Rock River Camp
“Gotta have the gunsmith take a look at this ol’ piece o’ mine,”
declared Pete Perkins, coming up with an ancient flintlock rifle on his
shoulder. “The plaguey screw won’t grip the flint hard ’nuff ter make
it strike fire, an’ it’d be jest orful ter have my flint drap when I’m
pullin’ trigger on a red Injun.”
“It would be downright disconcertin’,” agreed Bill Brown.
“An’ take a peek at them mocc’sins,” went on Pete, lifting up a foot to
expose the sole. “Bottoms wore ez thin ez tissue paper, with all this
durned drillin’. What’s more, that’s my third pair since j’inin’ the
volunteers.”
“Why don’t you get the quartermaster to issue you a pair of leather
boots?” Ben Gordon proposed.
“Never owned but one pair in my life. Couldn’t git used ter ’em. They
wore me ’leven y’ars. Course I never put ’em on, if I could help it,
an’ I most ginerally could.”
“I’m afeared this army life is gittin’ you down, Pete,” chided Bill.
“Guess what, Pete,” broke in Tom Gordon, who had sauntered up.
“Now what, younker? Be the dad-busted war over?”
“Hardly think so. But I want to tell you that there’s a fresh bunch of
volunteers in from Shawneetown, way down on the Ohio River.”
“Fierce bunch, them Shawneetown boys,” opined Pete, shaking his head
grimly. “Claim ter be half man an’ half alligator.”
“Well, they’ve got a chap named Mike Mitchell who they say is the
rip-roaringest wrestler to ever tread the prairies.”
“Oh, they says so, do they?” snorted old Pete, his eyes shooting fire.
“Mus’ be they ain’t never heared tell o’ Sangamon’s Abe Lincoln.”
“Yes, they have, Pete. That’s just it. They’re sayin’ that this man
Mitchell can throw Abe half-way across Rock River.”
“Humph!” growled the frontiersman, “that I gotta see.”
“Reckon Mitchell’s bitin’ off more’n he kin chaw, Pete?” asked Bill
Brown.
“Yep, big Abe ’ll do him up in three shakes of a sheep’s tail. Wall,
I’d better toddle along an’ hit the hay. If thar’s anthin’ in the wide
world that Pete Perkins hates, it’s gittin’ out o’ bed in the mornin’.
An’ some folks say he ain’t wuth much arter he’s out, anyhow.”
The next morning, several of the Shawneetown volunteers circulated
among the Sangamon County militia, offering bets that Lincoln couldn’t
throw their man, Mitchell.
“We’ve sized up this long-geared Abe feller,” they scoffed, “an’ he
jest ain’t got the gimp. Big Mike ’ll bust him smack in two.”
The Sangamon boys promptly got their dander up, and the wagers ran
high, from money to jackknives. Pete Perkins bet everything he had,
except his shirt and pants.
The match was set for afternoon at the river bank by the ferry. There
had been a lot of talk. Interest was at a fever pitch, so quite a crowd
collected to see how the encounter would turn out.
The Shawneetown entry, Mike Mitchell, was short and stocky in build,
with a thick chest and the muscle haunches of a wild steer. His aim
from the first was to get in close with Abe, where he would have the
advantage of his brute strength.
But canny, cool-headed Abe was on to his game. He held off Mitchell’s
clumsy rushes with his sinewy, pole-like arms. Gradually he wore down
his strength, got him puffing and wheezing and out of temper. Mitchell
then fouled Abe by stamping on his right foot and instep with his sharp
boot heel. At this low trick, the usually placid Lincoln suddenly flew
off the handle. He leaped forward, lifted his opponent up by the throat
and completely off the ground. Then he shook him like a rag, and, after
a moment, slammed him to a hard fall flat on his back.
As Mitchell lay on the ground, the proud boasts of his followers
dragging in the dust with him, some of the Shawneetown gang, who were
a hard set, started to run at Lincoln with hot threats on their lips.
Big Abe leaped nimbly to one side, and put his back up against a
broad-trunked tree.
“Listen, you chicken-hearts,” he hooted, “I can whip the whole pack of
you, if you give me ten minutes between fights!”
Two of the Shawneetown men surged menacingly forward, fists clenched;
but Mike Mitchell jumped to his feet and shoved them away. Then he
shook Lincoln’s hand.
“Lay off, boys!” he commanded. “Linkin beat me fair an’ square. He’s
got sand in his craw. He’s the best feller in a rasslin’ match I ever
seed.”
The big bout being over, the four scouts returned straightway to their
tents, highly pleased at the victory of Captain Abe. They had been
there only a few moments, however, when an orderly hurried up with a
message from General Atkinson, requesting them to proceed at once to
his headquarters, which he had established in a big wall-tent, about a
quarter-mile up river.
At Atkinson’s tent, the scouts, somewhat to their surprise, found the
officer alone with a pair of dusky Indians. It was apparent, right off,
that these strange braves were known to the young Pottawattomee, Bright
Star, for he immediately engaged them in an animated conversation.
From this, the others correctly surmised that the savage visitors were
Pottawattomees, too.
“I want your young Indian companion to interpret for me with these two
Pottawattomee chiefs, who are friendly to the whites,” said Atkinson,
a steely-eyed man of spare build and nervous, jerky manners. “They
have only a very meager store of English; but I’ve been able to make
out that they bring news of some sort regarding the movements of the
Sac Chieftain, Black Hawk. Their tidings may possibly be of some
importance.”
Young Bright Star, on being apprised of the general’s wish, introduced
the Indian sachems as Maunk-suck, or Big Foot, and Running Elk. Both
savages were tall and gaunt of figure. Big Foot had a hideous scar
running diagonally across his face, memento of a bygone brawl with the
Sacs, a fact which helped explain his undying animosity toward them.
