******************************
Among the Pottawattomees
THE tepee of wise, old Shaubena, noted sachem of the Pottawattomees, and father of the dauntless Bright Star, was pitched some distance west of Fort Dearborn. When within a mile of the Indian village, Bill Brown and the two Gordons came upon a section of the regular foot-trail that was covered with water, as the spring freshet was now at its height. A slight detour to the north was thus made necessary.
“Look there!” exclaimed Ben Gordon, with a low cry, as the three came to the crown of a sloping ridge, giving them a view up an open glade that led off in a north-westerly direction.
“Down!” called Bill Brown, as his keen eyes followed the boy’s pointing finger. “Down! this may mean danger!”
Quickly throwing themselves prostrate behind some nearby rocks, the three whites looked up the narrow glade, directly upon an Indian camp of a half-dozen tepees. Well hidden behind the great, gray boulders, the trio occupied a splendid point of vantage, and, while secure from observation themselves, they could easily see all that went on in the savage encampment.
The six Indian tepees had been pitched in a rough circle, and, in the open, level space within, ten dusky braves, naked to the waist, were doing a dance of singular violence.
“Sacs!” declared Bill Brown, almost at once.
“How do you know, Bill?” Ben queried.
“’Cause they alus mark ’emselves with white clay, an’ ornament ’emselves with leaves, when they dance.”
Sure enough! The boys now perceived that the glistening, naked bodies of the capering dancers displayed no paint except white, transverse streaks, with which they were covered. Also, around their heads, were green chaplets of leaves. And their legs, and even their guns—which all brandished before them—were wreathed in the same manner.
“Is that their war-dance, Bill?” whispered Tom Gordon.
“Yep, an’ it’d chill a man’s blood, wouldn’t it?”
The three lay in tense silence for some moments, as they witnessed the ferocious posturings of the Sacs.
“Ah!” said Ben Gordon presently. “See who comes!”
The flap of one of the tepees was thrown back, and a tall, coppery figure emerged into the daylight. The hidden watchers recognized him immediately. It was the Prairie Wolf, the sinister young Sac chief.
“Must be the Wolf’s camp,” muttered Bill Brown; and the two boys nodded agreement.
The three watchers remained for a short time more, as the bronze-skinned, eagle-faced warriors continued their wild, barbaric dancing.
“Nothin’ more to see,” averred Bill at length. “Tain’t wuthwhile to lay here any longer.”
They slid away down the far side of the ridge, and continued their travel toward the camp of Shaubena.
“What’s the meaning of that war-dance, Bill?” asked Ben, after an interval.
“I’m a doin’ some heavy thinkin’.”
“Could it be,” conjectured the boy thoughtfully, “that the Wolf and his Sacs have got word from Black Hawk that he has taken the war-trail?”
“A smart guess, Ben,” declared Tom. “I’ll bet my hat that you’ve hit it. Else why should they daub themselves all over with that white clay and everything?”
“Mebbe so, lads,” admitted Bill Brown. “I wouldn’t bet a plugged nickel that you ain’t right.”
About a half-mile beyond the Wolf’s encampment, where the path dipped into a shallow hollow, near the river edge, there was a low rustling of the bushes, beside the trail. Shouldering into the thicket, Bill Brown found two squaws crouching in the greenery, trying hard to conceal themselves from sight.
They were greatly relieved when the stalwart scout addressed them in the Pottawattomee tongue.
“What are you doing here?” he questioned.
“Digging Indian potatoes”—(a species of artichoke.)
“Are you from the camp of Shaubena?”
“Yes.”
“Where does he pitch his tepee?”
“On the other side of river.”
“’Cross the river? Hm! that’s bad.”
“Maybe they have a canoe,” put in Tom hopefully.
“Have you a canoe?” asked the veteran borderer, turning again to the squaws.
“Yes, we have canoe; but canoe is very small.”
