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

BLACK HAWK’S WARPATH

CHAPTER 1

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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

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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

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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!”