******************************
Shadows in the Night
AT daybreak, the next morning, the trumpet sounded “Boots and Saddles” at Fort Dearborn; and a few moments later, the little band of sixty mounted troopers rode out from the village. Bill Brown, Tom and Ben Gordon, and the young chief, Bright Star, were in the forefront of the column, acting as guides and scouts. It was a perfect May day, sunny and cloudless, with the songbirds piping gayly, the trees and shrubs leafing out, and the measureless blue arc of the sky stretching ahead of them to the western horizon.
The two red-heads, Ben and Tom, looked back along the column, both thinking that here, indeed, was a gallant little fighting force. Every man carried a musket, a heavy pistol, 100 rounds of ammunition for the musket, 30 for the pistol, and a large, strong hunter’s knife. Everyone had rations for ten days, already cooked, in his roomy haversack. At the tail of the column, six pack-horses bore picks, shovels, camp-kettles, extra rounds of ammunition, medical supplies, salt and tea.
“This is something like it, isn’t it, Bill?” said Tom Gordon, drawing a deep breath of the fresh, bracing air.
“Let’s hope so, lad,” replied the scout, with a dubious glance in the direction of Captain Van Alstyne, whose pompous figure awkwardly bestrode a big, dapple-gray horse.
All morning the little detachment advanced steadily, always keeping the same formation, as they followed a well-defined Indian trail that trended due west. The three white scouts and Bright Star led, Captain Van Alstyne was just behind, with Lieutenant Clark at his side; and then came the blue-coated troopers in a close group. A little past noon, they halted for a short rest and to water the horses in a stream. The hungry men also partook of food from their pouches. Then they resumed their journey.
“Makin’ mighty good time, Cap’n,” volunteered Bill Brown affably. “Reckon we’ll reach the Fox River afore nightfall.”
“And how far might that be from Fort Dearborn.”
“Nigh onto forty mile.”
The warm sun began to cool, the afternoon passed its zenith, and the band rode on, mostly in silence.
This trail, Tom and Ben noted surprisedly, was not anything like a highway, but was merely a narrow path, deeply indented by the hoofs of the horses on which the Indians rode in single file. So deeply was it sunk in the sod which covered the prairies, that it was difficult, sometimes, to distinguish it at a distance of a few, paltry rods. Furthermore, in this almost flat, open country there were no landmarks. One low elevation was so exactly like another, that if the trail were lost, there was about as little hope of regaining it as of finding a pathway in the midst of the ocean.
Now and then the route led through marshy stretches of country, where progress was slow and difficult. Myriads of wild geese, brant, and ducks rose up screaming at their approach. At other times, the trail meandered through dense thickets of alder, willow and wild-plum. At late afternoon, just as they had passed one of the densest parts of such thickets, they rode out onto a pleasant, little plain, where the view was more open before them.
“The Fox River!” called Bill Brown, pointing ahead.
“Humph!” snorted Van Alstyne irritably. “About time! I thought we never would come to the end of those wretched thickets.”
“Travel is better tother side o’ the Fox,” the big scout consoled him.
“Let’s trust so. If I had my way, I’d let the plaguey Indians have this accursed country. It isn’t fit for white habitation.”
They presently made camp for the night on the far bank of the Fox, having swum their mounts across the channel. After the horses had fed in the rich grass and the men had eaten their supper, Bill Brown took charge,—at the order of the Captain, who seated himself somewhat disconsolately on a handy log and proceeded to pull off his heavy cavalryman’s boots to rest his weary feet.
Every trooper was instructed by the veteran scout to hobble his horse, and to see that his lariat was knotted properly. He was told, also, to drive his picket pin firmly into the ground, and before going to sleep for the night he must see that it was still right. Careful instructions were likewise given in case of surprise. Every trooper was to seize his horse’s lariat with one hand and his musket with the other. He was then to stand by his horse to prevent a stampede, about the worst thing that can happen to a mounted troop.
“Lot of nonsense,” the Captain remonstrated. “As if those beggarly redskins would venture to attack a contingent of United States Regulars. Bah! Preposterous!”
