THE ROUT
Joseph, Robert, and Deerfoot by fast riding finally caught up with the
advance guard of the volunteers. The men were in a frenzy of excitement
and rushed forward pell mell with no other thought than to overtake the
fleeing Indians. Sycamore Creek was ahead of them and this stream the
escaping messengers had already crossed. Their horses could be seen
scrambling up the opposite bank and a moment later they disappeared
behind a heavy fringe of bushes.
With loud shouts the pursuers rushed forward. That there could be any
possible danger to them Major Stillman’s men did not seem to consider.
Each man was intent on being the first to overtake the fleeing redmen.
Deerfoot, however, knew the man they were dealing with and was
consequently more cautious. Mounted on an especially swift pony he
outdistanced the rest of the force and was the first to reach Sycamore
Creek. There he stopped and wheeling his pony held up his hand.
The whole force came to a stop. Deerfoot raised himself in his stirrups.
“No go ahead now,” he called in a loud voice. “I fear ambush.”
His remarks were greeted with howls of derision. Shouts and jeers were
flung at the Pottowattomie, and a few even went so far as to intimate
that probably Deerfoot was in league with Black Hawk and was attempting
to save his ally from destruction. At any rate, no one paid any
attention to his words of warning. Once more the rangers spurred their
horses forward.
“Come on, Joe,” called Robert excitedly. “We mustn’t be left out of
this.”
“Did you hear what Deerfoot said?”
“I know, but he’s overcautious sometimes. Even if he is right we can’t
stay behind now. Major Stillman himself ordered the advance.”
“No one seems to obey him very often, though,” remarked Joseph grimly.
“At least they only do when they feel like it.”
“Are you coming?”
“Of course I am,” retorted Joseph as he urged his horse forward.
Some fifty or more of the rangers had already crossed the creek and the
two young brothers were quick to follow. Into the water they plunged and
a few moments later were safe on the other side of the stream. Nearly
the whole force had now forded Sycamore Creek or were in the act of
doing so. As soon as they had emerged from the water they hurried
forward on their quest.
Joseph glanced at Deerfoot. The Indian evidently was anxious and fearful
of what was in store for them. He clutched his tomahawk firmly in his
right hand, while his eyes constantly searched the nearby bushes for
possible signs of the enemy.
Nothing had happened so far, however, and Joseph began to think that
perhaps his brother had been right when he said that Deerfoot was
sometimes overcautious. The pace was swift now and at least two hundred
yards had been covered since they had left the creek. The spot seemed
ideal for an ambush, but there was no sign of the hostile Sacs as yet.
Joseph felt more confident each moment.
His confidence was shortlived, however. Just as the force of rangers
came to a particularly dense growth of bushes and timber, a yell rent
the air. A blood-curdling, ear-splitting war whoop sounded that from its
volume apparently issued from hundreds, perhaps thousands of throats.
Everyone of the rangers drew in his horse sharply and glanced about him
in astonishment. The yells were continuous and seemed to increase in
volume. But where did they come from? Not a sign of the enemy was to be
seen.
Suddenly, however, the Indians appeared. Every tree and bush seemed to
split open and belch forth a bloodthirsty, yelling savage with a
tomahawk in his hand. All the warriors were on horses, and forward they
charged at full speed. They had rifles as well, and from these they
poured a deadly stream of bullets into the front ranks of the rangers.
The volunteers, however, made no resistance. Instantly they wheeled
their horses and at full speed turned and fled for their lives.
It was now Black Hawk’s opportunity to exult and to take his turn as the
pursuer. Terror filled the hearts of Major Stillman’s men, and in spite
of the efforts of their commander to rally them, they made off as fast
as their mounts could carry them.
The rout was complete. From behind came the exultant yells and shrieks
of the Indians who were bending every effort to overtake and cut down
their white foes. They were still a considerable distance behind,
however, and fortunate it was for the volunteers that such was the case.
Joseph, Robert and Deerfoot, once side by side, were now separated and
with no other choice they were obliged to flee with their comrades. The
two young brothers had stood their ground when the Indians first charged
and each had emptied his rifle at the onrushing warriors. No one else of
their company, however, had seemed inclined to stay with them.
Consequently, as it undoubtedly meant certain death for them to face
their foes alone, they too turned their horses and joined in the mad
flight. They did not even have time to see the effect of their bullets.
