bucket to the top again; and after Bill Brown and Bright Star had had their turn, they all strode off with Hamilton to view a smelter. This proved to be a rock structure, built against a hillside. Large oak logs, about four feet long, rested on ledges near the bottom of this smelting furnace. On top of these the crude ore was piled. Other logs were then packed around, top and sides, completely enclosing the mineral.

“It takes about twenty-four hours of steady firing to smelt out the lead,” their host explained. “As fast as the hot lead flows out from the door at the bottom of the furnace, we ladle it with metal dippers into iron pig lead moulds.”

“Is this quite a rich vein?” asked Tom Gordon.

“Just average,” Hamilton replied. “Has a normal yield of about one hundred fifty pounds per worker each day. But let me tell you about a really rich vein! Old John Bonner over at Hazel Green blundered onto an ancient Indian diggings, back in 1824. A few feet down he struck “block mineral.” Imagine it, pure lead in solid chunks.”

The Colonel’s face shone with enthusiasm; and his deep voice trembled with excitement, as he continued:

“The very first day Bonner took out seventeen thousand pounds, and in a short time had one hundred thousand pounds piled on the bank near his shaft. Great Jupiter, what a find!”

CHAPTER 17

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With Dodge’s Rangers

WHEN Colonel Dodge had examined the dispatches brought up from General Atkinson at Dixon’s Ferry by the four scouts, he at once sent out fast riders far and wide, throughout the surrounding lead district, summoning his frontier rangers to rendezvous at Hamilton’s Diggings within forty-eight hours.

These men, gathered from the mines and fields, and numbering slightly more than two hundred, were a free-and-easy set of dare-devils, imbued with the spirit of adventure and an intense hatred of the Indian race. While disciplined to the extent of always obeying orders when sent into the teeth of danger, they swung through the country with little regard to the rules of the military manual, and presented a striking contrast to the habits and appearance of the regulars.

“Yes, they look like a rough lot,” observed Dodge, “but they’ll fight like demons, and that’s what counts. You should have seen them at our first rendezvous, early in May. They came in all manner of form. Some with hats and some without; some had shirts on, and some hadn’t; and armed with all sorts of weapons from sticks upward. As to maneuvers and lines of battle, they knew nothing.”

By the evening of the 29th of June, the rendezvous of the Wisconsin rangers was complete. Also, much to Dodge’s satisfaction, Alec Posey, a famous frontier fighter, had come up from Kellogg’s Grove with thirty men; while Captain Jack Stephenson had raced into camp that afternoon with his company of fifty hardy lead-miners, from the renowned Galena Diggings to the southwest. All told, Dodge’s squadron now numbered about three hundred.

On the morning of the thirtieth, the gallant little detachment set off to the northeast. Travel the first day was slow, as they met with two deep streams. Horses had to be swum across and baggage rafted over, all of which took a deal of time and hard labor. It was, therefore, the evening of the second day before the horsemen reached the celebrated Blue Mounds, two heavily wooded peaks of great beauty, which were a landmark for travelers for miles around. Camp was made in an open grove at the foot of these lofty hills.

“We are now only twenty miles from the Four Lakes,” stated Dodge.[B]

[B] Between two of these lakes, Mendota and Monona, is now situated the city of Madison, capital of Wisconsin.

“’Bout four years ago, on a trappin’ trip,” declared Bill Brown, “I camped on high ground betwixt two o’ them lakes. Purtiest bodies o’ water I ever clapped eyes on.”

“They are, indeed, unrivaled for beauty,” nodded the Colonel.

“There was an Injun village nearby, on the lake bank, as I recall it,” went on Brown.

“It’s still there,” asserted Dodge. “Winnebago village of the noted chief, White Crow.”

“That’s it, Colonel. I ’member the White Crow real plain. He’d lost one eye in a brawl. Fer that reason he bore the Injun name of Kaukishkaka (The Blind).”

“The Crow has a checkered history in this present Sac war,” averred Dodge, with a dubious shake of the head.

“I thought he was a friend of the whites,” interposed Tom Gordon. “Wasn’t he the chief who got Black Hawk to ransom the two white girls taken captive at Davis Farm?”

“Yes,” admitted the officer, “it is true that the Crow was the go-between in recovering the two Hall sisters from the Sacs. He played a splendid role in that affair. But since that time, his actions and words have been increasingly suspicious. Our spies now report that he is trying his level best to deliver the Winnebagoes into an alliance with Black Hawk.”

“Thunderation!” said Brown, “let’s hope that the Winnebagoes don’t take up the bloody hatchet.”

“It would present us with a terrible problem,” shuddered Dodge. “I think that the Crow and the other Winnebago chiefs could put at least three hundred hard-riding braves in the saddle.”

The route now led due east from the Blue Mounds, over a rolling prairie country. The grassy hollows were wet from the recent rains, offering slippery footing for the horses. Loud guffaws arose, as several awkward riders were pitched off their mounts. Sometimes the elevations were covered with thickets, in which the dogs that followed the detachment would now and then rouse up one or more deer. The first long bound of the startled animal was the signal for a hot chase. Several times the dogs caught up with the fleeing beasts, but were never strong enough to pull them down.

Camp, at late afternoon, was pitched in a glade that ran down to the shore of the most southerly of the Four Lakes, known to the whites as the First Lake. The Winnebagoes called it Ke-gon-sa.

“I think,” declared Colonel Dodge worriedly, “that I will make a visit to the village of White Crow. The matter of the Crow and his nervous Winnebagoes has been on my mind all day. Perhaps a solemn talk with the chief will make him more firm in keeping his peace pact with us.”

“The Crow’s village is at the head of Fourth Lake, isn’t it?” queried Captain Hamilton.

“Yes, only an hour’s trip. There’s a well-beaten Indian trail connecting all the lakes.”

To accompany him on the mission, Dodge named Bill Brown, Tom and Ben Gordon, Bright Star, the Pottawattomee, who knew some Winnebago tongue, and six of the stoutest and strongest of his own rangers. After three-quarters of an hour of easy travel—for the trail was fully as good as the Colonel had prophesied—the party of horsemen reached the foot of the Fourth Lake. Up its timbered western bank they made their way, skirting several patches of bog that rimmed the water at various inlets.

After passing the last of these bogs, they came to a place where the trail followed the high, sheer bank very closely for an interval. A short distance ahead, on a point known as Fox’s Head, they could see the village of the famed White Crow. Suddenly, Bright Star, who was riding at the rear of the column with the other scouts, drew rein on his pony and pointed out into the lake. A canoe, with three paddlers, was shooting down the surface, heading south, a long quarter of a mile away.

“Prairie Wolf!” asserted the keen-eyed young brave.

“No?” barked Tom Gordon incredulously.

“By golly, it looks like the Wolf,” nodded Bill, after a swift, but searching, look.

“Wonder who’s with him?” spoke up Ben, voicing the silent thoughts of the others.

