At four o’clock the next morning the troops—who had slept upon their
arms—were roused from slumber and ordered to fall into rank. There they
stood, guns in readiness, until the first faint rays of the cold, gray
dawn dispelled the enveloping darkness and revealed near-by objects with
clear-cut distinctness. Governor Harrison realized that he was in the
enemy’s country. He was well aware that the wily foe with which he had to
deal preferred to attack in the early morning. He had not served under
Mad Anthony Wayne in vain. Nor had he forgotten the lesson of St. Clair’s
awful surprise and defeat.
Immediately after the order to break ranks was given, the soldiers began
to prepare their breakfasts, while the teamsters went to water and feed
their pack and draught animals. The camp-fires were relighted, and soon
the appetizing odors of cooking food pervaded the place.
Douglas left his companions to the performance of their various duties,
and went to report at the tent of the governor. He found a number of
scouts—who had returned to camp too late to report on the previous
evening—in conversation with the commander and his staff. Ross took up
a position near the door of the tent, to wait until the others should
finish their business and take their departure.
The central figure of the group of scouts was a tall, broad-shouldered
man of fifty years. His long black hair was plentifully sprinkled with
silver, and his countenance was a crisscross of fine care-lines. His dark
blue eyes were alert and beaming with native intelligence. But a puckered
red scar on the right cheek drew up the corner of his mouth and marred
the symmetry of his face. He wore the picturesque garb of a backwoodsman;
but there was an indefinable something about him that gave the lie to his
outward appearance.
Ross had seen the man almost daily since leaving Vincennes, but had not
formed his acquaintance. Now, for some reason, the young man’s attention
was closely drawn to the scar-faced scout. He heard him saying in answer
to a question from the governor:
“Yes, I was clear inside of the Injin town; that’s why I didn’t git back
till late last evenin’.”
Douglas started. The man’s husky voice sounded strangely familiar.
Governor Harrison was remarking:
“And you found the savages friendly, Bradford?”
Ross strained his ears to catch the answer.
“Yes, governor, I did.”
“Who went into the village with you?”
“Nobody—I was all alone. Price an’ Hunter, there”—indicating two other
scouts—“started out with me, but we got separated somehow.”
“Did the Indians avoid you as you approached their town?”
“No, they was sociable. I talked with quite a number, an’ they said the’r
chiefs wanted peace an’ was ready to hold a council with you.”
There was the faintest hint of suspicion in Harrison’s tone, as he said
quickly:
“But other scouts bring me different reports, Bradford.”
“I can’t help that,” the man replied doggedly. “I can only report what
I’ve seen an’ heard. Anyhow, none o’ the others had the grit to go into
the town.”
This last he said with a toss of his head and a defiant look at the other
scouts.
“I don’t think your comrades lack courage,” the governor replied coolly.
“Their reception was different from yours. On the march to-day I want you
to remain within call. As you speak several of the Indian tongues, I may
want to use you as an interpreter. Your comrades have already received
their orders. You may go.”
Was Ross mistaken, or was there a look of malignant triumph on Bradford’s
scarred face, as with the others he left the tent?
The young scout now stepped forward and saluted the commander.
“Ah! You are here, Douglas,” was Harrison’s pleasant greeting. “You have
come for your orders?”
“I have, governor.”
“Very well. To-day you and the Wyandot are to remain near me. I’ll use
you as interpreters.”
Ross bowed and withdrew. As he sauntered away from the tent, he felt that
he ought to return and inform the commander of his experience of the
night. Yet what had he to tell? Perhaps his imagination was magnifying a
molehill into a mountain. He halted—half turned about—then proceeded upon
his way.
Just as he was passing a point midway between the governor’s quarters and
his own mess-fire, he discovered Bradford in earnest conversation with a
burly negro—an ox-driver, named Ben. The scar-faced scout and the black
man were standing between two of the covered wagons. The darkey’s brutal
visage was alight with pleasure, as he jingled a number of silver coins
that Bradford had just dropped into his outstretched palm. Ross heard the
white man say:
“Now, Ben, if you don’t do what you’ve promised—well, you’ll hear from
_me_. Git away from here now—we mustn’t be seen together.”
