Musket and Tomahawk
The place at which the Sacs had chosen to stand and fight was admirably
suited to such a delaying action as Black Hawk hoped to effect. It was
a shallow valley, rimmed on the north by low hills, and on the south
by steep bluffs known as the Wisconsin Heights. The valley itself was
covered with rank grass to a height of six feet, while the slopes of
the bluff were heavily wooded. In addition to these natural advantages,
a light rain was starting to fall, and night was not more than three
hours distant, as the cagy Hawk had noted.
Meantime, the squadron of rangers under Dodge, was pushing forward with
renewed vigor, and shortly after four o’clock their scouts made contact
with Black Hawk’s snipers on the low hills that bordered the grassy
valley.
“Black Hawk is a smart Injun,” commented Bill Brown. “He’s picked out a
powerful good place to fight.”
“You’re quite right,” agreed Dodge, apprehensively viewing the
grass-grown valley and the sheer bluff beyond. “We had best wait, until
General Henry comes up with the main force of the volunteers.”
“It ain’t long till dark, Colonel,” cautioned the veteran scout,
dubious of delay.
“I know that, Brown,” responded Dodge worriedly, “but I feel that it
would be folly to throw this small body of rangers against the whole
Sac tribe. Their position is far too strong.”
“Hawk sly like fox,” put in Bright Star sagely. “Maybe slip out from
snare.”
In a half-hour the vanguard of the volunteers arrived, and, after a
hurried conference between Dodge and Henry, a charge was ordered. Every
fourth man of the white column was detailed to hold the horses, while
the rest of the troopers advanced on foot. The alert savages, sensing
the plan, made a heavy counter-charge, yowling like madmen, and tried
hard to flank the whites; but they were repulsed with considerable loss.
Badly stung, the Sacs forthwith abandoned the low hills and dropped
back into the tall grass of the valley; where, after a half-hour of
indecisive firing on both sides, another assault was ordered.
“Give them the bayonet, men!” roared General Henry, brandishing his
long sword.
Dodge’s dare-devil rangers and about two hundred of the volunteers
rushed over the hill and down the green slope, their bayonets gleaming
wickedly, while their shrill cries of vengeance made the glade fairly
echo. The cowed Sacs broke from the grass like frightened antelope, to
the rising side of the bluff beyond.
“We’ve got ’em on the run!” screamed an elated ranger.
“Keep ’em goin’!” howled a volunteer, trying to reload his piece as he
fought his way through the head-high grass.
A second rank of savages was attempting to form on the ridge, but so
furious was the charge of the triumphant whites that the red line broke
completely, while the troopers were still twenty rods away. With hardly
a shot fired, the panicky warriors swiftly retreated down the bluff,
intent on joining their main body which was now starting to cross the
river.
By this time it was raining so hard that it was virtually impossible to
keep the muskets dry. Furthermore, at the far side of the bluff there
was swampy terrain some hundred yards in width, and then a heavy fringe
of timber on a strip of firm ground along the river bank at the ford.
The last of the fleeing Indians had now spanned the marsh and reached
this refuge; so it was deemed best to call off the pursuit for the
night.
“It’d be suicide to cross that marsh in the face of musket fire from
the timber,” asserted General Henry.
“I fear so, General,” Dodge reluctantly agreed, “but I only wish we had
a brass twelve-pounder with us. We’d drive the red imps out of that
cover in jig time.”
During the night after the battle there were frequent alarms from
prowling Indians, and the troopers, fearing an attack, were under arms
nearly the entire time. About an hour and a half before dawn, a loud,
shrill voice was heard from the direction of the river bank. There was
great commotion in the white camp for a time, for it was thought that
the savage leader was issuing orders for a sortie.
“Ne-a-pope!” exclaimed Bright Star, identifying the owner of the
mysterious voice.
“What in blazes is he saying?” demanded Ben Gordon.
“Ne-a-pope say pale-faces should run away,” translated the
Pottawattomee.
“He might as well save his breath,” remarked Tom.
“Otherwise,” went on Bright Star, “Ne-a-pope say Sacs will boil
pale-face alive.”
“He’s cracked in the dome,” snorted Ben, “if he thinks he can scare us
with that twaddle.”
“He’s too wise a coot to think that,” Bill Brown averred.
