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.”