“One pale-face, one redman,” Bright Star declared, gazing lakeward with renewed intensity, as the bark-canoe sped away down the shimmering water.

“That scoundrel of a Fagan, I’ll bet a million!” burst out Tom.

Before the surprised scouts had much further chance to talk over this unexpected glimpse of the burly Sac chief and the white renegade, the party came to the edge of the Winnebago village. And a striking sight it was, in the soft rays of the setting sun! The matted lodges, with the blue smoke curling from their tops—the trees and shrubs a radiant green—the lake, at the very door, glinting and sparkling—the savages, in their wild, colorful raiment, all added up to make a picture that Tom and Ben Gordon never forgot.

As the horsemen came in among the lodges, a number of squaws and half-naked, coppery urchins ran out to greet them, shouting:

“Hee-nee-karray-kay-noo?” (how do you do?)

Several braves now made their appearance, and, after some brisk palaver on the part of Bright Star, showed the visitors to the habitation of the White Crow, the largest and finest lodge in the village, as befitted his rank of head Chieftain. The Colonel, Captain Hamilton, and the four scouts bent low and went into the shelter, while the six rangers remained outside, more or less as a guard; although they made a studied effort not to give the Winnebagoes the least idea that they were suspicious of them.

“Ho! ho!” the White Crow said, in his guttural voice.

“Ho, Kaukishkaka!” responded Dodge affably.

“What brings you to my village, chief of the Big Knives?” the Crow queried, as Bright Star translated for the benefit of the whites.

“Am I not welcome?”

“Yes, yes! the Crow loves the chief of the Big Knives as a brother.”

Colonel Dodge was silent for a half-moment. The effusive words of the Winnebago raised a slight doubt in his mind. Likewise, he thought that he noted a fleeting, sardonic gleam in the Crow’s one, gleaming eye.

“That is good,” he at length replied, brushing away his suspicions. “It is my hope that it will always be so. But there is one misguided chief who has taken the warpath against the whites. He is the Sac, Black-Hawk.”

“Ugh!” grunted the Grow. “The Hawk is a madman and a fool.”

“Aye, that he is. He cannot withstand the might of the pale-face soldiers, who are as many as the sands of the lake-shore, and bold as panthers.”

“Will the pale-face soldiers fight?”

“Of course the pale-face soldiers will fight, Kaukishkaka,” rejoined Dodge sternly. “Why should you ask that?”

“The whites did not fight on the banks of the Sycamore. They ran like rabbits. The Sacs say that the whites will not fight. They are a soft-shelled breed. When the spear is put to them, they will quack like ducks.”

“I will soon show Black Hawk,” responded Dodge testily, “that my rangers are not of the soft-shelled breed.”

“Your words are good to my ears. The Black Hawk is an evil one. I spurn him.”

“Will you help us?” invited the officer.

“Your party of horsemen is small,” said the Crow, evading the question by looking out the lodge door at the six waiting rangers.

“No, no, chief. I have three hundred others at Ke-gon-sa.”

“Ho, ho!” exclaimed the Winnebago, simulating surprise; although, in truth, his scouts had that very morning brought him word of the march of the rangers from Blue Mounds.

“Do you know the hiding-place of the Hawk?” asked the Colonel, taking a different tack.

“My spies tell, oh Big Knife, that the Sac is lurking in the Koshkonong Swamp.”

“I had heard so. But the swamps of the Koshkonong are very big. It is like hunting for an arrow-head in yonder forest. Can you lead us to the place?”

“The place is known to me, oh Big Knife.”

“But will you take us there, Kaukishkaka? The hour of darkness grows near. I must have your answer.”

“Oh chief of the Big Knives,” responded the Crow, rising majestically to his feet, “your fair words have won my heart. Our friendship will endure forever. When the sun comes again, I will be at your camp, together with two others of my trusted braves. We will lead you to the hiding-place of the accursed Sac.”

“Good!” cried Dodge, his tone one of utmost elation; for his earlier suspicions had vanished from his mind. He was now convinced that the White Crow would be a faithful ally.

As the little band of whites headed back for the camp by the First Lake, there was silence for some miles. Colonel Dodge rode at the head of the column, evidently rapt in thought. But his face was serene, and it was clear to all that he was well pleased with the parting words of the Winnebago, White Crow.

“Colonel,” spoke up Bill Brown, abruptly spurring his horse to the officer’s side, “I kin see that you set great store on the Crow’s promise.”

“I do, Brown; and why not?”

“I think he’s lyin’.”

“Pshaw, man! His words had the ring of truth.”

“I still maintain that he’s lyin’, sir.”

“Advance your reasons,” demanded Dodge fretfully, “that is, if you have any.”

“It’s this-a-way, Colonel. Jest afore we reached the Crow’s village, we passed a bark-canoe, headin’ south down the lake.”

“Hm! I did notice it. But what about it? Canoes are a common sight in the Indian country.”

“Mebbe so, but that canoe didn’t have no common paddlers in it.”

“What do you mean, Brown? Speak up! who were they?”

“One of ’em was a white renegade, Fagan by name, a deserter from Fort Dearborn, and—”

“A renegade deserter! Tarnation! Let me get hands on the dirty traitor and I’ll introduce him posthaste to a noose and a tree limb.”

“’Nother one, Colonel, was the important Sac chief, Prairie Wolf. The third, from his looks, was a Sac, too.”

“Hm!” mused Dodge, wrinkling his brow perplexedly, “that is, indeed, a strange circumstance. You think, I suppose, that the Sacs had just left the Winnebago village?”

“Looked a heap like it.”

“What was their purpose?”

“I figger they was bearin’ a message from Black Hawk to White Crow. The two chiefs is in cahoots, sure as anythin’.”

“But how do you explain the Crow’s friendly offer to lead us to the Hawk’s hiding-place?” broke in Captain Hamilton. “That makes your suspicions look rather silly.”

“The ol’ Crow’s jest tryin’ to pull the wool over our eyes,” warned Brown ominously. “Wait an’ see! He’s got some sly trick up his sleeve.”

“Well, it could be,” admitted Dodge ruefully. “If so, we’ll give the treacherous rascal plenty of rope, and let him hang himself.”

CHAPTER 18

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White Crow’s Treachery

SOON after sunrise, as he had indicated, White Crow made his appearance at Dodge’s camp, accompanied by two of his foremost braves, both of them strong, sinewy warriors, armed with knife, hatchet and musket.

“It is good to see you, Kaukishkaka,” the Colonel cordially saluted them, through his mouthpiece, the young Pottawattomee. “You have kept your promise.”

“The White Crow does not speak with a forked tongue,” replied the Winnebago smoothly.

“Which way lies the trail?” went on Dodge, coming abruptly to the problem at hand. “My rangers are eager to strike the scent of the Sacs.”

