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At Fort Dearborn
MAJOR WHISTLER’s quarters in Fort Dearborn proved to be a very fine room, a finer room, in fact, than the two eastern lads had supposed existed on the untamed, western border.
There were several colored prints on the walls, racing and hunting scenes mostly; and all of two score books on a tidy shelf aside the ample stone fireplace. Also, over the fireplace, were crossed swords, long, slender blades with handsome hilts. The walls themselves were of boards, so from the inside a person would never know he was in a log building. The floor was of well-matched hardwood, with fur rugs scattered about. And here and there were low, lazy-looking chairs, fashioned of maple with strong, raw-hide seats.
“Well, if it isn’t my old scouting pardner, Bill Brown,” greeted the Major genially, as he shook hands. “And who are these two lads? Say, how do you tell them apart? They’re alike as two peas in a pod.”
“’Tis quite a chore to tell tother from which,” grinned the scout, “but anyway, ther names is Tom an’ Ben Gordon; an’ ther a pair o’ fine, stout lads.”
“They look it,” agreed the Major amiably. “Now sit down, all of you.”
He pulled a briar pipe from a table drawer, and was silent for a moment as he filled and lighted it.
“Well, what’s new on the border, Bill?” he then asked.
“Plenty, Major. The Injuns are buzzin’ like a mess o’ hornets.”
“No?”
“Yep, in fack, we bring word of a big Injun plot,” went on Bill solemnly, coming at once to the point.
“An Indian plot? Say, look here! I didn’t know I was coming west to get into something of that kind again. I presumed that all was peace and quiet on this middle border.”
“Van Alstyne, then, didn’t tell you o’ the talk I had with him yesterday?”
“Van Alstyne? No, not a word.”
“Hmm!”
“Of course, I arrived only last evening, and have had little time to confer with him. But it is strange that he did not mention such an important matter, that is, if he places any faith in the reports.”
“Aye, ther’s the rub, Major.”
“He doubts your story?”
“Yep, sent me packin’ out o’ here. Puts no stock in such wild tales, says he.”
“Well, well!” mused Whistler, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe.
At this juncture, the door of the room suddenly opened, and in stepped Captain Van Alstyne, himself.
“May I speak with you, Major?” he said, casting a frosty look at Bill Brown.
“I’m busy right now with these gentlemen, Captain, but if you—”
“I must inform you, Major,” replied the stoutish, plump-jowled officer, with another toplofty glance at the tall scout, “that Brown has been here before, just yesterday to be precise.”
“So he tells me. Says he has important news, bearing on an Indian plot.”
“I went over all that with him yesterday, Major.”
“You’re skeptical?”
“Pshaw! just a parcel of idle rumors.”
“You think so, eh?”
“Rubbish it is, just rubbish! You’ll waste your time giving ear to such moonshine.”
“How ’bout lettin’ the Major hisself decide as to that?” broke in Bill Brown, stifling his mounting anger. “He knows me from way back. Knows that I ain’t the man to peddle a bundle o’ gossip.”
“That’s right, Bill,” nodded the Major. “I always found you true blue, all wool and a yard wide.”
“Well, it’s entirely up to you, sir,” snapped the Captain, perceiving that he had lost his case, and stepping out the door, “but I must repeat that Brown’s story is sheer balderdash. These ragamuffin, western Indians will cause no trouble. I, myself, am too busy a man to spend precious time listening to such a pipe-dream.”
“You won’t think it’s a pipe-dream,” snorted Bill Brown indignantly, “when you find an Injun arrer stickin’ in the seat o’ yer pants.”
Major Whistler sat bolt upright in his chair, his lean, long-fingered hands gripping the edge of the table before him.
“Listen now, Bill,” he said, his eyes cold as steel, “you really think that Indian arrows soon will be flying?”
“Aye, Major; an’ white-man bullets, too.”
“A bold statement, my friend, a very bold statement. Present your proof.”
“I will, Major. It’s time fer Bill Brown to put up, er shut up.”
“Very well. Lay all your cards on the table.”
“It’s thisaway,” Bill began, “I’m jest back from a scoutin’ trip ’cross the Mississippi, in Ioway Terr’tory, amongst the Sac tribes.”
“Black Hawk’s people?”
“Yep, an’ the chief is fumin’ with rage at the whites, fer settlin’ his ol’ stampin-ground along Rock River. He’ll be comin’ back ’cross the Mississippi any day now. Pale-face scalps ’ll soon be flutterin’ on his lodge pole.”
“Bill, I can’t believe it.”
“You’d better believe it, Major. Time is runnin’ powerful short.”
“But you offer no definite proof.”
“Oh, I ain’t got a letter from ol’ Black Hawk hisself, settin’ forth his hostile intentions,” admitted the borderer, with a tinge of resentment in his voice.
“I hardly expected that,” chuckled Whistler.
“But I have trustworthy Injun friends in adj’inin’ tribes. They tell me that Black Hawk’s runners has been amongst ’em, passin’ the red wampum, an’ proddin’ ’em to sign up fer the comin’ war with the pale-faces.”
“It may well be so, Bill,” pondered Whistler worriedly, “but I can hardly order out the troops on such slender evidence as that. Why, a cry would go up from the eastern press that I’m persecuting the poor, innocent savages.”
