Horsemen of the Prairie
All that day, and the next morning, too, the band of troopers from
Fort Dearborn continued their steady travel westward, over the rolling
prairies of the Illinois country. The four scouts--three whites and one
red--led the march, and from time to time the agile Bright Star would
alight from his horse and examine the trail they were following. His
study always revealed that the Prairie Wolf and his Sacs, together with
the deserter, Pat Fagan, were fleeing before them.
“Heading for the Rock River, to join up with the main Injun force under
Black Hawk,” conjectured Ben Gordon.
“Maybe we can catch up with them and wipe them out, before they make a
junction,” Tom added, raising himself in his stirrups and searching the
rolling plain with his strong, young eyes.
“Ugh,” said Bright Star, shaking his head soberly, “it will not be.”
“I reckon the young chief is right,” Brown agreed. “The Wolf an’ his
men are movin’ powerful fast, an’ while the trail is growin’ warmer,
it don’t look as if we kin catch ’em afore they hit the river.”
“They’ve maybe reached Black Hawk by now,” concluded Ben.
At noon the usual pause was made. Food and black tea were served, and
then the sixty remounted. For two hours more the trail led directly
west, then veered very slightly to the north. A few more miles and
suddenly, upon coming over a low rise of ground, they saw before them
the dark, wide, rapid waters of a sizable stream.
“Rock River!” sang out Bill Brown.
“Zounds, at last!” grumbled Van Alstyne. “The more I see of this
God-forsaken country, the less I like it. If I ever get to Washington,
I’m going to introduce a bill in Congress proposing that we give the
whole miserable region back to the Indians. It would seem that--”
“Look, Captain!” broke in Ben Gordon excitedly, “look up there, will
you!”
The stoutish officer turned awkwardly in his saddle, and gazed north
along the river bank where the boy was pointing.
“What of it, lad? what of it?” he asked waspishly. “I see nothing but a
tumble-down cabin and barn, no doubt deserted by some poor settler who
had his belly full of this detestable hole.”
“Why, that’s Dixon’s place, Cap’n,” Bill Brown informed him, “er what’s
left of it. John Dixon ’stablished a ferry an’ stoppin place here ’bout
four years past, back in 1828. His buildin’s was sure ’nuff standin’
two weeks ago, when I come through on the way to Dearborn. ’Pears to
me that Black Hawk an’ his Sac ruffians has been here since.”
“Cabin burn. Ugh!” offered Bright Star, squinting his eyes upriver.
“Very likely struck by lightning,” sniffed Van Alstyne. “You’ve all got
Black Hawk on the brain. I still believe that the bally old chief is
sitting before his lodge fire, over in Ioway, toasting his toes.”
“No siree!” protested the scout sternly, “this is Injun doin’s. Let’s
press on!”
When they reached the place, they found it to be a complete ruin. From
the foundations, and what Bill Brown knew of the place, it could be
determined that there had been several structures,--house, barn, shed
and three other outbuildings. Nothing now remained but a few fragments
of charred walls, and a portion of roof on the low shed.
“Yep,” repeated Bill solemnly, “torch an’ tomahawk did this deviltry.”
“I wonder what was the fate of those who lived here,” mused Ben sadly.
“Sliced to ribbons by the Injun knives, lad. Mebbe the kids an’
women-folk was carried off to captivity.”
“Ugh, ugh!” interjected Bright Star, pointing suddenly to the rear of
the ruined barn.
“What’s got into that confounded redskin now?” said Van Alstyne
peevishly. “That ’ugh, ugh’ fol-de-rol of his is beginning to get on my
nerves.”
“What is it, chief?” asked Brown quickly, ignoring the Captain’s
complaint.
“Mounds of earth, behind barn. Maybe burial place.”
“These are graves, that’s a certainty,” nodded Lieutenant Clark, when
the group had moved over to the place pointed out by the Pottawattomee.
“Four of them, and newly made,” Ben said soberly.
“No doubt the graves of the Indian victims,” commented Van Alstyne
acidly. “Evidently Black Hawk and his painted braves are unique among
the savages. They murder the settlers and then give them civilized
burial.”