Douglas screened himself behind a wagon. Now he knew why Bradford’s
husky tones had sounded so familiar in the governor’s tent. It was the
same voice he had heard at the river-side. The scar-faced scout was the
mysterious personage he had met the night before.
The negro slyly slipped away from the spot. A half minute passed. Then
Bradford boldly stepped from his place of concealment. As he did so, he
swept a hurried glance around him—and fastened his keen eyes upon Douglas.
“What the devil ’re you doin’ there?” was his expressive question.
His disfigured countenance was aflame with rage; and drawing his tall
form to its full height he nervously fingered the trigger of his rifle.
“Attending to my own business,” Ross answered with provoking coolness, as
he strode forth and faced his questioner.
“Meddlin’ with mine, more likely,” was the growling rejoinder.
“No,” Douglas replied laughingly, “but if the negro ever sues for his
wages, I can be a witness to the fact that you’ve paid him.”
“What do you mean?” blustered Bradford, his face purple.
“I was passing and saw you give the darkey the money. Are you the
contractor that employs those black fellows?”
“You know very well I’m not. What’re you insinuatin’?”
“Nothing.”
“What was you spyin’ upon me fer?”
“I wasn’t spying upon you. Why should I?”
“You’re a liar—you _was_ spyin’ upon me!”
Douglas’s steel-gray eyes flashed and his nostrils dilated. For a few
moments he glared hard at the other—his thin lips compressed. Then he
said with icy calmness:
“Bradford—if that be your name—you have mistaken the mettle of the man to
whom you applied that term. Let me warn you. Put a curb upon your hasty
tongue—or stand ready to defend yourself. Your bluster didn’t frighten me
last night—nor does it now.”
“What—what do you mean?” Bradford faltered, recoiling a step.
“You know well what I mean,” Ross went on quietly. “You’re not what you
seem. You’re masquerading. For what purpose I don’t know.”—Bradford’s
face brightened; he was recovering his equanimity.—“You’re an educated
man—you _may_ be a gentleman and a patriot.”
“I might return the compliment,” the older man interrupted sneeringly.
“You, too, are an educated man. Perhaps _you_ are masquerading—you are so
ready to accuse others. At any rate, I know less of you than you do of
me. I don’t know your name, even.”
“I’m not _certain_ that I know yours,” Ross replied meaningly.
An expression of alarm flitted across Bradford’s scarred face, but he
answered promptly:
“Yes, you know my name. It’s Bradford—Hiram Bradford.”
“And my name’s Ross Douglas.”
Bradford dropped the butt of his gun to the ground with a thud. An ashen
hue overspread his face, and the red scar upon his cheek stood out with a
vividness that was startling.
“Ross Douglas, you say?” he asked with livid, trembling lips.
The younger man was greatly surprised at the effect the announcement of
his name had produced upon his companion. But he kept control of himself
and simply nodded in answer to the question.
Bradford’s hand shook as he fumbled with the buttons upon his rough coat.
“And your—your mother’s name?” he inquired.
“Why should I answer your questions?”
“Tell me—tell me!” the other panted.
“Mary.”
“Your father’s?”
“John.”
A wonderful change came over the scar-faced scout. He appeared to age ten
years in as many seconds. With the words—“My God! My God! And I would
have killed him!” He shouldered his rifle and hastened from the spot,
leaving his companion staring after him.
Ross slowly made his way toward the place where his messmates were
preparing the morning meal. His mind was in a tumult. What was the
meaning of it all? Who and what was the mysterious scout?
“Why did the announcement of my name so affect him—and why did he wish to
know the name of my father and mother?” he asked himself over and over.
He forgot where he was and passed the spot he sought, without knowing it.