“Straight toward the rising sun!” announced the Crow, pointing a bony finger eastward.

“Let us start at once!”

At Dodge’s command, the stirring notes of the trumpet sounded on the quiet morning air. Three hundred men quickly mounted and filed out on the trail, behind their coppery guides. As the Crow had stated, the path led straight to the east; and the trail, for some miles, was good, over an open, gently rolling country, interspersed here and there with groves of hardwood. The rangers, in a rather close group, followed the Indians, all of them looking attentively as they rode to saddle and girth, musket, pistol and knife.

For two days, travel was unbroken and uneventful. Camp was made that second night at a place where the aspect of the country was beginning to change. Vast marshlands could be seen ahead, from the summit of the low hill where the stop was ordered.

“Looks like we’re getting into the great swamps of the Koshkonong,” ventured Tom Gordon, as he appraised the region to the east.

“That we are, lad,” nodded Bill Brown. “From here to the Big Rapids o’ Rock River, much o’ the goin’ ’ll be slow an’ treach’rous.”

“Big Rapids of Rock River?” questioned Colonel Dodge surprisedly. “You seem to have an idea, Brown, just where we are heading.”

“I reckon I have, Colonel.”

“You’ve traversed this trail before?”

“Yep, goin’ from the Four Lakes to Mil-wa-ke.”

“And the swamps are very bad?”

“Powerful bad. Wust I ’bout ever seed.”

“To make it tougher,” pondered the officer, “this has been a wet year. Perhaps that confounded Crow is figuring to lure us into some impassable bog, where the Sac snakes can swallow us at leisure.”

“I’m afeared so, Colonel. The Injuns know this swamp country like you know the palm o’ yer hand. Ther’s many a likely place fer ambush.”

Dodge was silent for a few moments, watching the making of the camp. He called a subordinate and gave orders that double the usual number of sentinels be posted.

“Furthermore,” he said, gritting his big, white teeth, “I’m sending scouts ahead of the column, several miles ahead, unbeknown, of course, to the White Crow and his skins.”

“What the Crow don’t know, won’t hurt him,” grunted Bill.

“The Crow looks uncommon sharp, for all his one eye,” observed Ben Gordon. “He may notice that scouts are missing from the troop.”

“That’s so, boy,” Dodge admitted. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

“A couple o’ scouts ’ll do the trick, Colonel,” stated Brown, “an’ two ain’t apt to be missed. I volunteer fer one.”

“Good! I had you in mind.”

“Count me in,” added Tom Gordon quickly.

“Stout lad! This is going to be dangerous work.”

“That lets me out,” protested Ben.

“Me go!” chimed in Bright Star, nodding vigorously.

“No, two ’ll be enough, as Bill says. Anyway, I need the young chief at my side, for daily talks with the Crow. That Winnebago gibberish is all Greek to me. Then too, he is the only other redskin in camp, and the Crow’s men would be sure to note his absence.”

“Mebbe Ben is right,” mused Bill. “Even with three hundred men in the troop, the canny Crow may l’arn that Tom an’ me is away; an’ git to fussin’ ’bout it.”

“If he does,” declared Dodge, “I’ll have a story for him that you’ve gone southeast, to try to make contact with Atkinson’s forces.”

“That’s a corkin’ good ideer, Colonel,” nodded Bill. “It’ll fool ol’ one-eye good an’ proper. Matter o’ fack, the White Beaver can’t be too fer off. He was due to leave Dixon’s Ferry a week ago.”

“We start tonight, sir?” asked Tom.

“By all means, if possible.”

“Reckon we kin,” opined Brown, gazing up at the clear, summer sky. “We’ll travel by starshine. Totherwise, it’d be too risky pokin’ ’round in them orful bogs come dark. Ther’s muck out yonder that’ll suck a man out o’ sight in three jerks of a lamb’s tail.”

“Whew!” exclaimed Dodge, “it’ll be a terrific chore getting the rangers through. The horses ’ll be belly-deep in mud half the time. We’ll be lucky to make five miles a day.”

At late evening, Bill and Tom prepared to leave Dodge’s tent, where there had been a last minute conference. The stalwart ranger gave a strong farewell clasp to the hand of each of the scouts.

“We’ll be back, Colonel, with a report,” said Brown confidently. “You kin count on that.”

He and Tom then bent low and passed through the sleeping camp. For a moment or so, they could see the vague shapes of the tents and picketed horses on the hill crown. Then all was lost in darkness.

“Footing is passable so far,” whispered Tom presently.

It wasn’t long, however, before they found the ground growing steadily more uncertain. They could get along only by stepping upon large hummocks of rank grass, little quaking islands in an ocean of mud, sticky, knee-deep mud. Worse still, they now came to a place where a gap of several feet intervened between them and the next hummock. This gap was filled by a forbidding slough, black and ominous.

“Nothin’ to do but jump fer it,” declared Bill.

By a vigorous exertion, coupled with a skillful bit of balancing, they managed to contrive the leap. Then they groped their way through a patch of swamp alder, where their travel was suddenly enlivened by scores of skin punctures, like sharp needles.

“Skeeters!” mourned Bill.

“Big as bumble-bees!” Tom complained, slapping himself busily.

An ominous humming rose from all about them. Myriads of the insects were rising in all directions from the slimy marshes, and swarming to the feast. The two scouts were fain to push ahead with all possible speed.

After emerging from this first patch of swamp, the pair rested on a fallen log for a few moments, just off the trail. Holding their rifles at an alert they listened intently, looking for enemies with eyes and ears trained by the wild life of the border. They heard low sounds, and then a pattering of light feet on the ground.

“Wild beasts!” murmured Tom.

“Foxes,” guessed Bill, “an’ mebbe a timber wolf er two. But don’t mind ’em, Tom. They won’t bother us. Jest watch out fer the pesky Sacs.”

“Look!” warned the boy, “there’s one now.”

About thirty yards to the east, coming noiselessly over the rim of a low ridge, was a dim figure. Swiftly, but stealthily, the two whites dropped behind the shelter of the log. They lay absolutely flat upon the ground, and the keenest eyes, even at close range, could hardly have detected them, two slightly darker blurs on the dark earth.

As the Indian shuffled by, the hidden scouts faintly saw the outline of his war-bonnet. The savage, however, saw nothing and passed on into the inky blackness of the swamp. After a moment, the whites got to their hands and knees and resumed their way, a slow, creeping advance up the gentle slope of the ridge.

Such a mode of travel was not only snail-like, but extremely tiring. When they reached the crown, they stopped again, lying as before prone on the earth, not only for the sake of rest but to spy out the area once more with eye and ear. They looked closely down the ridge toward the dismal swamp. It and everything in it were buried in darkness. It was still as the grave.

“Think that skin was a Sac, Bill?” whispered Tom.

“Aye, lad, I could tell by his bonnet.”

“Scouting the ranger camp, I reckon,” the boy observed.