“What’s more, sir,” continued Brown, pressing his point, “how do you explain it that Black Hawk’s not been here fer the big Injun council?”
“He hasn’t? I didn’t know it. But that probably means nothing. He may be unable to attend, illness perhaps.”
“Yeah,” said Bill, with a hollow laugh, “mebbe chickenpox er the mumps.”
“It could be a straw in the wind,” agreed the officer, preparing to end the interview, “but I again repeat that I cannot set the army marching on such feeble grounds.”
“Jest a minute. I want you to listen to what these two lads has to say.”
“These two lads! What can they add to the facts?” demanded Whistler, a bit impatiently.
“Hearken, Major! you’ve heard tell o’ Ne-a-pope, Black Hawk’s righthand man?”
“Yes, surely. Met the fellow several times. And a clever, scheming rascal he is.”
“What’d you say if I told you that this same Ne-a-pope is jest back from Fort Malden in Canady, where he got a promise from the Britishers that they’ll send guns, powder an’ supplies to Black Hawk an’ his Sacs, as soon as the big chief takes the war-path?”
Major Whistler grabbed the pipe from his mouth, and stared hard at Bill Brown.
“By George,” he burst out, “I’m beginning to believe that Van Alstyne is right. Your story sounds more hare-brained every moment.”
“Alright, boys,” said Brown grimly, to the attentive twins, “go to it! Tell the Major ’bout what you saw an’ heard last evenin’, not two miles from this very room.”
Tom Gordon acted as spokesman. And before five minutes was up, he had Major Whistler sitting on the edge of his chair. The officer’s face was a picture of consternation, as he gave ear to the boy’s story of the midnight council of Ne-a-pope and the Prairie Wolf, and to the formidable plot of the Sac Chieftains unfolded there.
“Great Jupiter,” he exclaimed, his tone one of extreme amazement, “you say that the British will back Black Hawk with arms, supplies and gold?”
“So Ne-a-pope stated, sir,” affirmed Tom Gordon.
“And not only that, Major,” Ben added soberly, “Ne-a-pope also declared that the Foxes, Winnebagoes and Ottoways plan to join the conspiracy.”
“If those nations take up the tomahawk,” reflected the Major solemnly, “it will probably mean that every other tribe on the middle border will be itching to put on the war-paint. The whole, wide frontier might easily burst into flame.”
“That’s jest it, Major, that’s jest it!” cried Bill Brown earnestly. “An’ I’m only afeared that it’s too late to stop the Hawk from throwin’ down the gauntlet. The war-whoop may even now be ringin’ out ’cross the prairies.”
“I pray not,” said Whistler fervently, rising to his feet and standing before the fireplace with hands clenched before him.
“Whatever you do, Major,” said Bill Brown, “my services are yern fer the askin’.”
“And ours, too,” added Tom Gordon quickly, speaking up for both of the brothers.
“Good!” praised Whistler. “That’s the proper spirit. We’ll need every man who can tote a gun, if this plot of Black Hawk’s develops as he plans.”
“What steps do you aim to take?” questioned Brown.
“My first move,” the officer responded, “will be to send a detachment of sixty mounted troops—all I can spare from the garrison—straight across country to Rock River.”
“A smart plan,” nodded the giant scout approvingly. “If the Hawk ain’t already raised his war-cry, that may make him think twice, afore he does it.”
“It will take perhaps three days to organize this expedition. Meanwhile, I’m sending urgent dispatches east to the Secretary of War, Mr. Lewis Cass at Washington.”
“Cass is a western man,” commented Brown.
“Yes, he was once Governor of Michigan Territory.”
“He’ll see right off that big things is in the air,” declared the scout.
“I think so.”
“Oh, he knows that Black Hawk ’ll be a tough foe, an’ that this won’t be no taffy-pull.”
“Cass is a man of action,” agreed Whistler. “I have an idea that he’ll send out General Winfield Scott, famous old Fuss and Feathers, with a strong body of regulars.”
“An’ how ’bout gittin’ word to Gov’ner Reynolds at Vandalia?” offered Bill. “It’ll be up to him to call fer volunteers, if the Hawk breaks loose.”[A]
“Yes, that is the duty of the governor of the state. I must get dispatches to him without delay.”
There was some further talk about Black Hawk, mostly speculation as to what his plan of campaign would be, in case he unsheathed his scalping-knife. Then Brown and the two boys took leave of Whistler, after being assigned by him as roving scouts, to accompany the coming foray of the sixty troopers.
“Many of these soldiers are greenhorns, fresh from the east,” stated the Major to the frontiersman. “The aid of a veteran scout like you will be invaluable to them, I am sure.”
By the time the three had left the fort and returned to their lodgings, it was early afternoon.
“Let’s grab a snack,” proposed Ben, “and then hot-foot it to the Pottawattomee village.”
“Say, it’s good you thought of that, Ben,” observed Tom. “We did tell Bright Star that we’d be out to see him this afternoon.”
“I reckon I’ll trot along, too,” declared Bill Brown. “I have several good friends amongst the Pottawattomees. Mebbe, twixt the three of us, we kin pick up some news that’ll be more er less useful to the Major.”