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Indian War-cry
AT mid-afternoon of the second day following Tom’s set-to with Pat Fagan at the Mud Turtle, Bill Brown came rushing into the boys’ boarding shanty, across the river from Fort Dearborn. Excitement was plainly written on the face of the stalwart frontiersman.
“What’s stirring, Bill?” asked Ben Gordon, looking up from a pair of wool socks he was darning.
“Yes, what’s stirring?” Tom echoed curiously. “You look as flustered as a wet hen.”
“Got over here as fast as I could,” explained Bill, hastily catching his breath. “Jest heard at the fort that big Pat Fagan’s been posted as a deserter.”
“Pat Fagan, a deserter?” repeated Tom, his eyes growing wide with surprise.
“Yep, it seems that he had so much fun poked at him amongst the garrison, over the trouncin’ you gave him tother evenin’ at the Turtle, that he couldn’t stand it no longer. He was heard to say last night that he was fed up an’ aimin’ to light out; an’ shore ’nuff, this mornin’, when the roll o’ the comp’ny was called, he was reported missin’ ’thout leave.”
“Great guns!” observed Ben, “that’s pretty grim sort of business. Desertion is punishable by death, isn’t it, Bill?”
“It calls fer the firin’ squad in time o’ war; but in peace time an army deserter on the frontier us’lly gits fifty lashes on the bare back with a rawhide cat-o-nine-tails, well laid on. Then he has his head an’ eyebrows shaved an’ is chased out o’ camp by a squad with fixed bayonets, whilst the drummers an’ buglers play “The Rogue’s March.””
“Why, that’s almost worse than death,” exclaimed Tom Gordon, his face a picture of horror.
“Yep, ’tis, lad. No gainsayin’ that. But punishment fer desertin’ has to be harsh, the officers say. Totherwise, sojurs would be desertin’ right an’ left, ’cause garrison life on this far border gits so dull an’ lonely that men kin skeercely stand it.”
“Pat Fagan is a mean scoundrel,” went on Tom, “and he has his knife out for me, that I know; but yet I can’t wish him such an awful fate as that.”
“Chances are they’ll never take him alive,” Bill commented. “I think that—”
The veteran scout broke off his speech abruptly, as a light footstep sounded in the hall outside the room, and the lithe figure of the young Pottawattomee, Bright Star, darkened the door.
“Oh, good!” said Ben, jumping to his feet with a smile of welcome. “Here’s Bright Star!”
“Ho!” the youthful savage greeted them, raising his hand in salutation.
“Have a seat, Bright Star,” invited Ben. “What brings you to the village this afternoon?”
“Prairie Wolf gone!” the young chief told them.
“With his whole band?” inquired Bill attentively.
“Ugh! all tepee gone.”
“Going back to join the main tribe, I reckon,” hazarded Tom.
“Wolf travel toward setting sun. Pottawattomee spies see big pale-face with Wolf.”
“A big pale-face, you say?” meditated Bill. “Hm! what’d he look like? How was he dressed?”
“Wear blue coat. Heap tall and heavy.”
“Hear that, boys?” asked Brown. “I’m a great hand to hope fer the best, but who do you reckon that feller was?”
“Pat Fagan,” Tom replied instantly.
“An you, Ben? You ain’t a bad one at guessin’.”
“Pat Fagan, and it isn’t any guesswork either. It was the big rascal, sure as shooting.”
“I reckon that means,” reasoned the borderer, “that Pat’s a goin’ to become a white renegade. An’ he’ll be a powerful bad one, depend on that. Wouldn’t s’prise me, not at all, if he gits as black a name on the frontier as Simon Girty, the turrible white renegade who was the terror o’ the Kaintuck country, some forty years gone by. Folks still shudder down that way when they hear the name o’ Girty. No deviltry was too fierce er cruel fer him.”
Talk then turned to other matters, and, after another half-hour, both Bright Star and Brown took their leave. It seemed, however, that Bill was scarcely out of the room, when he was back once more, to summon the boys.
“Messenger jest in at the fort!” he related, trying to keep a calm voice. “His horse’s all in a lather. The sojurs say he’s come from down-state, with a dispatch from Gov’ner Reynolds.”
“S’pose it’s Injun business, Bill?” conjectured Ben.
“Wouldn’t s’prise me a whit. You know how I been lookin’ fer thin’s to explode any day now.”
“Let’s get down there and find out for certain,” proposed Tom, hurriedly pulling on his jacket.
“What are we waiting for?” cried Ben.
As the trio hurried across the old log bridge, they could see a cluster of people gathered about the river gate of the fort. There were soldiers, trappers, traders, half-breeds and villagers talking animatedly, with much waving of hands and nodding of heads.
“Somethin’s poppin’, that’s fer certain,” affirmed Bill, at the same time breaking into a trot.
“What’s brewing, Sandy?” called Tom, a moment later, as they reached the fringe of the crowd and caught sight of the friendly trapper.
“Plenty! Chief Black Hawk’s crossed the Mississippi with his Sacs!”
“When?” asked Bill Brown, his face muscles very taut.
“’Bout five days ago, I guess, on the twenty-sixth of April.”
“Wonder where he crossed?” the big scout went on.
“At the Yellow Banks, they say, jest below the mouth o’ the Rock.”
“Is he camped ther?”
“No, he didn’t tarry. Reports say he’s takin’ the trail up the east bank o’ the Rock.”
“Whew!” cried Bill, “right into the heart o’ Illinois. I’ll bet ther’s terror amongst the settlers.”