“Yep, Tom, an’ now we do have to be keerful. Sac spy behint us, an’ the hull tribe ahead.”

“It won’t be any picnic, Bill.”

Resolutely they turned about and again took up the trail to the eastward. They had gone only a few steps, however, when there was a sudden growl and a furry form, shooting out of the darkness, leaped like an arrow at Tom. But big Bill Brown, reaching straight out with his brawny arms, grasped the creature by the throat and squeezed it hard with his powerful hands. Another growl had arisen in the beast’s mouth, but it died behind his teeth, as the fierce grip gradually choked the life from its body. It gave a last convulsive kick; then lay inert.

“A wolf!” exclaimed Tom excitedly. “You saved my hide that time, Bill.”

“Naw, it ain’t a wolf,” the scout said, peering closely at the still form.

“Well, what in thunder is it?”

“An Injun cur.”

“Hm!” mused Tom. “Suppose it was following that lone brave?”

“Mos’ likely.”

“Which would seem to indicate,” went on the boy, “that the Sac encampment may be considerably nearer than we thought.”

“Good reasonin’, Tom. Prob’ly ain’t more’n a few mile. Let’s git on.”

At the foot of the ridge they found a second swamp, almost as difficult of passage as the first. And for the next few miles it was pretty much the same story, first a low ridge, then a stretch of black swamp. They were wet and mud-caked to their knees, and itched like fire in every exposed place, from the unending assaults of the eager mosquitoes.

“Hungriest skeeters I ’bout ever seed,” averred Bill savagely. “Guess the pesky critters ain’t had a square meal in weeks.”

They blundered on, however, and in the east came a faint dawn, a few fingers of pale gray.

“Look!” cried Tom, pointing to a feeble light on the crest of a low hill that lay some distance ahead.

“Injun campfire!” exclaimed Bill, carefully examining the pin-point of flame.

As they crept warily forward, there came a dash of scarlet in the east, harbinger of the summer sun. Then the dash of scarlet grew to a blaze, and the wilderness turned from dark to daylight, swiftly and vividly. Swamp and hill were suffused with a red glow, wonderful to behold. By this time, the scouts had reached a clump of thick-growing willows that gave them an excellent point of vantage to scan the hill-top ahead.

“Lucifer!” gasped Bill, “what a spot fer an ambush!”

The cunning Sacs had indeed chosen a spot well-suited for ambuscade. Before reaching the rocky, U-shaped hill on which the Indians had taken position, the narrow trail passed between two impassable bogs that stretched away for a mile or more on either hand. Doubtless, the Sac strategy would be to let a part of the rangers pass through the swamp-gap unmolested. Then, from front and sides of the U-shaped hill, the bronze sharpshooters would pour in a withering fire of musket and rifle; and safely hidden themselves among the rocky coverts, they bade fair to annihilate the white detachment with paltry loss in their own ranks. Their savage hearts sang as they dreamed of a feast of scalps.

“It’d be a death-trap!” said Tom.

“The White Crow was leadin’ us like lambs to the slaughter!” grated Bill wrathily.

“Just as you warned the Colonel, Bill. The Crow’s really hand in glove with Black Hawk.”

“Course he is; so let’s git back to the rangers, fast as we kin leg it.”

They had gone perhaps two miles on the back trail, when Tom Gordon came to a quick halt, at the edge of a wide, dangerous patch of morass.

“Bill,” he burst out, “that Sac scout! the one we passed in the night!”

“Thunderation, lad! the red rascal plumb slipped my mind. What a numbskull! It might’ve cost us our hair.”

“Well, hadn’t we better—?”

Tom broke off abruptly. A scream, wild and horrid, issued from the depths of the swamp ahead. As the two scouts froze in their tracks, it came again, agonized and unearthly; but this time trailing off into a choking, muffled gasp. Then all was ghastly silence.

“Merciful Providence!” muttered the shaken boy, “what was that?”

“Come,” said Bill Brown grimly, “we’ll find out.”

But when they had picked their way through the awful bog, peering closely to right and left, their puzzlement grew. Neither on the trail, nor in the slimy marshes on either hand, had they noted a sign of life. The fearsome swamp was silent as the tomb, refusing to yield up the secret of the blood-chilling screams.

“I have it, Bill!” said Tom suddenly.

“You’ve solved the myst’ry?”

“Yes, that was the death-cry of the Sac scout!”

“Great Jupiter, do you think so?”

“Aye, Bill. He was sucked to his doom in the deadly mud, a victim of the black swamps of the Koshkonong.”

CHAPTER 19

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Pursuit of Black Hawk

WHEN Colonel Dodge had been informed by the two scouts of the surprising result of their nocturnal mission, his rage at the duplicity of the White Crow was fearful to see. With a mighty effort, however, he controlled his feelings, and his handsome face was once more bland and impassive as he summoned the Winnebago chief to his presence.

“Ho, Kaukishkaka,” he said, in a disarming manner, “can you not find us an easier trail? This one is nothing more than a series of mud-holes, each one worse than the last. We make poor progress.”

“The trail grows better each day,” promised the Crow, never blinking an eye.

“That is sweet music to my ears; for we are eager to look down our gun barrels at the Sacs. How many more days of travel, till we reach the hiding-place of Black Hawk?”

“It is yet far, oh Big Knife. Nearly three suns.”

“Three days farther! You are sure of that?”

“The Crow does not speak with a forked tongue,” reiterated the Winnebago, drawing himself stiffly to his fullest height.

“So I have heard you say!” cried Dodge.

His easy, genial tone was suddenly gone, and his words cracked out like the snap of a whip-lash. A strange light came into the one, gleaming eye of the wily Winnebago. It was clear that he had a presentment of what was to come.

“But you do speak with a forked tongue!” continued the officer sternly.

“How so, oh Big Knife?”

“The camp of Black Hawk is not three suns away. It is less than one sun away.”

“What magic tells you that?”

“No magic at all, Kaukishkaka. Last night I sent out scouts, who slipped through the swamps and spied out the Sac ambush.”

“I know nothing of ambush,” said the Crow shiftily. “Mayhap the accursed Hawk has seen fit to move his camp. He does not tell me of his comings and goings.”

“Faugh!” exclaimed Dodge angrily, “I denounce you as a lying, scheming rascal. You are in league with Black Hawk. But for the diligence of my scouts, we might have been caught in your clever snare. Take him away, guards! When we march again, fasten ropes to his legs under his horse’s belly. He is a slippery eel, so watch him well.”

The stormy scene between the irate Dodge and the dissembling White Crow was scarcely over with, when three army couriers rode into the ranger camp bearing dispatches from General Atkinson. Riding to the northwest they had luckily cut the rangers’ trail this side of the Four Lakes, and had then tracked them down.