“Yer right on one score, Cap’n, fer a change,” answered Bill Brown
calmly. “The mounds cover the bodies o’ the pore folk kilt by the
Injuns. But these Christian graves are the work o’ white men, who
must’ve come along arter the massacre an’ found the corpses.”
“White men?” returned the Captain. “But who?”
“Guess you didn’t notice that trail we crossed, when we rode in here?”
“How should I? I’m no blinkin’ blood-hound.”
“It was ther, plain as the nose on yer face. Come on, let’s go over an’
take a close squint at it. It may tell us a lot.”
Moving away from the river, and out onto the prairie, perhaps a hundred
yards, they looked down on the broad trail of many unshod horses and
marks of wagon wheels. There it was, clearly imprinted on the soft,
prairie earth.
The trail could not speak, but still it was like a living thing. It
lay silently before them, yet standing out on the brown soil, wide,
vivid, and full of significance. It told the keen-eyed Bright Star and
Bill Brown, the veteran scout, that here a white army had passed, many
men, hundreds of them, heading hurriedly northward, up the river. This
was the story the trail told.
“Gad, you are right, Brown,” admitted Van Alstyne, as his eyes beheld
the tell-tale evidence. “A large force of men has gone this way.”
“And not long ago,” Tom Gordon declared. “The prints look fresh.”
“Mighty fresh,” nodded Brown. “I’d say that they was made this very
mornin’.”
“I think I can offer a solution, Captain,” averred Lieutenant Clark,
“as to who these men were.”
“I hope so, I hope so, Lieutenant. As far as I know, they may as well
be men from Mars. I can see that there were a lot of them, and that
they’ve churned up the earth like a herd of cattle; but as to their
identity, there you have me.”
“Here’s my idea of it, sir,” went on Clark, pulling a map from his
pocket. “You remember that Governor Reynolds, in his dispatches, said
that a large number of volunteers would rendezvous at Beardstown. Now
take a look at this map. Beardstown is some seventy-five miles due
south of here. I think that this fresh trail was made by the Beardstown
volunteers. Their scouts have brought them word that Black Hawk is
moving northward, up the Rock River, and they are hot on his heels.”
“By George, Clark, that’s capital reasoning. At times I haven’t thought
too highly of your ability, but I am beginning to believe that you will
develop into a first-rate officer.”
“Thank you, sir; but what course do you feel that we should now follow?”
“Well, let me think. I have it,--just the thing. I’ll take four
troopers with me and press rapidly up the trail. Five of us can travel
much more rapidly than the whole detachment. I’ll come up with the
volunteers before dark and spend the night in their tents.”
“And we’ll camp here, and follow along in the morning?” queried Clark.
“That’s it. A body of men the size of the volunteer force must
necessarily travel slow. You should have no trouble in overtaking us
some time tomorrow,--probably no later than mid-afternoon.”
“Very well, sir,” said Clark uneasily, “but wouldn’t it be wise to take
Bill Brown or one of the other scouts with you?”
“Nonsense, Lieutenant, nonsense! When old Black Hawk’s spies carried
him word of this pursuing army, he no doubt turned tail and skedaddled
north as fast as his ponies will trot. I imagine he won’t stop running
till he gets to Lake Superior, or maybe Hudson Bay. And good riddance,
say I!”
“It’s up to you, sir,” was Clark’s final comment, “but I would
earnestly advise you to be wary.”
“Pshaw!” boasted Van Alstyne, “I feel as safe as strolling down the
Bowery in good old New York City; but if you insist, I will take along
young Ben Gordon.”
Ten minutes later, the Captain, Ben Gordon and the four troopers--one
of whom was Jim Martin--rode out of Dixon’s Ferry, and with a final
wave of farewell struck up the broad trail to the north; while those
who were left behind proceeded to pitch camp for the night, on the open
bank of the wilderness river.
