ON THE TRAIL
“There they go!” exclaimed Robert triumphantly. “They’ve had enough.”
“So have I,” cried Joseph, with a great sigh of relief. “I thought that
at any moment The Swallow was going to be shot.”
“He has run that chance ever since you’ve had him,” remarked Mason.
“Every time you’ve been in a fight your horse has been in danger of
being killed.”
“I know it,” said Joseph. “At the same time they haven’t been turning
all their attention to him.”
“They’re going now, anyway,” remarked Robert. “We’ve made it too hot for
them, I guess. We seem to be pretty good men to defend blockhouses,
don’t we? What do you say to our hiring ourselves out for that purpose
all along the frontier?”
“You’d better clear them out of this neighborhood before you start in
anywhere else, Red,” cautioned Mason.
“They are clearing out of here now,” replied Robert. “Just look out of
that porthole and you can see them going.”
What Robert said was true. Black Hawk had drawn off his forces and could
now be seen leading his warriors in retreat across the prairie. His
attempt to take the blockhouse had resulted in absolute failure, but
five white men were dead as a result of his visit. One of the five was
Walt and his loss was keenly felt by his companions.
“Poor old Walt,” exclaimed Joseph sorrowfully. “I’m sorry he had to go.”
“He died a soldier’s death, though,” said Robert. “I’d like to get a
shot at the Indian that killed him; also at those demons who stabbed and
mutilated the bodies out there on the prairie.”
“Look here, boys,” observed John Mason quietly. “There is no use in
talking about unpleasant subjects. No one feels the loss of Walt more
than I. He was a good friend of mine and I had known him for years. He
died bravely but his death was only a part of the game after all. I wish
he was back, but wishing won’t bring him. Talking and thinking won’t do
any good either and I say we try to forget about it. It seems to me that
is the most sensible thing for us to do.”
“I guess you’re right,” agreed Joseph. “It makes one feel badly,
though.”
“Of course it does,” said Mason. “There is work for us to do just now,
though, and because we try to forget Walt’s loss doesn’t mean that we
don’t feel badly.”
So Walt died and passed out of the lives of his comrades. He had his
faults like all of us, but he had had many good points as well. We are
all doomed to be forgotten, but if we can make the world and the people
in it a little bit better or happier for our having lived here, we can
count our lives successful. All who knew Walt agreed that his had been a
successful life.
That evening General Posey arrived at Kellogg’s Grove with his brigade.
Scouts reported that Black Hawk’s party were encamped only a short
distance away, but for some reason it was not deemed advisable to attack
him.
“It seems silly to me,” exclaimed Robert hotly. “Here we have a lot of
reinforcements and a fine chance to strike a heavy blow. The Indians are
probably all tired out after their fight and we might even be able to
capture Black Hawk himself. It seems to me an opportunity to break the
back of the war right now.”
“You may be right,” admitted Joseph. “At the same time you must remember
that these men probably know more about fighting than we do, and we are
in no position to criticize.”
“Maybe so,” growled Robert. “I must say it doesn’t seem like good sense
to me, though.”
No attack was made, however, and a few days later the two brothers,
together with John Mason and the faithful Deerfoot were once more at
Dixon’s Ferry. They were now attached to the spy battalion of General
James D. Henry’s brigade. General Henry had been lieutenant-colonel of
Fry’s rangers when the four friends had first attached themselves to
that body after Major Stillman’s defeat. Colonel Fry still held command
of the spy battalion, however.
Since the defeat at Sycamore Creek a large army had been gathered by the
Whites who were determined to end the war as soon as possible. Including
the regulars there were now about four thousand effective troops in the
field. Most of these had assembled at Fort Wilburn, on the Illinois
River, south of Dixon’s Ferry. One brigade under General Alexander was
dispatched post haste to Plum River, a spot not far from Kellogg’s
Grove, as soon as news of the fight at the latter place was received. It
was thought that Black Hawk might attempt to cross the Mississippi at
this point and it was Alexander’s mission to prevent this.
Black Hawk did not try to cross the great river just then, however.
Instead he turned north once more and went into camp near Lake
Koshkonong near the head waters of the Rock River. Learning of this,
General Atkinson at once left Dixon’s Ferry and advanced up the east
bank of the Rock River in pursuit of the Indians. The start was made on
June twenty-seventh, the main army now consisting of four hundred
regulars and twenty-one hundred volunteer troops.
“We’re off,” cried Robert enthusiastically, as the army filed out of the
little settlement at Dixon’s Ferry and started up the bank of the river.
“We’ll finish up the war this time. Just look at all the men we have.”
“It does look like a real army, doesn’t it?” exclaimed Joseph.
Like some great serpent the army filed out of Dixon’s Ferry. The two
brothers being attached to the scout battalion were near the front, and
in back of them the troops stretched out in a long line as far as the
eye could see. There was little of the bravado and recklessness that had
inspired Major Stillman’s men when they had started from this same spot
some six weeks before. Bitter and costly experience had taught the men
that over-confidence is a poor quality for any soldier to possess. A
quiet determination showed on every countenance now. This army had made
up its mind to win and Black Hawk would soon realize that every member
meant business.