He was aroused to a sense of his surroundings by hearing Farley bawl:
“What’s the matter o’ you, Ross Douglas? Have you gone daft an’ blind,
that you don’t know y’r own comrades an’ go right past ’em without
speakin’? Say!”
Ross forced a laugh and joined the men at their morning meal. But he ate
little and talked less; seeing which, one of the militiamen remarked
mischievously:
“Douglas, you don’t ’pear to be very peart this mornin’. You must be
grievin’ ’bout the gal you left behind you. You’d better pitch into the
grub; it’ll be gone purty soon. We may have a fracas with the redskins
’fore night. An’ a man always fights best on a full stomach.”
“Ugh!” Bright Wing grunted approvingly. “Eat heap much—fight heap hard.
Kill many Shawnees. Ugh!”
“That’s ph’losophy fer you,” grinned Joe. “The Injin knows w’en his
bread’s buttered—he does. Ross, you ain’t eatin’ enough to keep a pigeon
alive. You’ll be lanker ’n a starved houn’ ’fore night—you will, by
Melissy! Peart up, man; don’t let love-affairs git you down. Lordy!
I’ve had hundreds of ’em—an’ I’m able fer three square meals a day yit.
What’re you so down in the mouth bout?”
“I’m all right—nothing ails me,” Douglas replied hastily, arising and
walking away.
Duke followed him. The intelligent animal knew that something had gone
amiss with the master he loved. Farley looked after them and lugubriously
shaking his head muttered:
“Well, if that don’t beat my reckonin’, my name ain’t Joseph Peregoy
Farley!”
It was mid-forenoon ere the army was again upon the march. Very slowly
the great serpent—that was intended to choke the life out of Tecumseh’s
infant confederacy—dragged its cumbersome body forward. Governor Harrison
and his staff rode in the van. Ross Douglas and Bright Wing kept near
him. When the army was four miles from camp, savages were seen skulking
from one sheltered point to another. The commander halted his troops and
sent forward a number of scouts and interpreters. The men returned and
informed him that they could not come up with the redmen, who fled from
them, with insulting words and threatening gestures.
Among the interpreters sent forward were Douglas and the Wyandot. On his
return to Harrison’s presence, Ross reported as follows:
“Governor, the Indians fled from us, as on yesterday. They mean mischief.
You must be prepared for treachery, if you hold a council with them. You
know now that Bradford attempted to deceive you this morning, when he
told you the savages were anxious for peace.”
“You heard his report?” Harrison asked quickly.
“I did.”
“By the way”—and the governor glanced hurriedly around—“where _is_ the
man? I ordered him to remain within call.”
“I haven’t seen him since we left camp,” Ross answered.
The commander bent forward in the saddle and motioned the young scout
to come closer. Then drawing down his brows until his eyes were almost
closed, he whispered:
“Do you believe Bradford entered the Indian town at all?”
“Yes, I do,” was the positive reply.
“Ah!” The governor looked relieved.
“Yes,” Ross continued in a low, cautious tone, “I think he entered the
village. And no one but a friend of the allied tribes would dare to do
that—in my opinion.”
“You mean——” Harrison began, but stopped suddenly, and, smiling, shook
his head.
“I hardly know what I mean,” Douglas said with an uneasy laugh. “However,
I’ll explain as best I can.”
He told the commander of Bradford’s suspicious words and actions,
concluding:
“It’s not for me to offer you advice, governor; but if you’ll pardon my
boldness, I would suggest that you keep an eye on Bradford and the negro
ox-driver, Ben.”
A worried look rested upon Harrison’s rugged countenance, as he murmured
slowly:
“I thank you for your information—for your watchful loyalty to your
commander and your country. You did well to tell me. Appearances are
against Bradford, but I can’t believe him a traitor. As to keeping an
eye on the two—it’s easier said than done. I don’t know the negro. And
it seems impossible to get an eye on Bradford to-day—to say nothing of
keeping it on him. However, I’ll be watchful. If you learn anything more
definite, come to me at once.”
Then turning to an aide, he commanded:
“Find Bradford, the scout, and bring him to me.”
