The Lodge of Black Hawk
That same evening, in an Indian lodge on the banks of Sycamore Creek, a
small stream flowing into the Rock River about thirty-five miles north
of Dixon’s Ferry, an important conference was taking place.
The Indian lodge was that of the famed Sac chief, Black Hawk. It was
a large lodge, covered with grass mats and very nicely arranged. Four
sticks of wood, placed to form a square in the center, answered the
purpose of a hearth, within which was a crackling fire of birchwood,
the smoke escaping through an opening in the top. Against the sides,
hanging from the poles or framework, were various skin bags containing
food and other belongings. Sundry ladles, small kettles, and wooden
bowls also hung from the cross-poles; and dangling from the center
pole, by an iron chain, was a larger kettle, in which a meat stew of
vension, rabbit and squirrel was seething over the brisk fire.
On the floor of the lodge, between the warm fire and outer wall, were
spread mats, upon which were seated three dusky Indians of the Sac
tribe.
One of these, on the north side of the lodge, was Black Hawk himself,
dressed in a buckskin suit. The noted sachem was only some five feet,
five inches in height, and rather spare as to flesh. His somewhat
pinched features exaggerated the prominence of the cheekbones of his
race. As to other facial characteristics, he had a full mouth, a
pronounced Roman nose, bright and piercing eyes, no eyebrows, a high
forehead, and a head well thrown back with a pose of quiet dignity. His
hair was plucked out, with the exception of the scalp-lock, in which,
on occasions such as this, was fastened a bunch of eagle feathers.
On the south side of the lodge, across the fire from Black Hawk, sat
the sinister Ne-a-pope, dark of visage and wrapped in his familiar,
faded green blanket. The third brave, seated on the west, was none
other than the burly young chief, Prairie Wolf. Ne-a-pope and the Wolf,
together with the soldier deserter, Pat Fagan, had arrived at Sycamore
Creek only an hour before, after their hurried journey across country
from Fort Dearborn.
“Ho, Ne-a-pope,” spoke up Black Hawk, “you are back from your long
journey.”
“Aye,” responded Ne-a-pope, “I have returned.”
“You had talks with the British in Canada?”
“Aye, we took council for many hours.”
“What was decided?”
“The British will send help, oh Black Hawk.”
“It is well,” the chief rejoined, his eyes glowing brightly at the
news. “When and where will the red-coats come?”
“By way of Mil-wa-ke, so they said. It may be that they have started up
the lakes ere now.”
“Your words lift my drooping spirits, oh worthy Ne-a-pope,” confessed
Black Hawk.
“Your heart is heavy?”
“My heart is heavy, very heavy.”
“Why so?”
“It is this way. When I took up the war-hatchet against the hated
pale-face, I had reason to think that the Foxes, Winnebagoes and
warriors of other tribes would rush to my side. They had sent me the
red wampum.”
“None have come in?”
“Only a handful.”
“Why is this so?”
“The Pottawattomee chief, Shaubena, and others of his powerful nation,
have passed among them, saying that Black Hawk is a madcap, a fool to
fight the swarming pale-faces, who number as the leaves of the trees.”
“The accursed Pottawattomees have been bought with pale-face gold!”
cried Ne-a-pope, his face writhing with fierce anger.
“It may well be,” admitted Black Hawk. “Also, I begin to fear that the
Foxes and Winnebagoes are old women, afraid to raise the war-cry. The
ancient courage of their fathers has gone. Their hearts are faint and
their muscles feeble.”
“Mayhap Fox and Winnebago await the day when Black Hawk gives battle to
the pale-face soldiers,” put in the sullen Prairie Wolf, who had been
listening silently to the conversation.
“Did I not cross the Wapt-pa-ton-ga (Great River),” replied Black Hawk,
somewhat stung by the Wolf’s blunt statement, “and throw down the
gauntlet? What did noble Fox and brave Winnebago do then? I will tell
you. They skulk in their lodges, like beaten dogs.”
“Aye, but they only await a victory. That will bring out their
war-paint. Advance, oh chief, with your valiant warriors.”
“The Prairie Wolf speaks words of great wisdom,” nodded Ne-a-pope
vigorously. “When Fox and Winnebago hear how the white soldiers ran at
our fierce charge, and see the many scalps hanging from Sac girdles,
they will flock to our side. We will drive the thievish pale-faces from
our lands forever!”