It was now learned that Atkinson’s army had left Dixon’s Ferry on June 27, as planned. It consisted of four hundred regulars and nearly two thousand volunteer troops. On the thirtieth, the force crossed the Illinois-Wisconsin boundary at the famous turtle village of the Winnebagoes, whose inhabitants had flown at the approach of the column. From here, the White Beaver and his men pressed up the Rock River, following the Sac trail with the vehemence of blood-hounds.

At the close of each day, when possible, the troops selected a camp in the timber, where they erected a protecting breastwork of logs and slept on their arms. There was a constant apprehension of a night attack, and several times prowling Sac spies were fired on by the watchful sentinels.

On the second of July the army arrived at the southern limits of the great Koshkonong marshes. Here, a recently deserted Indian camp was found with white scalps hanging on the poles of the tepees. Scouts made a quick tour of the vicinity, but beyond a few stragglers nothing of importance was seen. Three Winnebagoes who were captured gave vague and contradictory testimony, and one of them was ordered shot for his treachery. The following day, too, was spent in fruitless scouting. But, on the next, the three couriers made the contact with the rangers under Dodge, who brought his men into camp on the sixth.

For the march to the north the army was formed as follows. Dodge’s Rangers, together with five hundred Illinois volunteers under Brigadier-General James Henry, comprised the left wing, advancing up the west side of the swamp-lands; while the regulars, and the balance of the volunteers, scouted up the east side, across the Rock River, with Atkinson, himself, in command.

In the meantime, Black Hawk, utterly dismayed at the failure of his ambuscade, and by the rapid approach of the formidable white army, fled westward from his swampy covert toward the Four Lakes, unbeknown, of course, to the advancing soldiers. But these were not long in ignorance of the Sac’s sudden sally. For, on the second afternoon, when Dodge’s Rangers had marked some twenty-five miles north of their junction point with the White Beaver, a startling discovery was made.

Bright Star, the young Pottawattomee, riding well ahead of the column, was seen to become greatly agitated. He shouted and gestured frantically.

“What’s got into the young chief?” puzzled Bill Brown.

“Must be something important,” Ben Gordon declared. “An Injun, ordinarily, isn’t any hand to get worked up like that.”

Now Bright Star turned his horse and dashed back to join the other scouts.

“Come!” he cried.

“What’s up, red-boy?” yelled Tom.

“Big trail! heap big trail!”

“Is it fresh?” asked Bill, as they jumped their mounts forward.

“Ugh! heap fresh!”

Sure enough! before them lay a broad, fresh trail, trending to the west. It was, beyond a doubt, the trail of Black Hawk.

The discovery was hailed by the rangers and volunteers with great joy. The nimble Hawk had so long evaded them that he was coming to be regarded as a will-o’-the-wisp, an unearthly creature never to be taken by human hand. But now, with spirits soaring, pursuit was begun on the fresh scent early the following morning; after riders had been sent eastward to acquaint Atkinson with the new turn of events.

The first day of the chase was a difficult one. Not a breath of air stirred over the low-lying swales and gentle rises. Clouds above were like light balls of cotton; and where the blue sky was visible, it had a hazy and languid look. The July sun beat down with a sultry and penetrating heat that was well-nigh past endurance. Sweltering horses hung their heads as they waded fetlock deep through the mud, and the men slouched in the easiest position upon the saddle.

At last, toward evening, black heads of thunder-clouds rose fast above the southern horizon, and the deep muttering of distant thunder began to roll hoarsely over the wilderness. Soon the whole sky was densely shrouded, and the clumps of timber took on a purple hue beneath the inky shadows. Lightning flashed repeatedly. A cool wind, filled with the smell of rain, arose, leveling the tall marsh grass by the side of the trail.

“Come on!” yelled Dodge. “Ride for the timber!”

At this, the whole party broke into full gallop. Dashing pell-mell among the trees, they leaped from their mounts, tore off the saddles, and knelt down and adjusted the hobbles to the horses’ legs, before hastily turning them loose. Then they sprang to the pack-horses and seized their tents, which were put up with the utmost speed. By dint of great effort, they were ready for the downpour, just as the storm broke. Blackness, almost as deep as that of night, enveloped them; and the trees, which were close at hand, were completely hidden by the heavy curtain of falling rain.

All night the tumult kept on, while the rangers crouched in their make-shift tents. The rain could not enter bodily, but it beat through the thin canvas in a fine drizzle that wetted them dismally. Until early morning hours the terrific crash of thunder and the glare of lightning continued. Towards sunrise, however, the storm ceased as suddenly as it had begun. A bright streak of red sky appeared above the eastern verge of the swamps, the horizontal rays of the rising sun streamed through it, and bathed the dripping landscape in a flood of wondrous light.

An hour later, the sky was entirely clear, and the army set out. The fierce rainfall made travel infinitely more arduous. Deep swamp and sink-hole were worsened by the downpour. The men had frequently to dismount and wade in water and muck to their armpits. But two stray Pottawattomees, who were met with, reported that the Hawk and his harried band were now only three miles in advance; and the troopers eagerly hurried on, notwithstanding their empty stomachs and wet clothes. So intense were their efforts, that by sunset of the second day, July 20, they reached the lakes, going into camp for the night on the bank of the Third Lake.

At daybreak of the twenty-first, the troops were up and stirring. After fording the Catfish River, a small tributary, they swept across the isthmus between the Third and Fourth Lakes in regular line of battle, pushing their way through a gloomy forest with dense thickets of underbrush. The four scouts, along with others, were constantly in the fore, making sure that the guileful Hawk was not setting up an ambush.

Once through this timber tract, the pursuit waxed even hotter. The advance was so rapid, and the heat so fearful, that forty horses gave out during the day. When his mount keeled over, the trooper would trudge on foot, throwing away his camp-kettle and other pack; thus following the example of the fugitive redskins, whose path was littered with Indian mats, pots, kettles, and other camp paraphernalia discarded in the wild hurry of flight. Then, too, Sac stragglers were now and then being taken prisoners, chiefly old men, squaws and children who were worn out by the frenzy of the pursuit and the lack of food in the Hawk’s camp. Two of the wrinkled warriors, who showed fight, had to be shot.

About three o’clock in the afternoon, another area of thick hardwoods was reached. The ranger scouts, as usual, were well in front of the column. Tom Gordon was crouched behind the trunk of a great oak, his roving eyes searching every covert before him. He knew that brother Ben, Bill Brown and the eagle-eyed Bright Star were spread out to right and left, engaged in the same risky task.

Beyond a narrow forest glade, thirty yards away, lay a thicket of undergrowth, and Tom surveyed it with great sharpness. He must be absolutely certain that no red warrior skulked there, waiting to shoot him down as he crossed the open space. The boy looked so closely that it seemed to him that he knew every bush and briar and vine. Presently a bough swayed, and then a bush shook, and the keen eyes of the young scout saw it. He hugged the protecting trunk of the big oak and the muzzle of his rifle nudged forward; but he was mighty careful not to make the slightest sound.