“Bound to be,” nodded Sandy. “I’ll wager that many outlyin’ places has been attacked afore now.”
“An’ that means scalps,” observed Bill sadly. “Scalps hangin’ from Sac belts.”
“Yep, it do. By now many a painted Injun has tumbled offen his pony, a white-man musket-ball in his vitals. On tother side, many a pale-face has wakened in his cabin at night, to hear yells, see the flamin’ arrers piercin’ the dark, an’ knives an’ war-axes flashin’ in the red light.”
“Not a pretty picture,” put in Ben Gordon, shivering in spite of his resolute spirit.
“Naw,” Sandy assented, “it ain’t. But it’s goin’ to git worse afore it gits better.”
“What’s the Gov’ner done ’bout it, Sandy?” continued Brown. “Did you hear?”
“Called fer volunteers to ‘repel the red murderers,’ as he puts it.”
“Whar’ll the volunteers rendezvous?”
“At Beardstown.”
“Well, they should raise a pile of volunteers,” Tom remarked, “with excitement running high, as it no doubt is.”
“Yep,” nodded Bill, “ther’ll be a sight of ’em flock in. But how hard they’ll fight is a horse of a diff’rent color.”
“You said it, pardner,” agreed Sandy, with a dubious look on his grizzled face. “I don’t put much stock in the fightin’ qual’ties o’ these fly-by-night volunteers. Ther purty much a rabble. Chances are ten to one they’ll run like sheep when they clap eyes on ther first screechin’ Injun.”
Bill Brown was about to make further comment, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Turning quickly about, he found a blue-coated orderly waiting to talk with him.
“Major Whistler wants to see you at his quarters at once,” said the orderly. “Also the two lads here. Better get up there as soon as you can, as he’s in a thunderin’ sweat over this Injun monkey-bus’ness.”
“Will the sentry let us through?” immediately asked Bill, who knew that a closer guard would henceforth be maintained at Fort Dearborn,—now that the Sacs had taken the war-path.
“I was comin’ to that,” went on the orderly. “Here’s a pass from the Major entitlin’ you to come and go freely at all hours of the day and night.”
Within the fort, the three found a scene of varied activity. It was evident that preparations were being pushed forward at all speed, for the coming expedition against the rampaging Sacs under mighty Black Hawk. The boys saw soldiers walking back and forth, rifle on shoulder, across the parade ground, and beyond them other soldiers. Most of them were straight, sinewy and alert men, well equipped to cope with any danger or other problem that might present itself.
When they had been ushered once again into the familiar quarters of Major Whistler, that harried officer came straightway to the point.
“You’ve doubtless heard, men,” he said crisply, “that the die is cast. Black Hawk has raised the war-cry. I am, therefore, straining every nerve to get the mounted detachment ready to start west tomorrow.”
“An’ we’re to go with ’em?” questioned Bill Brown.
“Most certainly,—as I told you.”
“Very well, Major. We’ll be on hand. What time is the start?”
“Any special orders?”
“Yes,—also one other item, that may or may not be to your liking. But it can’t be helped, I assure you of that.”
“Hm!” said Bill, a trifle perplexed.
“Now as to the orders, you are to act as scouts for the detachment, spying ahead of the line of march. Above all, try to keep those red knaves of Black Hawk’s from setting an ambush. That’s what I fear most.”
“It’s been the redskins’ fav’rite mode o’ warfare,” admitted the scout, “from Braddock’s day on.”
“In that connection,” continued the officer, rubbing his cheek reflectively, “I wonder if it might not be a smart plan to get some friendly Indians to go along with you,—to aid in the scouting. Not that I don’t consider you the best in the business, Bill, but an Indian has unique gifts in the scouting line that no white man ever possesses.”
“Yer right, sir,” Brown freely acknowledged. “Now take trackin’. An Injun is ace-high at that game. It’s born right in ’em.”
“Well, I’m glad that you agree with me.”
“Have you any certain Injun in mind, Major?”
“No, I haven’t; but I did think that a Pottawattomee would probably be the best. It seems a sure thing that most of that tribe will remain loyal to us.”
“Here’s a suggestion, sir,” broke in Tom Gordon eagerly. “If it’s a Pottawattomee you want, how about the young brave, Bright Star?”
“Bright Star! Hm! where have I heard that name before?” replied the officer, wrinkling his brow in deep thought.
“He fit quite a duel with the young Sac bully, Prairie Wolf,” explained Bill Brown, “only a day er so afore you got here.”
“That’s it,” nodded Whistler. “One of the lieutenants was telling me about the affair. From his account, this Bright Star must be a capable young warrior. He’ll fill the bill nicely. Think you can line him up?”
“I’m sure of it, sir,” Tom responded confidently. “I’ll go to the tepee of his father, the Chief Shaubena, as soon as I leave here.”
“Do that, lad. But now I must acquaint you with the other development I mentioned,—namely, that Captain Van Alstyne will be in command of the detachment.”
“That ain’t welcome news, sir,” said Bill Brown frankly.
“Wow!” exclaimed Tom and Ben expressively.
“It’s this way,” countered Whistler. “Van’s second in rank among the garrison. According to the army code, I had to offer him the charge of the party. He at once accepted. That wrote finis to the matter. I admit that you will find him bull-headed at times, and he has an immense contempt for all Indians; but no one ever questioned his courage. He has a stout heart.”
“Well, Major,” concluded Brown, “we kin only try to make the best o’ what looks like an unpromisin’ sitchiation; but as someone said, ‘When you make a bad barg’in, hug it all the tighter.’”