“Your tongues are sharp,” Black Hawk replied thoughtfully, “but it may
well be that your advice is of the best.”
“Ho!” said Ne-a-pope.
“Ugh!” urged the Prairie Wolf. “Sac, Winnebago and Fox will stand as
one. Death to the pale-face!”
At this juncture there was a sudden sound of “hogh!”, the mat which
hung over the entrance of the lodge was raised, and a Sac warrior
entered with that graceful bound which is peculiar to the race. He was
a tall, finely-formed savage, with a grave, open countenance. It was
Walking Cloud, famous medicine man of the Sacs.
“Ho, Walking Cloud,” greeted Black Hawk with the utmost friendliness,
for he had deep respect for the big medicine man, “what news do you
bring?”
“At sunset, oh Black Hawk, white men make camp down river.”
“Near at hand?”
“One hour’s journey.”
“Ugh! is the number big?”
“Big, very big. Many guns, horses, wagons.”
“Do the soldiers have blue coats?”
“Our scouts say they wear coats of deerskin.”
“Ho!” said Black Hawk. “Men from village and farm.”
“Good!” exclaimed Ne-a-pope. “Blue-coats from fort have not yet come.”
“Blue-coats from fort maybe camp for night at the ferry,” observed the
Wolf, shrewdly hitting the nail on the head.
“Let us then, oh Black Hawk,” urged Ne-a-pope, “give attack before the
blue-coats come.”
“Blue-coats heap brave,” warned the Wolf. “Fight like wild-cats.”
“Your words are well meant,” mused Black Hawk, “but I yet hope to keep
more blood from spilling.”
“Ugh!” snarled the Wolf disgustedly.
“How so?” asked Ne-a-pope skeptically.
“At daybreak I will send out three braves with a white flag to the
pale-face camp. I will demand that the pale-faces withdraw from the
Sac lands within the hour. Otherwise, I will order an attack.”
“A wise plan,” declared the medicine man, Walking Cloud, disregarding
the protestations of Ne-a-pope and the Wolf, “and one which will
place the blame for further warfare on the pale-faces. If they do not
retreat, give them the tomahawk.”
“It is a fool’s scheme,” averred Ne-a-pope bluntly.
“It will do no good,” agreed the Prairie Wolf, shaking his head
doggedly.
“Nevertheless, I will try it,” persisted the Hawk, rising to his feet
to conclude the council. “Go to your lodges. I will summon you at
sunup.”
When dawn came, the Sac encampment awakened to sudden activity. The sun
was barely above the horizon when Walking Cloud and three other braves
rode out from the lodges toward the camp of the whites. On the end of a
spear the Cloud bore a white flag, signifying that the Sacs wished to
have a conference with the white militia.
Accompanying the four Sacs, on their all-important mission, was a white
man--none other than the giant deserter, Pat Fagan. Black Hawk had
prevailed on the big renegade to act as an interpreter, not knowing
whether or not the whites had one in their ranks. Fagan had at first
refused pointblank, but when told that the whites were volunteer
militia, and not regulars, he agreed to go along, albeit with some
reluctance. He also foolishly beguiled himself with the idea that he
would be safe under the white flag of truce, although a deserter; even
if he were recognized, which appeared unlikely, as he had donned Sac
raiment--including a feathered headdress--and rubbed his face and body
with a dark stain.
The Indians, with their white flag flying prettily in the light breeze,
had progressed across the green prairie to within a mile of the
volunteer camp, when they suddenly found themselves face to face with
a little band of white horsemen who emerged from behind a thick grove
of trees. With a sinking heart the renegade, Fagan, quickly discerned
that one of the approaching whites was his old commander at Fort
Dearborn, Captain Van Alstyne. A low cry of consternation came from the
deserter’s lips, as he made the startling discovery.
“You lyin’ red varmint!” he said hoarsely to the impassive Walking
Cloud, who luckily did not understand the epithet.
Walking Cloud, moreover, was innocent of the accusation. What had
happened was that Van Alstyne and his party had reached the volunteer
camp at a late hour, the previous evening, long after the Sac spies had
scouted the place. Hence, the spies had seen no blue-coated regulars.