After they had tethered their mounts, Bill Brown, Bright Star, and the two Gordons walked down to the edge of the river. The sun had now set, but some of its last rays lingered over the opposite bank, tinting the sand and the alders and willows as if with blood. A chill breeze had sprung up from the west, and the water in the river looked dark and cold. Suddenly, a strange shiver, a premonition, as it were, of something ominous to come, ran through every nerve and vein of Tom Gordon.
“What’s the matter, Tom?” asked Bill Brown, who had been watching the boy closely.
“Nothing, Bill, at least not anything real; but I have a queer foreboding of something evil, soon to come.”
“Yer prob’ly over-tired, lad. It’s been a long, hard day, an’ you ain’t saddle-broke yit. Hop along an’ git as much sleep as you kin, afore it’s yer turn to stand watch.”
Tom and Ben, and even the hardy, steel-sinewed Bright Star, were so weary that they were glad to accede to Bill’s suggestion. They drew their blankets closely about their bodies, pillowed their heads upon the haversacks which had been given them as part of their outfits, and speedily shut their eyes. For a few moments, Tom Gordon heard the occasional stamp of a horse’s hoof, a trooper passing nearby, once the hoot of an owl in a copse down river, and then he heard nothing more. He was sound asleep and he did not wake until shortly after midnight, when he was summoned to stand the second watch.
Tom had as his comrade on this watch a young Irish trooper by the name of Jim Martin, who had only recently joined the service. Jim took the northern side of the camp, and walked back and forth in a wide arc from out on the prairie to the river bank. Tom had a similar arc on the south. Now and then they would meet on the prairie side of the circle. At these times, they would exchange a word or two and pass on.
“’Ave yer seen anythin’ alarmin’?” asked Jim, after about an hour’s watch.
“No, not a thing, Jim.”
“Ner me neither, b’jabbers. I’m after thinkin’ ther ain’t a red thafe within miles of the place.”
Another hour passed and it seemed to Tom that the watch might well be relaxed, as Jim Martin had hinted. The countless stars winked and danced in the most friendly fashion, and the light breeze had died away entirely. He again met his companion, and they exchanged the usual word of greeting. Tom passed on, traversing the familiar arc once more. His path led through a clump of willows, and just beyond them in a close group were the horses.
Tom’s eyes, good at any time, had become used to the darkness, and he could now see quite well. He saw clearly the outlines of the horses, most of them lying down, but two standing on the side nearest him. Suddenly, the peculiar spell, or premonition, that he had had down by the river bank at sundown, came over him once again. He stopped short, completely hidden in the willow clump, and looked out.
And now Tom’s heart rose up in his throat! Was that a shadow that he saw just behind the standing horses? How could it be, he thought; for it was moving. Pshaw! Maybe a shadow from a swaying bough. But say, there was no wind! How could a bough sway? A powerful feeling swept over him that danger, fearful danger, was close at hand. He clutched his rifle tightly, as the first slight trembling of his hands passed away. He was now cool and steady.
Nothing happened, however. After a moment or two, the boy took a step forward, but he was yet hidden among the trunks of the willows. There had been no sound as yet from the horses, but now one of them stamped uneasily and then shied slightly to one side. Tom thought that he heard light steps, so light as to be almost inaudible.
And now he heard them again. There was danger. Real danger. It was not mere fancy. He bounded forward and a shadow darted from behind the horse, the shadow of a feathered Indian. The warrior with a thrust of his knife cut the lariat of the horse, struck him on the flank, and gave voice to a shrill, wolfish howl. Tom threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired at the same instant.
“Up! up!” he cried. “Indians!”
As he paused to reload his gun, he saw that his hastily fired bullet had missed the savage, who now scurried off to the west. The fleeing brave could clearly be seen in the moonlight. The boy could make out that he was fully armed and in all the panoply of war-paint. Then, as he looked more sharply, he was fairly agape with amazement.
“Prairie Wolf!” he exclaimed; and sent another bullet whistling through the night air; but there was only a low, derisive whoop, as the shadow faded like a phantom into the nearby thickets.