Sunset was soon at hand; and after the big, molten orb had gone down
in the west, mists and vapors began to roll in from the northeast,
promising a chilly and dark night. The little band of Indian hunters
built bright fires, however, over which they cooked bacon and made the
customary tea. The food and drink heartened them wonderfully, and,
although it was felt necessary to put out the blazes as soon as the
cooking was over, the effect of the warmth lingered on.
At the behest of Lieutenant Clark, Bill Brown, Bright Star and Tom
Gordon went up the trail, scouting in the twilight. The three scouts
came back, after a while, and reported that nothing could be found on
the prairie to the north. There seemed no danger of a night attack, and
the men could probably sleep undisturbed till the morning; although
double guards would be posted as a precaution, now that they were in
the very heart of the Indian domain.
This first detail of guards had hardly begun its rounds, however, when
one of them, on the down river side of camp, detected the sound of
voices to the south. There was silence for a few moments, and then the
anxious guard again heard a distant shout or two. He at once passed the
word along to summon Lieutenant Clark.
“What’s the trouble, Jones?” asked the officer tersely,--as he hurried
up with Bill Brown, whom he had hastily aroused from sleep.
“Voices down the trail to the south, sir,” said the guard.
The three listened intently for a moment. Again there came a distant
call, followed by an answering whoop from farther away.
“Those are white men,” asserted Bill. “I’ll vouch fer that.”
“I think so, Bill; but at any rate we’d best be cautious.”
“Well spoken, Left’nant.”
“Now, Jones,” went on the officer, “we’ll hold our tongues for the time
being. When those fellows, whoever they be, advance within ten paces or
so, challenge them. Is that clear?”
“It is, sir. Yes, sir.”
There was no further shouting down the trail, but, after a short
interval, there was a noise near at hand, and a muttered imprecation as
someone stumbled over a rough spot in the path.
“Halt! who comes there?” abruptly barked the sentinel.
There was a dead silence for a half-moment. Then came the gruff
response out of the pitchy dark, “Who the blazes wants ter know?”
“Who comes there?” again challenged the sentinel.
“Keep yer shirt on!” was the answer. “We’re the ’rig’nal iron-jawed,
brass-mounted, copper-bellied Injun chasers from the wilds o’ Sangamon
County. Folks down that way call us ‘Sudden Death.’ So stand back an’
give us room to pass!”
“Not till you properly identify yourselves,” cut in Lieutenant Clark
grimly.
“Say, feller, listen har! I take six rattle-snakes an’ a bar’l o’
whiskey fer breakfast, when I’m feelin’ my us’al self. Blood’s my
fav’rite drink, an’ the moans o’ the dyin’ is soothin’ to my ears. But
ef yer gwine ter git yer back up ’bout the matter, I’ll break down an’
state that my name is Pete Perkins.”
“Pete Perkins!” burst out Bill Brown, unable to conceal his surprise.
“Why, you double-dyed ol’ rascal, are you still pollutin’ the earth?”
“Whoopee! that sounds powerful like ol’ Bill Brown, the Kaintock
border-man with the petrified gizzard.”
“You appear to know this party, Bill,” laughed Lieutenant Clark. “Let
him come on, sentinel.”
“Whoopee, that’s good!” cried Pete, jumping up and cracking his heels
together three times before he lit. “I’m comin’ on; but don’t git over
near me, ez I’m fust cousin ter the cholera, an’ close related ter the
smallpox on my father’s side.”
There followed a few moments of quick question and answer, and it
was learned that Perkins was the advance scout for a large force of
volunteer militia that followed a mile behind.
“We be more’n a thousand strong,” declared the voluble scout, letting
fly a torrent of tobacco juice, “all hossmen, ’cept ’bout tew hunderd
foot sojurs.”
“Who is in command?” asked Clark.
“Brigadier-Gen’ral Sam Whiteside, the best dad-blamed Injun fighter
on the frontier. An’ in jest a half-hour yew kin confab with him
person’ly. The men has marched twenty mile terday, over muddy roads.
But ol’ Sam set his sights fer Dixon’s Ferry, this mornin’ when we
busted kemp, an’ I’ll be durned ef we didn’t make it.”