“What brings you to the lodge of White Beaver?” asked Bright Star,
White Beaver being the name which the Indians of the region had
bestowed on General Atkinson.
“Ugh!” rasped Big Foot, with a fierce grimace, “the madcap Sac, Black
Hawk, has departed from his camp above Sycamore Creek.”
“Which way has he gone?”
“To the north.”
“Why so, oh Maunk-suck?”
“He fears the great army of White Beaver.”
“Ho! and whither is he bound?”
“The big swamps of Koshkonong, by the headwaters of Rock River, where
Black Hawk thinks the Big Knives cannot find him.”
“Ho!” commended Bright Star, “the White Beaver gives thanks for your
words. He orders that one blanket, one knife, three pounds of tobacco,
one piece of blue cloth and one piece of red cloth be given to each of
you. He wishes you well on your homeward journey.”
“Hm!” mused Atkinson, when the two towering, raw-boned chiefs had left
the tent, “the great marshes of Koshkonong! That is bad, very bad.”
“It ain’t good,” assented Bill Brown grimly.
“I once skirted those swampy fastnesses, two years ago on a trip into
the Wisconsin forests,” went on Atkinson. “I can very well see where
the wily Black Hawk would consider them an impregnable position.”
“It’ll be a hard job, General,” nodded Bill, “to root the Injuns out o’
them orful bogs.”
“Well, that will be all for now, men,” declared Atkinson, suddenly
popping to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, “but I have something in
mind that may develop into a scouting trip for the four of you. Brown,
you drop back in the morning, say about ten o’clock. If I make up my
mind about the matter, I’ll give you definite instructions at that
time.”
This news of an impending scouting foray was most welcome to the four.
Not only the three whites were weary of the long stay at Dixon’s Ferry;
but even Bright Star, possessed of the interminable patience of his
race, was beginning to show signs of restlessness.
Accordingly, at mid-morning, right on the dot, Bill Brown took off
again for Atkinson’s headquarters. He didn’t get back until nearly
noon. Upon his return, he found Ben and Tom Gordon sitting outside
their tent, fairly chewing their nails in suspense. The hawk-eyed
Bright Star stood at one side, skillfully flipping his gleaming knife
at a wooden tent-peg.
“Git yer travelin’ bags packed, boys,” chuckled the stalwart scout, as
he approached.
“You aren’t spoofin’, Bill?” answered Ben suspiciously.
“No, I ain’t,” responded Brown, stretching his powerful frame on the
soft turf. “That’s straight from the shoulder.”
“Whoopee!” yelled Tom; and the Pottawattomee raised a ringing war-cry
that made several soldiers pop out of their nearby tents like scared
gophers.
“Durn you, chief,” howled one of them, “you scared me outen seven
years growth! Save that dingbusted war-whoop of yourn fer the pesky
Sacs.”
“I spent more’n an hour with the White Beaver,” began Bill, with a
twinkle in his eye. “You see, I rigged out a plan fer him to end the
Sac war.”
“Yah!” scoffed Tom, “Bill Brown, greatest military strategist since
Napoleon.”
“Well, you doutin’ Thomases, let’s put it thisaway, then,” continued
the scout. “The White Beaver an’ me got our heads together an’ cooked
up a scheme to bag ol’ Black Hawk fer keeps.”
“How?” burst out Ben.
“Where do we come in?” Tom wanted to know.
“Now jest a minnit. Let me git organized.”
He opened his shirt at the throat, reached in his pocket, pulled out
a big bandanna handkerchief, and wiped the perspiration from his
forehead. It was a scorching-hot June day, warmest of the summer thus
far.
“The four of us start nor’west fer the lead diggin’s tomorrer mornin’,”
he then stated, his tone very sober and his face very serious.
“Northwest to the lead diggings!” remonstrated Tom. “Why, I thought
Black Hawk was heading northeast for the Koshkonong Swamps?”
“Yah,” gloomed Ben, “we want to be in on the big chase.”
“You will be,” Bill Brown reassured them.
“Don’t look much like it,” said Tom grumpily.
“Now don’t git in a lather. Here’s what the White Beaver has in mind.
He’s sendin’ us into the Wisconsin country to hunt up Colonel Dodge.”
“Colonel Dodge!” blurted Ben. “Never heard of him.”
“Well, you will, an’ plenty! I met him more’n once up in those parts.
He’s a big, tall handsome gent, strong of body an’ brain. Biggest
operator in the Wisconsin lead diggin’s.”
“Well, just what are we supposed to do?” snorted Tom. “Fetch down a
horse-back load of lead bullets?”
“Wait!” broke in Bright Star reprovingly. “The anxious fox catches no
rabbits.”
“It’s this-a-way,” continued Brown, with an approving nod in the
direction of the young Pottawattomee. “’Bout ten days ago, Dodge sent a
runner to see the White Beaver. Told the Beaver that he was collectin’
a force o’ mounted rangers. Now do you begin to savvy?”
“Oh, we’re to join the rangers?” Ben exclaimed.
“Right; but mainly we’re to deliver a dispatch to Dodge from the
Beaver, directin’ the Colonel to head east immejutly, toward Koshkonong
Swamp. Meantime, White Beaver ’ll work north from the ferry here. He
aims to leave in jest three days, on June 27th.”
“And the two forces will unite at Koshkonong,” conjectured Tom, a
bright gleam in his eye, “and crush the Sacs between them.”
“That’s the plan,” averred Bill, “also the big reason why we got to
reach Colonel Dodge in a mighty hurry, an’ git him started east to jine
with White Beaver. So roll into yer blankets early, lads, ’cause we’re
off at the peep o’ dawn.”