In a few minutes the young officer returned to report that the man could
not be found. The governor looked grave, but gave the order for the
column to move forward.
By mid-afternoon the advance guard was within three miles of the
Prophet’s Town. Here the ground was broken by ravines and covered with
scrub timber. It became necessary to exercise the utmost precaution, to
avoid an ambuscade. Scouts and interpreters were pushed to the extreme
front, and every pass was reconnoitered by mounted riflemen before the
main column entered it. Harrison kept changing the relative positions of
the various corps, as he advanced, that each might have the ground best
suited to its maneuvers.
Within about two miles of the town, the trail descended a steep hill, at
the bottom of which was a small creek running through a narrow strip of
swampy prairie. Beyond this was a level plain covered with oak forest
without underbrush. Near the ford, the woods were very thick—an admirable
place for the Indians to practice their mode of warfare.
The governor apprehended that the savages would fall upon him at the
crossing—if they meant to give him battle at all—and arranged his troops
accordingly. Indians were seen hovering around the front and flanks of
the army, but they made no move to attack. The long column crossed the
creek unmolested and formed on the other side. The redmen retreated
toward their village, a mile and a half away.
The afternoon was far advanced, so the commander decided to go into camp.
But a number of his officers urged him to move quickly forward and attack
the town at once. This he refused to do, saying:
“My orders are to avoid a conflict with the savages, if possible.
However, I’ll determine what their intentions are as soon as I can—and
act promptly as soon as I have positive information. I can’t imagine
what has become of the friendly chiefs I sent out from Fort Harrison.
They should have met us miles back. I hope they are in the village and
will come out to us this evening. We’ll fortify ourselves as we did last
night—and await the issue.”
“But, governor,” urged Major Daviess, “the Indians mean to give us
battle—their actions indicate the fact. They are attempting to draw us
into a trap. Our men are in high spirits and anxious to attack. We should
take advantage of their ardor and——”
“And fall headlong into the trap of which you speak,” Harrison
interrupted. “No, it won’t do to advance until we know more of the ground
between here and the town. Already we are badly situated—these woods and
ravines are favorable to the Indians. A small body of the enemy could
harass us terribly. If I knew what lies between here and the village, I
would consent to a cautious advance—but not otherwise.”
“The rough ground soon ends,” Major Daviess answered. “The town lies upon
the low bottoms of the Wabash and is surrounded by level, cultivated
fields.”
“How do you know this, major?” the governor inquired.
“Adjutant Floyd and myself advanced to the precipitous bank that descends
to the valley, and had a fair view of the place.”
“Then,” said the commander, reluctantly, “I’ll advance slowly and in
order of battle, provided I can get some one to enter the town ahead of
the army with a flag of truce.”
Captain Dubois of Vincennes stepped forward and volunteered his services.
Harrison turned to Douglas, who was standing near, and said:
“Douglas, will you and the Wyandot accompany Captain Dubois, as
interpreters?”
“Of course, governor,” Ross replied cheerfully.
“Be off, then—and note carefully all you see and hear. Captain, obtain a
positive answer from the Prophet, whether he will comply with the terms I
have so often proposed. Have a care that you don’t get cut off from the
army.”
Taking with him several soldiers and the two interpreters, Captain Dubois
set out for the town. The army moved slowly after, in order of battle.
When the captain and his comrades were within a mile of the town, they
encountered a large body of Indians. The interpreters tried to open
communication with them, but the treacherous savages gave no heed to
repeated hails. All the while they circled around the little band of
whites, attempting to separate them from their friends in the rear.
“It’s useless and dangerous to proceed further,” the captain exclaimed
angrily. “Brown,” addressing a soldier, “go back to the governor and
inform him of our want of success, and of the perilous position we
occupy.”
On receiving the word from his peace messenger, Harrison set his teeth
and said firmly:
“I’ve done with the Prophet’s dillydallying; I’ll treat him as an enemy.