“Then why’s he doing it, Bill?” wondered Tom.
“To mislead us, keep us thinkin’ that the Sacs are still there in the
timber.”
“Well, aren’t they?” exploded Tom.
“I’m afeared not. You know, my thick skull is jest startin’ to
percolate. Come to think, I crossed the Wisconsin once at this very
place.”
“You did?” inquired Ben surprisedly.
“Yep, I did. The river is shaller at this p’int, an’ well broken with
small islands. An’ all night long, whilst we been a huddlin’ here in
the mist an’ fog, why them pesky Sacs has been fordin’ over in a steady
parade.”
“Suffering snakes,” exclaimed Ben, “do you really think so, Bill?”
“Sartin of it, lad.”
“Sun come, Sac all gone,” affirmed Bright Star, with an emphatic nod of
his head.
“Tell you what let’s do,” proposed Bill suddenly. “I’m all-fired tired
o’ squattin’ here in the wet, like a dingbusted chicken what don’t know
’nuff to go in outen the rain. Let’s circle the bluff an’ scout ’round
a bit, near the river, I’ll bet my wallet ther’s so few Injuns left on
this side o’ the channel, that ther won’t be skeercely no risk to it.”
“Very well, Bill,” grinned Tom Gordon, springing briskly to his feet,
“but if I lose my curly red locks, you’ll be to blame.”
The venturesome four found no difficulty in circling the great bluff.
Beyond its towering bulk they entered a black forest that stretched
away to the river’s edge below the ford. In the murk of early dawn the
thick woods seemed full of mystery and terror; but theirs were no timid
hearts. Far off, low thunder muttered, and now and then flashes of heat
lightning drew a belt of coppery red along the dull gray horizon. The
trees were weird and ghostly, and there was no other sound at all but
the gentle drip, drip of the rain.
After a half-hour of toilsome travel, the four found themselves nearing
the river. Here, by the water, the vapors and mists seemed to be
imprisoned by the boughs and verdant foliage, and the range of vision
was very slight. The scouts were advancing in single file. Tom Gordon
was in the lead, Bill Brown came just behind him, and then the other
two somewhat to the rear.
Using the greatest caution, now that the margin of the stream was at
hand, the four crept forward, little by little, through the thickets.
Suddenly a stick broke under Tom and he heard a shout in front of him.
The shout was so fierce, so fully charged with hatred, that the boy
stopped dead in his tracks, momentarily stunned by the shock. He stood
face to face with Pat Fagan, the border bully and deserter, a wild and
terrible figure, clothes in rags, bleeding from wounds, but driven now
by a savage joy. His evil face blazed with triumph. Here, at last, was
revenge!
Fagan’s pistol was leveled at the astounded youth and the next second
the fatal bullet would have sped, but with a mighty bound Bill Brown
was upon him. The pistol barked spitefully, but the bullet went upward,
and the two men writhed in a powerful embrace.
Tom Gordon, quickly recovering his power over himself, drew his own
pistol and jumped forward. But he could not use it. The two wrestlers,
almost equal in strength, went down in the wet grass, and whirled
over and over. There was hard breathing, muttered threats, and sharp
cracking of sticks under their straining bodies. They rolled over,
toward the very edge of the river bank, and Tom gave voice to a low
cry of alarm. The bank edge gave way, under their weight, and the two,
still locked fast in each other’s arms, tumbled swiftly down the slope
toward the water.
Unluckily, Bill Brown’s tight grip was partly broken by the violence
of the unexpected tumble. Taking instant advantage of this, the burly
Fagan tore loose from the scout’s clutch, bounced to his feet, and fled
down the level strip of sand that bordered the channel. In a trice,
Brown was up and after him, running as hard as he could.
Meantime, Ben Gordon and Bright Star had emerged from the timber. Just
as they did so, a shrill whoop arose from upstream, another and then
several more. The sound of the pistol shot had brought three Indians
running to the scene. One of them, who carried a musket, fired quickly.
It would have been Ben Gordon’s last moment, had not the brave been so
hasty that he did not take careful aim. As it was, the boy heard the
lead pellet singing a little warning in his ear as it passed.
“The Prairie Wolf!” cried Ben, whirling about to face the new danger.