The same bush wiggled again, this time more noticeably. Tom Gordon sank down a little lower and fairly drilled the thicket with his sharp glance. Now he saw the shadowy outline of a red face. Then the whole head and shoulders of an Indian appeared. He was looking across the glade with the keenest of scrutiny. The muzzle of the rifle that had been thrust forward was raised now, and taking quick aim, Tom fired.

A wild and terrible cry rang through the forest. The Sac brave plunged forward from the thicket, spun crazily about, and then fell headlong among the thick grasses of the glade. The fearsome cry came back in a score of maniacal echoes, the screams of enraged warriors who knew now that there was to be no ambush of the oncoming rangers. Their war-whoops swelled in volume, fierce and menacing, but Tom Gordon and his fellow scouts were already running back upon the main body, sounding the alarm; and the troopers, eager for the fray, raised a great shout of defiance.

“What is it?” cried Colonel Dodge, hurrying to the fore.

“Sac warriors!” answered Tom, half breathlessly.

“Must be the Hawk’s rear guard!” observed Bill Brown. “They aim to stall us off, till the others git a longer lead.”

“This is only the rear guard!” shouted the commander. “Give them a volley or two, men, and then charge!”

There was the deafening crash of a hundred rifles and muskets, as the black barrels spat jets of fire. A hail of lead whistled across the glade and into the thicket. It seemed incredible that a single Indian could escape alive, so furious was the gunfire. In answer, however, a few challenging whoops arose, followed by scattering shots. The troops swiftly reloaded and sent in another thunderous volley.

“Press on!” bellowed Dodge hoarsely. “Dig out the red knaves!”

The hardy rangers sent up a shout of triumph and dashed into the thicket, ready for hand-to-hand combat. But not a single redskin, living or dead, was to be found. The Indian warriors had withdrawn westward into the forest, carrying their slain fighters with them.

“Fiddle-sticks!” declared Bill Brown. “This delayin’ skirmish ain’t improved Black Hawk’s sitchiation one jot.”

True words! The Hawk’s harried band had again increased its lead over the pursuing soldiers to perhaps three miles; but the position of the Sacs seemed actually worse, due to the fact that immediately ahead of the fleeing braves lay the wide channel of the Wisconsin River, a big stream that flowed straight down from the trackless forests of the north, and then swept eastward in a great bend to join the mighty tide of the Mississippi, some eighty miles beyond.

It was now mid-afternoon, and the harassed Black Hawk called a hasty council of his sub-chiefs.

“Our cause is lost,” spoke up Ne-a-pope bluntly.

“We could not fight the Big Knives alone,” snarled the surly Prairie Wolf. “The accursed Foxes—”

“Cease!” commanded the haggard Black Hawk, his face full of travail. “Put those things behind us. The Big Knives press us closely. What is best to be done?”

“Let us take a stand on the bluff by the river, with the strongest of our warriors,” proposed the fertile-minded Ne-a-pope. “Then—”

“Ugh!” grunted the thick-headed Wolf, failing to perceive the scheme of the medicine-man. “Why so?”

“Beyond the bluff,” went on Ne-a-pope, “there is a path through the marsh, leading to a ford where the river can easily be crossed by our people.”

“Wise words, oh Ne-a-pope,” the Hawk swiftly replied, in tones of high praise. “By the time the Big Knives come up, it will be late afternoon. It is cloudy, and darkness will come early. If we can keep the pale-faces at bay till nightfall, we can slip away across the stream before morning. The white snakes will not follow us beyond the river, where lay tangled forests that the pale-face has never trod.”

“Ho, ho!” cried the Wolf, new hope in his savage heart, “We will yet work loose from the Big-Knife trap!”

CHAPTER 20

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Musket and Tomahawk

THE place at which the Sacs had chosen to stand and fight was admirably suited to such a delaying action as Black Hawk hoped to effect. It was a shallow valley, rimmed on the north by low hills, and on the south by steep bluffs known as the Wisconsin Heights. The valley itself was covered with rank grass to a height of six feet, while the slopes of the bluff were heavily wooded. In addition to these natural advantages, a light rain was starting to fall, and night was not more than three hours distant, as the cagy Hawk had noted.

Meantime, the squadron of rangers under Dodge, was pushing forward with renewed vigor, and shortly after four o’clock their scouts made contact with Black Hawk’s snipers on the low hills that bordered the grassy valley.

“Black Hawk is a smart Injun,” commented Bill Brown. “He’s picked out a powerful good place to fight.”

“You’re quite right,” agreed Dodge, apprehensively viewing the grass-grown valley and the sheer bluff beyond. “We had best wait, until General Henry comes up with the main force of the volunteers.”

“It ain’t long till dark, Colonel,” cautioned the veteran scout, dubious of delay.

“I know that, Brown,” responded Dodge worriedly, “but I feel that it would be folly to throw this small body of rangers against the whole Sac tribe. Their position is far too strong.”

“Hawk sly like fox,” put in Bright Star sagely. “Maybe slip out from snare.”

In a half-hour the vanguard of the volunteers arrived, and, after a hurried conference between Dodge and Henry, a charge was ordered. Every fourth man of the white column was detailed to hold the horses, while the rest of the troopers advanced on foot. The alert savages, sensing the plan, made a heavy counter-charge, yowling like madmen, and tried hard to flank the whites; but they were repulsed with considerable loss.

Badly stung, the Sacs forthwith abandoned the low hills and dropped back into the tall grass of the valley; where, after a half-hour of indecisive firing on both sides, another assault was ordered.

“Give them the bayonet, men!” roared General Henry, brandishing his long sword.

Dodge’s dare-devil rangers and about two hundred of the volunteers rushed over the hill and down the green slope, their bayonets gleaming wickedly, while their shrill cries of vengeance made the glade fairly echo. The cowed Sacs broke from the grass like frightened antelope, to the rising side of the bluff beyond.

“We’ve got ’em on the run!” screamed an elated ranger.

“Keep ’em goin’!” howled a volunteer, trying to reload his piece as he fought his way through the head-high grass.

A second rank of savages was attempting to form on the ridge, but so furious was the charge of the triumphant whites that the red line broke completely, while the troopers were still twenty rods away. With hardly a shot fired, the panicky warriors swiftly retreated down the bluff, intent on joining their main body which was now starting to cross the river.

By this time it was raining so hard that it was virtually impossible to keep the muskets dry. Furthermore, at the far side of the bluff there was swampy terrain some hundred yards in width, and then a heavy fringe of timber on a strip of firm ground along the river bank at the ford. The last of the fleeing Indians had now spanned the marsh and reached this refuge; so it was deemed best to call off the pursuit for the night.

“It’d be suicide to cross that marsh in the face of musket fire from the timber,” asserted General Henry.

“I fear so, General,” Dodge reluctantly agreed, “but I only wish we had a brass twelve-pounder with us. We’d drive the red imps out of that cover in jig time.”