Recall Captain Dubois and his men, and order the entire army to advance
at a brisk pace. If the Indians don’t come out to treat with me, I’ll
attack their town at once.”
In a few minutes Dubois and his comrades had rejoined the command. An
animated scene presented itself to their gaze. Orderlies were galloping
hither and thither; officers were giving hurried commands; and regulars
and militiamen were exchanging oaths and jokes, as they stood in
line, awaiting the order to advance. Every man thought an engagement
imminent—and was depressed or elated at the prospect, according to his
temperament.
“Forward!”
The compact lines moved. But scarcely were they in motion ere they
were met by a deputation of three chiefs—including the Prophet’s chief
councilor—who had come from the village to meet the commander and confer
with him.
Again the army halted. Officers swore and privates grumbled. Why should
they listen to such tardy envoys? Why not make prisoners of them—and
proceed to the attack? But Harrison gave no heed to the stormy protests
of his staff, nor to the sullen mutterings of the rank and file. He had
resolved to give the chiefs an audience. He did so; and received from
them the information that the Prophet was desirous for peace—that he
wished to know why so large a force of armed men was approaching his
town. Also, they said the Prophet had sent back the Pottawatomie and
Miami chiefs—whom the governor had dispatched from Fort Harrison—with
a pacific message, but the friendly emissaries had made their return
journey on the south side of the Wabash, and for that reason had missed
the army.
All this seemed so fair and candid that the commander agreed to
an armistice and told the chiefs to inform the Prophet, that
he—Harrison—would hold a council with him the next day.
Once more the columns moved forward. The commander intended to camp
on the low ground near the village, which occupied a slight eminence
overlooking the wet bottoms. But not finding the place to his liking, he
sent Major Waller and Taylor to select a more suitable location. The site
the officers chose was an elevated piece of dry ground, a short distance
northeast of the Indian town and directly facing it.
Toward this spot the army proceeded. As the lines of soldiers filed
past the village, numbers of armed warriors sallied forth, and appeared
ill-humored and threatening.
When the troops were nearing the chosen site of the encampment, an
incident occurred that created a momentary ripple of excitement. Ben,
the negro ox-driver, suddenly threw down his whip and, leaving his
companions, ran off at full speed toward the Indian town. A number of
braves—as though expecting him—met him and conducted him within the
walls. The other drivers hooted in derision, and flung curses at the
woolly head disappearing within the gate of the palisade surrounding the
village.
“Dang-it-all-to-dingnation!” shouted Joe Farley. “Let the black deserter
go. I wish I had my ol’ rifle out o’ the wagon, fer jest a minute! I jest
hope the redskins ’ll roast an’ eat him. It’ll do two good things—be the
end o’ the nigger-traitor, an’ kill the Injins. _Dang_ a nigger, anyhow!”
Governor Harrison’s attention was attracted by the hubbub and he inquired
the cause of it.
“One of the negro ox-drivers employed by the contractor has left his team
and entered the Indian village,” explained an aide at the governor’s
elbow.
“What’s the fellow’s name?” Harrison asked quickly.
“I don’t know, governor.”
“Send Ross Douglas to me at once,” was the sharp command.
The aide obeyed. And soon the young scout was at the commander’s side.
“What’s the black’s name, who just went over to the Indians?” Harrison
asked, bending down until his face was on a level with Douglas’s.
“Ben,” was the curt reply.
“The same of whom you told me?”
“The same, governor.”
“Lieutenant”—addressing an officer of his staff—“go and bring the negro
back. Take with you a squad of men—and yonder Wyandot, as interpreter.”
Then again turning to Ross:
“Have you seen that man Bradford, to-day?”
“I have not, governor.”
“Do you know what has become of him?”
Douglas silently shook his head.
A fierce scowl darkened the commander’s face as he said in a low tone:
“Nor do I—but I have an opinion. He’s an infernal traitor—and has
deserted. I have no doubt that at this moment he’s in the Prophet’s
Town. Dark and devilish treachery is afoot. But thanks to you, my young
friend, I shall not be taken by surprise. When I again have that man
before me, I shall know how to deal with him. The black is a mere tool—an
ignorant dupe. Keep your knowledge to yourself. I’ll defeat Bradford’s
purpose—whatever it may be.”