A second later, Fagan’s alarm grew even more pronounced; for, at Van
Alstyne’s side, he saw the trim figure of young Ben Gordon. At this,
the agitated renegade drew a quick rein on his Indian pony; but then
abruptly let the beast go forward again, as he saw that it was now too
late, by far, to permit of withdrawal. Gritting his teeth in abject
rage, he steeled himself for the ordeal, hoping against hope that
neither the Captain nor young Ben would penetrate his Indian disguise.
The two approaching parties, red and white, now slowed their mounts
to a walk, meanwhile eyeing each other with the uttermost caution. At
length, when they were not more than a few rods apart, Captain Van
Alstyne threw up his hand in a gesture of warning.
“Who comes here?” he challenged.
“Messengers from Black Hawk,” mumbled Pat Fagan, trying hard to mask
his voice.
“What does the chief want?”
“He demands you git out from the Injun lands.”
“Ho, ho!” snorted Van Alstyne, “Black Hawk has a short memory. The
United States Government bought these lands from the Indians thirty
years ago.”
“Black Hawk claims it a swindle,” went on Fagan, his words scarcely
more than a mutter.
“The red fraud is trying to crawl out of his bargain,” rejoined the
Captain, with a contemptuous leer. “Return to him at once, and tell him
that we ask his immediate surrender.”
“The Hawk laughs in yer face,” replied the renegade. “It’ll be bloody
war now.”
“Ha!” taunted Van Alstyne scornfully, “the red blather-skite is afraid
to fight. This is nothing but bluff on his part. We’re on to his game.”
Meantime, Ben Gordon had been studying the Indian interpreter with
increasing suspicion. The voice, the carriage, the very manner of the
burly brave had a familiar note. For a few moments the boy was puzzled;
but abruptly it came to him. His keen eyes pierced the savage disguise.
This was none other than Pat Fagan, the border bully, who had sworn his
vengeance!
And now, as the Sac messengers turned their horses to depart, Ben gave
quick spur to his nimble pony. With three or four long bounds he was at
the side of the astounded renegade, who suddenly found the muzzle of a
rifle in his very face.
“Hold, boy!” shouted Van Alstyne hotly, likewise spurring his mount
forward. “Put down that rifle! These Indians are miserable scoundrels,
but nevertheless they are under a flag of truce.”
“This one is no Indian, sir,” declared Ben firmly, the barrel of his
rifle not moving a jot.
“No Indian! why, the red villain looks the part.”
“I repeat, sir, that he is no Indian.”
“Then, by the sun and moon and stars, lad, who is he?”
“Pat Fagan, deserter from the garrison at Fort Dearborn!”
“Fagan, the deserter? Are you sure, lad?”
“Dead sure! He has--”
As Ben Gordon spoke, he turned his head a bit, to look the officer
directly in the face. With the speed of a striking rattler, Fagan
knocked up the rifle barrel and wheeled away on his fleet Indian pony,
his body bent low over the beast’s neck. Like a flash, his four Sac
companions were also away.
Instantly, Ben Gordon’s gun sprang to his shoulder, and he sent a
bullet humming after the fleeing renegade. Three or four others of the
party likewise fired, at the same time urging forward their mounts in
pursuit.
“Spare the savages!” cried Van Alstyne, in consternation. “Honor their
flag of truce! But get Fagan!”
Alas! the warning came too late. An ill-aimed shot from a soldier
musket struck one of the flying Sacs. For a moment, it seemed that the
brave would retain his saddle. He swayed desperately, then caught at
the mane of his mount. A second afterward, however, he threw up his
hands, raised a quavering death-song, and toppled heavily to the earth,
not a breath of life in his coppery body.
As the pursuit continued, it began to look as if the big deserter would
make good his escape. The Sac ponies were proving to be faster steppers
than the mounts of the military. The gap between the two parties
started to widen, almost imperceptibly at first, then more rapidly.
Fagan rose in his stirrups, turned about and gave voice to a loud yell
of defiance.
“Wahoo!” he cried.
The taunting call was hardly out of his mouth, however, when a hissing
bullet struck his pony squarely in the back of the head, penetrating
the brain. The speeding beast collapsed instantly, throwing the
surprised Fagan forward in a wild, whirling somersault that ended only
when he struck the ground ten feet ahead, with a prodigious thud.
“He’s knocked cold!” called Ben Gordon, as he sped up on his sweating
horse.
“Good!” said Van Alstyne, checking his mount nearby. “That’ll make him
easier to handle. Get a lariat, somebody, and tie him hand and foot!
We’ll see that he gets his medicine in a hurry.”