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.”