The army reached the elevated piece of ground three-quarters of a mile
from the village, and went into camp. It was late in the evening. The sun
was sinking in a bank of dun-colored clouds—an indication of a dark and
rainy night.
The teamsters disposed of their wagons, as on the previous evening. Wood
and water in abundance were near at hand, for a clear creek, bordered
by trees and bushes, flowed at the rear of the camp. Night shut down
and a drizzling rain began to fall. But supper was under way, and the
appetizing odors of broiling meat and boiling coffee cheered the hearts
and loosened the tongues of the tired men. The merry snap and crackle of
dancing flames drowned the doleful voice of the wind sweeping across the
open prairie and soughing among the scrubby trees.
While the men were unloading the vehicles and pack-horses and preparing
supper, several Indians from the town ventured within the lines. Having
in mind the mysterious disappearance of Bradford and the open desertion
of Ben, Governor Harrison promptly ordered the red warriors to betake
themselves to their own camp. At the same time he requested them to send
back the negro—whom the staff officer had failed to find, and who was
still in hiding at their village. This they promised to do.
Ross Douglas listened silently to the idle tales of his companions, but
his thoughts were far away. He was thinking of Amy Larkin—as he had
thought of her a hundred times that day. He wished that he might see
her, if only for a few seconds. He felt lonely and depressed. Then the
disfigured countenance of Hiram Bradford arose before his mind’s eye and
shut out the fair face of his sweetheart.
Ross rubbed his eyes and tried to rid himself of the unwelcome mental
vision. But it would not depart at his bidding. His thoughts refused to
revert to Amy, but persisted in dwelling upon the scar-faced scout. It
made him angry; and he arose and sauntered about in the darkness.
On returning to the fire he heard a militiaman remarking:
“Well, I reckon this ends the whole matter. We’ve come on a reg’lar
fool’s errand—a wild goose chase. To-morrer the gov’ner ’ll hold a
powwow with the Injins—make another treaty with ’em that they’ll break
’fore we’re back to Fort Harrison. Then what? W’y, we’ll march back to
Vincennes an’ be discharged. Cuss it! We ort to whip the red devils while
we’ve got ’em cornered. It puts me in mind o’ the ol’ story ’bout the
king o’ Spain; how he marched up the hill—an’ then marched down ag’in.
The idee of a man totin’ a gun every day fer six weeks, to git a shot at
a redskin, an’ then when he’s got the critters holed, somebody sayin’ he
can’t do it!”
“I don’t know ’bout y’r not gittin’ a chance to shoot,” Joe Farley
answered reflectively. “Wouldn’t be s’rprised you’d git the chance when
you was least expectin’ it. Injins is dang cunnin’ varmints, sure’s
you’re born. From all I’ve seen an’ heerd o’ this Prophet an’ his band,
I’m o’ the ’pinion we’ll have a scrimmage with ’em ’fore we git out o’
this clearin’. An’ if we _do_, it’ll come mighty sudden—an’ in the night,
most likely—an’ you’ll have a chance to shoot y’r gun off more times ’n
you’re hankerin’ fer.
“The idee o’ you complainin’ ’bout totin’ a rifle! You ort to be
ashamed—you had by Jerushy! If you’d had to whack bulls from Fort
Harrison—wear y’r back out a-lickin’ ’em an’ y’r breath out acussin’
’em—you might complain. But I’m through with it at last—thank the Lord!
I’ve resigned my commission. Somebody else ’ll drive ’em back ’r they
won’t be druv—that’s all. The idee o’ puttin’ a free-born American along
with a lot o’ niggers to drive oxen! It’s a disgrace—a shame—a blot on
the Constertution! Laugh, dang y’r skins!”—His companions were hawhawing
boisterously.—“Laugh at the agony of an abused man! But you chaps ’ll be
laughin’ out o’ the other corner o’ y’r mouths, ’fore mornin’—’r I miss
_my_ guess.”