Jim Martin rushed down from the northern arc of the circle, Bill Brown was out of his blanket in a moment, thoroughly alert and awake; and Lieutenant Clark and several of the troopers, together with Ben Gordon and Bright Star, were not far behind.
“Watch the horses!” yelled Bill loudly. “Ther gittin’ ready to stampede!”
Tom and Jim jumped forward and seized the lariats of two of the nervous beasts. The rest of the party likewise hurled themselves into the milling group. Everybody seemed to be all hands, grasping as many lariats as possible. For a moment or two the frightened beasts reared and struggled, but soon they subsided into silence; and, although they stood quivering, they made no further effort to break loose.
“You saved us, Tom, my boy,” said Bill Brown warmly. “The Sacs, the skulkin’ varmints, was bound to run off our horses, but you saw ’em in the nick o’ time.”
“Brave lad,” praised the Lieutenant. “If the red snakes had stampeded our mounts, we wouldn’t have been much better off than sailors in the middle of the ocean without a boat.”
Tom Gordon flushed with pride in the darkness; and his heart was glad that he had passed his first test in the hard, cruel school of Indian warfare.
By this time the heavily-snoring Captain Van Alstyne had finally roused from his deep slumbers. He now bustled up, with evident irritation.
“What goes on here?” he demanded testily. “What’s the cause of this infernal racket?”
“Injuns, Cap’n!” explained Bill Brown.
“Indians, humph! I don’t see any.”
“Well, Tom here saw one, with his own eyes, tryin’ to stampede the horses.”
“Bosh, boy,” cried the moon-face officer, “most likely a shadow. Get your nerves under control, if you’re to be any good out here on this wild border.”
“Oh, I saw a warrior, sir,” protested the boy. “He was in full array, feathers and war-paint.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you dreamed the whole thing,” snapped Van Alstyne. “Probably asleep at your post. In the future, I want guards set who will stay awake and keep their wits about them.”
“I was the second guard, sir,” broke in Jim Martin. “I never set eyes on the red jack-a-napes, but I heard him howl.”
“Heard him howl?”
“Aye, sir,—just like a wild wolf.”
“No doubt was a wolf. That explains it all.”
“But the lariat on one o’ the horses was cut with a knife, Cap’n,” observed Bill Brown, choking back his anger. “Come, I’ll show you.”
“I’ve lost enough sleep now,” objected the Captain, stalking off toward his waiting blanket. “Maybe the wolf bit the lariat in two. I understand that the beasts have teeth of extraordinary sharpness. Post fresh guards and get this camp settled down again. And be lively about it.”
When morning came, and while the troopers were getting ready to break camp, Bill Brown quietly took the keen-eyed Pottawattomee, Bright Star, and the two Gordons to the edge of the camp area.
“I want to look fer tracks,” he told the young brave.
For a moment or two Bright Star moved about at random, for all the world like a beagle-hound on a rabbit trail, head bent low and eyes fixed to the ground. Then he suddenly set off, straight toward the west.
“Indian,” he said, pointing to a faint print, “one Indian.”
“By cracky,” said Bill Brown, “I should get Van Alstyne an’ rub his long nose in it.”
The single track led on for upwards of a half-mile, where they came upon a hurriedly abandoned campsite. There was a broken tepee-pole, some scraps of deer meat, fragments of clothing, an old moccasin, and a few stray feathers from a war-bonnet. Bright Star ran busily about the place, looking intently at the ground.
“Maybe six, seven, eight Indian,” he told the others, after a time. “Also one pale-face. Big man.”
“Hear that, fellows,” cried Tom, his eyes glinting. “That’s our old pal, Pat Fagan, for sure. He’s turned renegade and joined up with Prairie Wolf and the Sacs, just as we figured.”
“Shall we tell Captain Van Alstyne about this?” inquired Ben.
“Naw,” replied Bill Brown, deep resentment in his tone, “he won’t believe ther’s an Injun war on, till he gits a flyin’ tomahawk in the back o’ his skull.”