During the night after the battle there were frequent alarms from prowling Indians, and the troopers, fearing an attack, were under arms nearly the entire time. About an hour and a half before dawn, a loud, shrill voice was heard from the direction of the river bank. There was great commotion in the white camp for a time, for it was thought that the savage leader was issuing orders for a sortie.

“Ne-a-pope!” exclaimed Bright Star, identifying the owner of the mysterious voice.

“What in blazes is he saying?” demanded Ben Gordon.

“Ne-a-pope say pale-faces should run away,” translated the Pottawattomee.

“He might as well save his breath,” remarked Tom.

“Otherwise,” went on Bright Star, “Ne-a-pope say Sacs will boil pale-face alive.”

“He’s cracked in the dome,” snorted Ben, “if he thinks he can scare us with that twaddle.”

“He’s too wise a coot to think that,” Bill Brown averred.

“Then why’s he doing it, Bill?” wondered Tom.

“To mislead us, keep us thinkin’ that the Sacs are still there in the timber.”

“Well, aren’t they?” exploded Tom.

“I’m afeared not. You know, my thick skull is jest startin’ to percolate. Come to think, I crossed the Wisconsin once at this very place.”

“You did?” inquired Ben surprisedly.

“Yep, I did. The river is shaller at this p’int, an’ well broken with small islands. An’ all night long, whilst we been a huddlin’ here in the mist an’ fog, why them pesky Sacs has been fordin’ over in a steady parade.”

“Suffering snakes,” exclaimed Ben, “do you really think so, Bill?”

“Sartin of it, lad.”

“Sun come, Sac all gone,” affirmed Bright Star, with an emphatic nod of his head.

“Tell you what let’s do,” proposed Bill suddenly. “I’m all-fired tired o’ squattin’ here in the wet, like a dingbusted chicken what don’t know ’nuff to go in outen the rain. Let’s circle the bluff an’ scout ’round a bit, near the river, I’ll bet my wallet ther’s so few Injuns left on this side o’ the channel, that ther won’t be skeercely no risk to it.”

“Very well, Bill,” grinned Tom Gordon, springing briskly to his feet, “but if I lose my curly red locks, you’ll be to blame.”

The venturesome four found no difficulty in circling the great bluff. Beyond its towering bulk they entered a black forest that stretched away to the river’s edge below the ford. In the murk of early dawn the thick woods seemed full of mystery and terror; but theirs were no timid hearts. Far off, low thunder muttered, and now and then flashes of heat lightning drew a belt of coppery red along the dull gray horizon. The trees were weird and ghostly, and there was no other sound at all but the gentle drip, drip of the rain.

After a half-hour of toilsome travel, the four found themselves nearing the river. Here, by the water, the vapors and mists seemed to be imprisoned by the boughs and verdant foliage, and the range of vision was very slight. The scouts were advancing in single file. Tom Gordon was in the lead, Bill Brown came just behind him, and then the other two somewhat to the rear.

Using the greatest caution, now that the margin of the stream was at hand, the four crept forward, little by little, through the thickets. Suddenly a stick broke under Tom and he heard a shout in front of him. The shout was so fierce, so fully charged with hatred, that the boy stopped dead in his tracks, momentarily stunned by the shock. He stood face to face with Pat Fagan, the border bully and deserter, a wild and terrible figure, clothes in rags, bleeding from wounds, but driven now by a savage joy. His evil face blazed with triumph. Here, at last, was revenge!

Fagan’s pistol was leveled at the astounded youth and the next second the fatal bullet would have sped, but with a mighty bound Bill Brown was upon him. The pistol barked spitefully, but the bullet went upward, and the two men writhed in a powerful embrace.

Tom Gordon, quickly recovering his power over himself, drew his own pistol and jumped forward. But he could not use it. The two wrestlers, almost equal in strength, went down in the wet grass, and whirled over and over. There was hard breathing, muttered threats, and sharp cracking of sticks under their straining bodies. They rolled over, toward the very edge of the river bank, and Tom gave voice to a low cry of alarm. The bank edge gave way, under their weight, and the two, still locked fast in each other’s arms, tumbled swiftly down the slope toward the water.

Unluckily, Bill Brown’s tight grip was partly broken by the violence of the unexpected tumble. Taking instant advantage of this, the burly Fagan tore loose from the scout’s clutch, bounced to his feet, and fled down the level strip of sand that bordered the channel. In a trice, Brown was up and after him, running as hard as he could.

Meantime, Ben Gordon and Bright Star had emerged from the timber. Just as they did so, a shrill whoop arose from upstream, another and then several more. The sound of the pistol shot had brought three Indians running to the scene. One of them, who carried a musket, fired quickly. It would have been Ben Gordon’s last moment, had not the brave been so hasty that he did not take careful aim. As it was, the boy heard the lead pellet singing a little warning in his ear as it passed.

“The Prairie Wolf!” cried Ben, whirling about to face the new danger.

Up flew his rifle. A humming bullet narrowly missed the Wolf; but struck one of the other Sacs in the arm. With a wild howl of fear the fellow dove into the nearby thicket. The third brave was quick to follow suit, fairly trampling the heels of the wounded warrior, as they both scrambled to safety in the brush screen.

“Ugh,” rasped Bright Star, pulling his keen knife from its leathern sheath.

The sight of the gleaming blade, together with the grim expression on the face of the dauntless young Pottawattomee, was too much for the hulking Prairie Wolf. With a yelp of thwarted rage the Sac flung aside his empty musket and darted into the bushes. Bright Star swiftly bounded forward, at the same time putting two fingers of his free left hand across his mouth and giving utterance to a long, quavering cry that was full of taunting triumph. Then he slipped into the dense thicket, hot on the trail of the vaunted Wolf.

At this, Ben and Tom Gordon again whirled about, and turned their attention once more to Bill Brown’s pursuit of big Pat Fagan.

“They’re gone!” gasped Tom.

“Around the bend!” yelled his brother. “Let’s go!”

When the two speeding boys rounded the distant curve in the bank, a thrilling scene unfolded before their anxious eyes. The ruffianly Fagan, his headlong flight blocked by a bog that came down to the river edge, was jumping from rock to rock, across a narrow, shallow stretch of water that lay between the main bank and a wooded island, one of several that dotted the stream bed at this point. The vengeful Bill Brown was only a few paces behind him, and such was his superior agility that he was fast gaining on the fleeing desperado.

Finally the frantic Fagan, now only one jump ahead, came to a halt on a flat, level rock, some two yards in diameter, that lay midway between island and bank. Around this rock the water churned fiercely, then foamed away amid other, more jagged rocks to the lower point of the island, where it united with the main current.

This sudden about-face of his quarry did not lessen the determination of the oncoming scout. With a swift leap he bridged the intervening water, and came to a crouched landing on the same flat-topped rock occupied by the defiant deserter.