Behind the troops came the baggage and supply wagons. A mass of dust
from the hoofs of hundreds of horses rose in a cloud about the army and
only an occasional glimpse of the baggage train could be had. Every once
in a while the cloud lifted momentarily, however, and the drivers could
be seen urging their horses on to keep pace with the others.
“Where’s Deerfoot?” exclaimed Robert suddenly. “I haven’t seen him once
since yesterday.”
“You don’t mean to say you don’t know where he is?” said Joseph in
surprise.
“No. I’ve been so busy the last twenty-four hours that I never missed
him. I just this minute noticed that he was gone.”
“Deerfoot is the proudest Indian in North America today, I guess,”
laughed John Mason, who rode alongside his young friends.
“Why?” demanded Robert. “Tell me what all the mystery is about.”
“There’s no mystery at all,” replied Joseph. “This is what happened.
Yesterday a Pottowattomie came into camp and reported that seventy-five
warriors of his tribe were encamped at Sycamore Creek who wanted to join
forces with us. They seemed to think that this was a fine chance to get
revenge on their old enemies, the Sacs, and they were very anxious to
get in the fight. Some men of our battalion were sent on ahead to tell
them it was all right and Deerfoot of course went with them. You ought
to have seen him. Why, he was almost enthusiastic.”
“You can’t tell me he showed it, though,” laughed Robert. “When are we
going to meet these Pottowattomies?”
“Tonight, I think.”
“That’s fine,” exclaimed Robert heartily. “I can just see Deerfoot
riding at the head of seventy-five of his own people. He’ll be so puffed
up that he probably won’t deign to speak to us.”
“Not as bad as that I think,” said Joseph laughingly. “They’ll be a
great addition to our forces, though. They know the country better than
any of our men and they are good fighters, too.”
“They are if they are anything like Deerfoot,” agreed Mason. “He is
about the best I ever saw.”
All day long the army continued its march. A halt for dinner was made at
noon and shortly afterward the advance was continued. No sign of the
enemy was discovered and at night they went into camp on the old battle
ground at Sycamore Creek. Shortly before, they had passed the ravine
where Joseph had hidden from the Indians during the disastrous route
after that fight. He also recognized the spot where he had had the
encounter with the Indian and had captured The Swallow. A thrill ran up
and down his spine at the remembrance of these events and he shuddered
to think how easily the tide might have turned the other way and his
life been forfeited as had Walt’s only a few days before.
Camp was pitched in a heavy growth of timber and breastworks thrown up.
Sentinels were posted and every precaution taken against a surprise
attack.
Soon after the army’s arrival Deerfoot came in with his seventy-five
tribesmen. They were given a hearty welcome by the troops and were
assigned to Colonel Fry’s brigade. Thus the scout battalion, of which
John Mason and Joseph and Robert were members, now contained not only
one fearless Indian ally, but seventy-five more of the same kind.
Deerfoot, in spite of the fact that many of his own people were now with
the army, still chose to camp with his two young white friends.
“Wouldn’t you rather be with the rest of your people?” Joseph inquired
of him. He thought that perhaps Deerfoot had joined him and his brother
for fear they might feel hurt.
“Me stay with you,” replied Deerfoot quietly. No urging could induce him
to leave, and Joseph and Robert soon gave up trying.
“I believe he’d rather be with you boys than his own people anyway,”
John Mason remarked to Joseph a short time later.
“I guess he would,” agreed Joseph. “He is certainly a good friend of
ours. He is a fine character, too, and I can tell you that Bob and I
appreciate his affection.”
The next day the march was continued. On the thirtieth they crossed the
Illinois-Wisconsin border where the Turtle village of the Winnebagos
stood. The place was deserted, however, for the inhabitants had fled at
the approach of the army.
Sac signs were fresh now, for Black Hawk had fled from Kellogg’s Grove
directly for his stronghold, reaching the Rock River just above the
mouth of the Kishwaukee only three or four days in advance of the White
army. The trail was warm and the troops were following it with the
determination and eagerness of bloodhounds.
Every night a camp was selected, in the timber if possible, and the men
slept on their arms. There was constant fear of a night attack, for so
close had General Atkinson pressed the fleeing Sacs that often they came
in contact with the rear guard of the savages. Several times sentinels
had been fired on.
On the second of July the army arrived at the outlet of Lake Koshkonong.
Indian camps were found, all presenting the appearance of having been
hastily deserted. Tepees stood empty and household goods had been
abandoned by the Indians in their eagerness to leave.
“Look there,” exclaimed Robert as he and some of the scouts rode into
the largest of these camps.
Hanging from a pole of one of the tepees were five newly taken scalps.
White scalps they were which had been stretched on frames to dry.
“All I can say is,” remarked one grizzled old ranger, “that them Indians
must have been in a powerful big hurry or they never would have left
them things behind.”
“We’ll catch up with them soon,” cried Robert eagerly. “It can’t be too
soon to suit me either.”