They thereupon conducted the three whites down the hollow to the water’s edge, where the canoe was drawn up.
“Small canoe is right,” chuckled Bill, as he looked at the dugout. “Durndest runt of a boat I ever seed.”
He then explained to the Indians that one of them would have to take the whites across one at a time. And in this way the three eventually got to the opposite bank dryshod. Safely over, the big scout took from his knapsack a piece of blue cloth, a present which made the two, wide-eyed squaws clap their hands with childlike delight.
What with these delays, it was nearly sundown when the trio arrived at the Pottawattomee camp. Here they found the friendly Bright Star awaiting their coming. Bill Brown at once left them, to search out a brave by the name of Little Fox, who had been his companion on a scouting foray, some years before; but the two boys were ushered into the spacious tepee of Shaubena and seated cross-legged about a tempting array of food and drink. There was roast wild-turkey, hominy, strawberries and a large pot of steaming black tea, very strong, in the Indian manner.
After the conclusion of the savage banquet, the visitors lolled back on fur rugs, and there was much animated conversation for upwards of an hour. Among other things, Bright Star was told of the war-dance in the camp of the Prairie Wolf.
“Bad!” he said. “Ugh! scalping-knife soon red with blood.”
Bill Brown now made his appearance; and the two boys took their leave of Bright Star and prepared to turn back toward the distant fort.
“Listen, lads,” said the scout perplexedly, “I’m in a purty sort of a pickle.”
“How come, Bill?”
“Little Fox is so plumb tickled to see me, that he’s invited me to spend the night in his tepee.”
“Go ahead. That’s fine.”
“Not so fine as you think, mebbe. His tepee is chock-full o’ fleas. Not jest them ord’nary, little everyday fleas, but pesky sand-fleas,—big as butterflies, I vum.”
“Well, good scratching Bill,” chuckled Tom.
“Maybe we can pick you up a package of flea powder somewhere in the village,” hooted Ben.
“An’ by the way, boys,” went on Bill, a strange look coming over his face, “what did you have fer supper; if I may be so rude as to inquire.”
“Roast turkey, Bill,” Tom said. “Gee, it was scrumptious!”
“Roast turkey, eh? An’ it was scrumptious. Hm! guess what ol’ Bill had set afore him.”
“Can’t imagine,” Ben said.
“Well, brace yerselves! Roast dog!”
“Roast dog?”
“Yep, roast dog,” lamented Bill; shaking his head sadly, as he patted his mid-section.
“Wow, that’s the limit!” groaned Tom. “If your Injun pal, Little Fox, ever asks me in for supper, I’m going to have a pressing engagement elsewhere.”
“About twenty miles elsewhere,” added Ben.
“You see,” explained Bill, “an Injun holds it a pizen insult, if you turn down food that’s offered. An’ the same goes, if he gives out an invite to stay fer the night. You jest can’t say no, er he’ll be yer mortal foe fer life.”
“Looks like you’re in for it, Bill,” grinned Tom. “We’ll see you in the morning.”
“Hope you have a comfortable night,” gibed Ben, “and also a tasty breakfast.”
“But to git ser’ous, boys,” went on the frontiersman, his face very sober, “I hate to have you hikin’ back to the fort alone, now that dark is here.”
“Are you spoofing, Bill?”
“Not a bit of it. Yer path lays right past the Mud Turtle.”
“What of it?”
“Yer li’ble to bump into that scoundrel of a Pat Fagan. He hangs ’round ther a hull lot.”
“Well, if we do,” asserted Tom defiantly, “we’re apt as not to give him another dunking in the swamp. He prob’ly needs a bath again by this time.”
With this, they walked off through the tepees. After a short search, down by the river’s rim, they found an Indian brave, who readily agreed to set them once again across the stream. Arriving on the other bank, they turned their faces toward the distant settlement. A bright, full moon made the path clear before them; and in the cool of the April evening, they stepped out with long, sure strides that fairly ate up the miles.