“Ha, Brown!” cried Fagan, scowling savagely.

With these words he sprang ferociously at the scout, grasping him strongly with his hairy, ape-like arms. Again, as on the bank, the two mortal adversaries writhed in mighty embrace. Again there was heavy breathing, muffled threats, and this time the added sound of sliding feet on the rough, hard surface. Then they suddenly pitched backward, struck heavily on the shoulder of the rock, and were shunted off into the raging rapids. The foaming, frothing water hid them for a moment. Except for the rush of the wild river, the nervous watchers could neither see nor hear anything.

“They’re both done for!” exclaimed Ben in horror.

“Don’t give up hope!” yelled Tom, leaping ahead now from stone to stone.

Luckily, about fifteen feet below where the two fighters had shot down into the fierce current, there was a medium-sized log, deposited between two rocks by the spring freshet. Bill Brown, as he swept past, flung a long, sinewy arm over this log, and, with an almost superhuman effort, drew himself to safety.

“Hooray!” shouted Tom.

“Bully for you, Bill!” cried Ben joyfully.

Then, as the big scout pulled his dripping form onto a rock and stood erect, Tom added:

“Where’s Fagan?”

“I think,” panted Bill, “that as we pitched into the rapids, his head hit a sunken rock which mine didn’t. He more’n likely kilt hisself.”

“See there!” called out Ben, pointing excitedly down the rock-strewn chute.

“It’s the body!” shouted Tom. “Cast up on the point of the island!”

It was true. Fagan’s skull had been fractured by the impact of the blow, and he was quite dead. Without further words they took the body from the shallows and gave it Christian burial on high ground in the center of the island.

“Our lucky star must’ve been shinin’,” said Bill Brown thankfully, as they turned and left the spot, “to bring us all through this bloody fightin’ ’thout so much as a scratch.”

“But what of Bright Star?” asked Ben suddenly.

A loud whoop, full of triumph, rang out over wood and water. The three looked up eagerly, to see the young Pottawattomee skipping nimbly toward them over the stepping-stones. As he drew nearer, they noticed a fresh scalp, dangling from his belt. But no questions were asked. They fully understood.

CHAPTER 21

******************************

War-Trail’s End

THOUGH the slippery Black Hawk escaped from the pale-face trap at Wisconsin Heights, that hard-fought battle really marked the end of the Sac uprising. After fording the broad Wisconsin River, the desperate Sac band, now destitute of food and ammunition, split into three smaller groups.

One band floated down the river on crudely improvised rafts, and was speedily taken. Another party fled northward to an almost inaccessible canyon, known to the Indians as Neeh-ah-ke-coonah-er-ah, “where the rocks strike together.” Here they were tracked down and either killed or captured by the vengeful whites.

The third, and larger, band, under Black Hawk himself, pushed westward through a rugged and forbidding wilderness, striving for the distant Mississippi,—beyond which they hoped for safety. Pursuit of this band was given over to the forces of General Atkinson (White Beaver), who had now arrived on the scene, too late to take part in the battle of the heights.

Although the difficulties of travel were great, swamps and turbulent streams being frequently encountered among the steep, thickly-wooded hills, these fresh troops pressed on feverishly. They found Black Hawk’s pathway strewn with the bodies of dead Sacs, who had died of wounds and starvation, and there were constant evidences that the fleeing savages were eating the bark of trees and the sparse flesh of their fagged-out ponies to sustain life.

Finally, on the first of August, the Hawk and his sadly-depleted and almost starving band reached the Mississippi at the mouth of the Bad Axe River, one of its smallest eastern tributaries. Here the redskins tried to cross, using a few canoes and rude rafts. Some were killed by canister-shot from an army gunboat, “The Warrior,” which happened to be on the spot. Others, including Black Hawk himself, surrendered to the White Beaver’s soldiers, now arriving after their headlong pursuit. Still other Sacs, who managed to cross the great river, were largely taken captive or scalped by their hereditary enemies, the fierce Sioux tribesmen.

Thus, out of nearly one thousand Sacs whom the Hawk had led into the Illinois country in April, barely two hundred survived to return to the Ioway Territory that they had left on their ill-fated foray.

As for Black Hawk, after being imprisoned for some months at Fortress Monroe in far-off Virginia, he was taken to Washington, where he saw the Great White Father. Following this, he was conducted on a tour of the principal cities of the eastern seaboard, so that he would be impressed with the might of the whites and take the story of that might back to his own people.

Afterward, he was allowed to retire to a small reservation, set apart for him and the remnant of his tribe on the Des Moines River, in the heart of the Ioway country. The aged warrior, with the weight of over seventy years on his whitened head, finally departed this life on the third of October, 1838, at that place. His grave was dug on the nearby prairies, the rich prairies that he had fought so vainly to keep as the sole domain of the red race.

THE END

Transcriber’s Note:

Punctuation has been standardised. Both Kaintock and Kaintuck, and hyphenation and spelling have been retained as they appear in the printed publication except as indicated below:

- Page 13
almost the festive apearance changed to
almost the festive appearance

- Page 57
down the gantlet changed to
down the gauntlet

- Page 60
led off in a north-westernly changed to
led off in a north-westerly

- Page 67
yellow lamplight shown from changed to
yellow lamplight shone from

- Page 70
in a fringed buskskin suit changed to
in a fringed buckskin suit

- Page 100
that’s Dixon’ place changed to
that’s Dixon’s place

- Page 112
throw down the gantlet changed to
throw down the gauntlet

- Page 117
who had sworn his venegeance changed to
who had sworn his vengeance

- Page 121
threats against all-concerned changed to
threats against all concerned

- Page 122
I dare say that anyone of them changed to
I dare say that any one of them

- Page 128
scudding madly for Dixon’s ferry changed to
scudding madly for Dixon’s Ferry

- Page 131
the deserted, Pat Fagan, whose changed to
the deserter, Pat Fagan, whose

- Page 184
Looks like were getting into changed to
Looks like we’re getting into

- Page 195
erected a protecting breastworks of logs changed to
erected a protecting breastwork of logs

- Page 208
indentifying the owner changed to
identifying the owner

- Page 216
War-trail’s End changed to
War-Trail’s End

- Page 218
from the summmit changed to
from the summit

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Table of Contents

- Black Hawk’s Warpath
- Contents
- CHAPTER 1
- CHAPTER 2
- CHAPTER 3
- CHAPTER 4
- CHAPTER 5
- CHAPTER 6
- CHAPTER 7
- CHAPTER 8
- CHAPTER 9
- CHAPTER 10
- CHAPTER 11
- CHAPTER 12
- CHAPTER 13
- CHAPTER 14
- CHAPTER 15
- CHAPTER 16
- CHAPTER 17
- CHAPTER 18
- CHAPTER 19
- CHAPTER 20
- CHAPTER 21
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE