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Horsemen of the Prairie
ALL that day, and the next morning, too, the band of troopers from Fort Dearborn continued their steady travel westward, over the rolling prairies of the Illinois country. The four scouts—three whites and one red—led the march, and from time to time the agile Bright Star would alight from his horse and examine the trail they were following. His study always revealed that the Prairie Wolf and his Sacs, together with the deserter, Pat Fagan, were fleeing before them.
“Heading for the Rock River, to join up with the main Injun force under Black Hawk,” conjectured Ben Gordon.
“Maybe we can catch up with them and wipe them out, before they make a junction,” Tom added, raising himself in his stirrups and searching the rolling plain with his strong, young eyes.
“Ugh,” said Bright Star, shaking his head soberly, “it will not be.”
“I reckon the young chief is right,” Brown agreed. “The Wolf an’ his men are movin’ powerful fast, an’ while the trail is growin’ warmer, it don’t look as if we kin catch ’em afore they hit the river.”
“They’ve maybe reached Black Hawk by now,” concluded Ben.
At noon the usual pause was made. Food and black tea were served, and then the sixty remounted. For two hours more the trail led directly west, then veered very slightly to the north. A few more miles and suddenly, upon coming over a low rise of ground, they saw before them the dark, wide, rapid waters of a sizable stream.
“Rock River!” sang out Bill Brown.
“Zounds, at last!” grumbled Van Alstyne. “The more I see of this God-forsaken country, the less I like it. If I ever get to Washington, I’m going to introduce a bill in Congress proposing that we give the whole miserable region back to the Indians. It would seem that—”
“Look, Captain!” broke in Ben Gordon excitedly, “look up there, will you!”
The stoutish officer turned awkwardly in his saddle, and gazed north along the river bank where the boy was pointing.
“What of it, lad? what of it?” he asked waspishly. “I see nothing but a tumble-down cabin and barn, no doubt deserted by some poor settler who had his belly full of this detestable hole.”
“Why, that’s Dixon’s place, Cap’n,” Bill Brown informed him, “er what’s left of it. John Dixon ’stablished a ferry an’ stoppin place here ’bout four years past, back in 1828. His buildin’s was sure ’nuff standin’ two weeks ago, when I come through on the way to Dearborn. ’Pears to me that Black Hawk an’ his Sac ruffians has been here since.”
“Cabin burn. Ugh!” offered Bright Star, squinting his eyes upriver.
“Very likely struck by lightning,” sniffed Van Alstyne. “You’ve all got Black Hawk on the brain. I still believe that the bally old chief is sitting before his lodge fire, over in Ioway, toasting his toes.”
“No siree!” protested the scout sternly, “this is Injun doin’s. Let’s press on!”
When they reached the place, they found it to be a complete ruin. From the foundations, and what Bill Brown knew of the place, it could be determined that there had been several structures,—house, barn, shed and three other outbuildings. Nothing now remained but a few fragments of charred walls, and a portion of roof on the low shed.
“Yep,” repeated Bill solemnly, “torch an’ tomahawk did this deviltry.”
“I wonder what was the fate of those who lived here,” mused Ben sadly.
“Sliced to ribbons by the Injun knives, lad. Mebbe the kids an’ women-folk was carried off to captivity.”
“Ugh, ugh!” interjected Bright Star, pointing suddenly to the rear of the ruined barn.
“What’s got into that confounded redskin now?” said Van Alstyne peevishly. “That ’ugh, ugh’ fol-de-rol of his is beginning to get on my nerves.”
“What is it, chief?” asked Brown quickly, ignoring the Captain’s complaint.
“Mounds of earth, behind barn. Maybe burial place.”
“These are graves, that’s a certainty,” nodded Lieutenant Clark, when the group had moved over to the place pointed out by the Pottawattomee.
“Four of them, and newly made,” Ben said soberly.
“No doubt the graves of the Indian victims,” commented Van Alstyne acidly. “Evidently Black Hawk and his painted braves are unique among the savages. They murder the settlers and then give them civilized burial.”
“Yer right on one score, Cap’n, fer a change,” answered Bill Brown calmly. “The mounds cover the bodies o’ the pore folk kilt by the Injuns. But these Christian graves are the work o’ white men, who must’ve come along arter the massacre an’ found the corpses.”
“White men?” returned the Captain. “But who?”
“Guess you didn’t notice that trail we crossed, when we rode in here?”
“How should I? I’m no blinkin’ blood-hound.”
“It was ther, plain as the nose on yer face. Come on, let’s go over an’ take a close squint at it. It may tell us a lot.”
Moving away from the river, and out onto the prairie, perhaps a hundred yards, they looked down on the broad trail of many unshod horses and marks of wagon wheels. There it was, clearly imprinted on the soft, prairie earth.
The trail could not speak, but still it was like a living thing. It lay silently before them, yet standing out on the brown soil, wide, vivid, and full of significance. It told the keen-eyed Bright Star and Bill Brown, the veteran scout, that here a white army had passed, many men, hundreds of them, heading hurriedly northward, up the river. This was the story the trail told.