As Joseph bent low over his horse’s back and urged the animal forward, a
man white with terror came alongside and by reason of his swifter mount
soon passed him. It was Walt. Even at such a time, Joseph could not
repress a grim smile, as he saw the traces of fear written all over the
man’s face. Walt, the one who had boasted of his prowess and his ability
to deal with the hostile Indians, was now running like a scared rabbit
for safety. Joseph’s smile changed to a snort of disgust.
A bullet whirred past his head. Just ahead of him a man crumpled up in
his saddle and slid to the ground, a limp mass that but a few moments
before had been a human being. Joseph shuddered involuntarily at the
sight, but he could not stop. His thoughts were not for his own safety
alone, however. He wondered what had become of Robert and of Deerfoot.
He raised his head to look about him in an attempt to discover their
whereabouts. A bullet struck his cap, tearing it from his head, and
Joseph made no further effort to find his brother.
Ahead of him, on both sides and behind him was a confused mob of
panic-stricken horsemen. The blood-curdling yells of the Indians sounded
constantly over the prairie, as the men sped onward in their attempt to
escape a massacre. Into Sycamore Creek they plunged. Coming out on the
other side they kept on in mad disorder, until they had reached the
clump of trees where their camp was pitched. They did not stop there,
however, nor did they seem to have any thought of checking their flight.
Every man in the expedition seemed intent on putting as much space as
possible between himself and the yelling pursuers, who were now pressing
them so closely.
“Fools,” thought Joseph to himself, as they passed the camp. “Why don’t
they stop here? We could defend this place against ten times our number.
With the trees for protection and the Indians still on the open prairie
we could pick them off at our leisure.”
No one else seemed to share Joseph’s views, however, or if any one did
he did not try to put the plan into execution. On they sped, becoming
more scattered and more demoralized every moment. Many men had been
killed and Joseph himself had seen several fall from their horses. As
far as he could determine no one tried to oppose the Indians either. A
few shots had been fired at first, but since that time every man seemed
to be more interested in the fleetness of his pony than he did in
offering any resistance to the pursuers.
As some of the ponies were much swifter than others the volunteers were
soon strung out in a long line over the prairie. To his dismay, Joseph
suddenly noticed that man after man was passing him and leaving him
behind. He could not be sure whether or not the shouts of the Indians
sounded closer, but he was greatly alarmed to see himself being
outdistanced by so many of his comrades.
His pursuers were not yelling as much as they had been. That they had
not given up the chase, however, was manifest by the fact that above the
pounding of the horses’ hoofs could be heard the frequent bark of the
rifles. Joseph knew that it would be a long time before the Indians
would relinquish such an opportunity to avenge themselves upon their
enemies, the Americans.
He could see that his pony was tiring fast and that his predicament
would soon be desperate unless something speedily occurred to aid him.
It was only a question of time before his horse would break down under
the strain and then the young pioneer’s case would be almost hopeless.
Joseph raised his head and glanced about him.
A short distance ahead, and a little to one side, he spied a ravine. A
narrow gully, filled with bowlders and scrubby trees, appeared to
Joseph’s gaze and he quickly decided to enter it, for perhaps he might
find a place of refuge. He turned his horse and plunged into the ravine.
As he urged his horse to a final effort his mind turned to Robert and
Deerfoot. What had become of them? If they had been killed, or far
worse, captured, Joseph would be left all alone in the world. A lump
arose in his throat at the thought. This was no time for sentiment,
however, and he quickly suppressed his feelings and devoted his whole
attention to his own safety.
A short distance in advance of him he spied a thick clump of bushes.
Toward these Joseph hurried and upon reaching the spot was overjoyed to
find that they would afford a screen sufficient to hide him from the
gaze of anyone who should pass that way. On the other hand he could look
out from his refuge and see all that was taking place around him.
He tethered his horse to one of the roots of a large tree, which had
been torn from its place by some great wind. Making sure that in his
hiding place he and his horse were well concealed, he crawled cautiously
along the trunk of the fallen tree, until he reached a spot from which
he could see the surrounding country.
Hardly had he been in his place a moment when he heard the clatter of
hoofs and not fifty feet from him he spied five Indians riding past at
full speed in pursuit of the flying volunteers.