The laughter suddenly ceased. And one of the militiamen inquired gravely:
“What do you mean, Farley?”
“Jest this,” Joe replied impressively. “I’ll bet any man a pound o’
powder we have a rumpus with the Injins ’fore sun-up to-morrer mornin’.
What do you say, Bright Wing?”
The Wyandot deliberately removed his pipe from his lips, with the stem of
it waved aside the cloud of smoke he blew from his lungs, and answered in
guttural but not unmusical tones:
“Bad Shawnees much sly, like fox. Make believe all time want peace—all
time want war. Paleface camp here. Shawnee town there—two, three rifle
shots away. Bad Shawnees—bad Winnebagoes—bad Senecas—all bad. But
much brave—heap cunning. Big Prophet talk, talk. Night dark—palefaces
sleep—Indians come and kill, Ugh!”
The Wyandot resumed his pipe; the militiamen sat speechless.
“There it is, as plain as the nose on a man’s face!” Joe shouted,
exultingly. “Ross Douglas, you hain’t said a word. What do _you_ think?”
Douglas answered quietly:
“I think the savages mean to try to surprise and massacre us. But whether
they’ll make the attempt to-night, I don’t know—I have no idea.”
“Hark!” cried a militiaman, nervously springing to his feet. “What’s that
hullabaloo ’bout?”
His companions hastily arose and stood listening intently. A chorus of
shouts, mingled with curses, came from the direction of the governor’s
tent.
“I’ll soon see what’s up,” muttered Farley, bounding away toward the spot
whence the sounds came.
The others seated themselves and anxiously awaited his return. The uproar
suddenly ceased. A few minutes later, Joe again stood within the circle
of light. A broad grin irradiated his homely features.
“What was it?” bawled half a dozen voices at once.
“W’y, ding-it-all-to-dangnation!” Farley exclaimed excitedly. “The
_nigger’s_ come back. An’ Cap’n Wilson’s captured him an’ got him in
charge.”
“Where did he capture him?” Douglas asked quickly.
“Right behind the gov’nor’s tent—the dang sneak was a-hidin’ in the
shadder of it.”
“And he returned to murder the commander,” Ross muttered under his
breath. “So that, at least, was a part of Bradford’s plan; and it has
miscarried. Who _is_ that man—an agent of the British? He’s foiled for
the present, at any rate. But what does he know of me? Why was he so
agitated when he learned my name? And no doubt he’s at the Prophet’s
Town, impatiently awaiting the news that the governor is assassinated.
Thank God, he’s doomed to disappointment!”
Gradually the noises of the camp died out. Wrapped in their blankets
and with their guns at their sides, the soldiers stretched themselves
around the fires and fell asleep. The wind moaned dismally; the flames
cast grotesque shadows over the sleeping forms. In the outer darkness the
sentries paced their lonely beats. The murmur of shouting savages and
barking dogs came in on the wings of the fitful gale, telling that the
inhabitants of the Prophet’s Town were still astir. Then the fickle wind
veered to another point of the compass—and all was still. Suddenly the
silence was broken by the voice of a lusty singer. The sleepers stirred
uneasily as they heard in their dreams:
“The Injins hankers fer my scalp,
To sell to the highest bidder;
An’ when I’m dead an’ in my grave,
My wife ’ll be a widder!”
“Drat the critter, anyhow!” grumbled Farley, flopping over upon his
stomach and raising his head. “He’s at it ag’in. Seems he can’t sleep,
n’r let anybody else. I wish to gosh he’d stayed in ol’ Kaintuck with his
wife an’ babies—I do, by Tabithy!”
Then in a startled voice:
“Say, Ross, wake up! Y’r Injin’s took his departure. Ther’ ain’t hide n’r
hair of him to be seen.”
Douglas rubbed his eyes and sat erect. Bright Wing had disappeared.
[Illustration]