Up flew his rifle. A humming bullet narrowly missed the Wolf; but
struck one of the other Sacs in the arm. With a wild howl of fear the
fellow dove into the nearby thicket. The third brave was quick to
follow suit, fairly trampling the heels of the wounded warrior, as
they both scrambled to safety in the brush screen.
“Ugh,” rasped Bright Star, pulling his keen knife from its leathern
sheath.
The sight of the gleaming blade, together with the grim expression
on the face of the dauntless young Pottawattomee, was too much for
the hulking Prairie Wolf. With a yelp of thwarted rage the Sac flung
aside his empty musket and darted into the bushes. Bright Star swiftly
bounded forward, at the same time putting two fingers of his free
left hand across his mouth and giving utterance to a long, quavering
cry that was full of taunting triumph. Then he slipped into the dense
thicket, hot on the trail of the vaunted Wolf.
At this, Ben and Tom Gordon again whirled about, and turned their
attention once more to Bill Brown’s pursuit of big Pat Fagan.
“They’re gone!” gasped Tom.
“Around the bend!” yelled his brother. “Let’s go!”
When the two speeding boys rounded the distant curve in the bank, a
thrilling scene unfolded before their anxious eyes. The ruffianly
Fagan, his headlong flight blocked by a bog that came down to the
river edge, was jumping from rock to rock, across a narrow, shallow
stretch of water that lay between the main bank and a wooded island,
one of several that dotted the stream bed at this point. The vengeful
Bill Brown was only a few paces behind him, and such was his superior
agility that he was fast gaining on the fleeing desperado.
Finally the frantic Fagan, now only one jump ahead, came to a halt on a
flat, level rock, some two yards in diameter, that lay midway between
island and bank. Around this rock the water churned fiercely, then
foamed away amid other, more jagged rocks to the lower point of the
island, where it united with the main current.
This sudden about-face of his quarry did not lessen the determination
of the oncoming scout. With a swift leap he bridged the intervening
water, and came to a crouched landing on the same flat-topped rock
occupied by the defiant deserter.
“Ha, Brown!” cried Fagan, scowling savagely.
With these words he sprang ferociously at the scout, grasping him
strongly with his hairy, ape-like arms. Again, as on the bank, the two
mortal adversaries writhed in mighty embrace. Again there was heavy
breathing, muffled threats, and this time the added sound of sliding
feet on the rough, hard surface. Then they suddenly pitched backward,
struck heavily on the shoulder of the rock, and were shunted off into
the raging rapids. The foaming, frothing water hid them for a moment.
Except for the rush of the wild river, the nervous watchers could
neither see nor hear anything.
“They’re both done for!” exclaimed Ben in horror.
“Don’t give up hope!” yelled Tom, leaping ahead now from stone to stone.
Luckily, about fifteen feet below where the two fighters had shot
down into the fierce current, there was a medium-sized log, deposited
between two rocks by the spring freshet. Bill Brown, as he swept past,
flung a long, sinewy arm over this log, and, with an almost superhuman
effort, drew himself to safety.
“Hooray!” shouted Tom.
“Bully for you, Bill!” cried Ben joyfully.
Then, as the big scout pulled his dripping form onto a rock and stood
erect, Tom added:
“Where’s Fagan?”
“I think,” panted Bill, “that as we pitched into the rapids, his head
hit a sunken rock which mine didn’t. He more’n likely kilt hisself.”
“See there!” called out Ben, pointing excitedly down the rock-strewn
chute.
“It’s the body!” shouted Tom. “Cast up on the point of the island!”
It was true. Fagan’s skull had been fractured by the impact of the
blow, and he was quite dead. Without further words they took the body
from the shallows and gave it Christian burial on high ground in the
center of the island.
“Our lucky star must’ve been shinin’,” said Bill Brown thankfully, as
they turned and left the spot, “to bring us all through this bloody
fightin’ ’thout so much as a scratch.”
“But what of Bright Star?” asked Ben suddenly.
A loud whoop, full of triumph, rang out over wood and water. The three
looked up eagerly, to see the young Pottawattomee skipping nimbly
toward them over the stepping-stones. As he drew nearer, they noticed a
fresh scalp, dangling from his belt. But no questions were asked. They
fully understood.