“Gad, you are right, Brown,” admitted Van Alstyne, as his eyes beheld the tell-tale evidence. “A large force of men has gone this way.”
“And not long ago,” Tom Gordon declared. “The prints look fresh.”
“Mighty fresh,” nodded Brown. “I’d say that they was made this very mornin’.”
“I think I can offer a solution, Captain,” averred Lieutenant Clark, “as to who these men were.”
“I hope so, I hope so, Lieutenant. As far as I know, they may as well be men from Mars. I can see that there were a lot of them, and that they’ve churned up the earth like a herd of cattle; but as to their identity, there you have me.”
“Here’s my idea of it, sir,” went on Clark, pulling a map from his pocket. “You remember that Governor Reynolds, in his dispatches, said that a large number of volunteers would rendezvous at Beardstown. Now take a look at this map. Beardstown is some seventy-five miles due south of here. I think that this fresh trail was made by the Beardstown volunteers. Their scouts have brought them word that Black Hawk is moving northward, up the Rock River, and they are hot on his heels.”
“By George, Clark, that’s capital reasoning. At times I haven’t thought too highly of your ability, but I am beginning to believe that you will develop into a first-rate officer.”
“Thank you, sir; but what course do you feel that we should now follow?”
“Well, let me think. I have it,—just the thing. I’ll take four troopers with me and press rapidly up the trail. Five of us can travel much more rapidly than the whole detachment. I’ll come up with the volunteers before dark and spend the night in their tents.”
“And we’ll camp here, and follow along in the morning?” queried Clark.
“That’s it. A body of men the size of the volunteer force must necessarily travel slow. You should have no trouble in overtaking us some time tomorrow,—probably no later than mid-afternoon.”
“Very well, sir,” said Clark uneasily, “but wouldn’t it be wise to take Bill Brown or one of the other scouts with you?”
“Nonsense, Lieutenant, nonsense! When old Black Hawk’s spies carried him word of this pursuing army, he no doubt turned tail and skedaddled north as fast as his ponies will trot. I imagine he won’t stop running till he gets to Lake Superior, or maybe Hudson Bay. And good riddance, say I!”
“It’s up to you, sir,” was Clark’s final comment, “but I would earnestly advise you to be wary.”
“Pshaw!” boasted Van Alstyne, “I feel as safe as strolling down the Bowery in good old New York City; but if you insist, I will take along young Ben Gordon.”
Ten minutes later, the Captain, Ben Gordon and the four troopers—one of whom was Jim Martin—rode out of Dixon’s Ferry, and with a final wave of farewell struck up the broad trail to the north; while those who were left behind proceeded to pitch camp for the night, on the open bank of the wilderness river.
Sunset was soon at hand; and after the big, molten orb had gone down in the west, mists and vapors began to roll in from the northeast, promising a chilly and dark night. The little band of Indian hunters built bright fires, however, over which they cooked bacon and made the customary tea. The food and drink heartened them wonderfully, and, although it was felt necessary to put out the blazes as soon as the cooking was over, the effect of the warmth lingered on.
At the behest of Lieutenant Clark, Bill Brown, Bright Star and Tom Gordon went up the trail, scouting in the twilight. The three scouts came back, after a while, and reported that nothing could be found on the prairie to the north. There seemed no danger of a night attack, and the men could probably sleep undisturbed till the morning; although double guards would be posted as a precaution, now that they were in the very heart of the Indian domain.
This first detail of guards had hardly begun its rounds, however, when one of them, on the down river side of camp, detected the sound of voices to the south. There was silence for a few moments, and then the anxious guard again heard a distant shout or two. He at once passed the word along to summon Lieutenant Clark.
“What’s the trouble, Jones?” asked the officer tersely,—as he hurried up with Bill Brown, whom he had hastily aroused from sleep.
“Voices down the trail to the south, sir,” said the guard.
The three listened intently for a moment. Again there came a distant call, followed by an answering whoop from farther away.
“Those are white men,” asserted Bill. “I’ll vouch fer that.”
“I think so, Bill; but at any rate we’d best be cautious.”
“Well spoken, Left’nant.”
“Now, Jones,” went on the officer, “we’ll hold our tongues for the time being. When those fellows, whoever they be, advance within ten paces or so, challenge them. Is that clear?”
“It is, sir. Yes, sir.”
There was no further shouting down the trail, but, after a short interval, there was a noise near at hand, and a muttered imprecation as someone stumbled over a rough spot in the path.
“Halt! who comes there?” abruptly barked the sentinel.
There was a dead silence for a half-moment. Then came the gruff response out of the pitchy dark, “Who the blazes wants ter know?”
“Who comes there?” again challenged the sentinel.
“Keep yer shirt on!” was the answer. “We’re the ’rig’nal iron-jawed, brass-mounted, copper-bellied Injun chasers from the wilds o’ Sangamon County. Folks down that way call us ‘Sudden Death.’ So stand back an’ give us room to pass!”
“Not till you properly identify yourselves,” cut in Lieutenant Clark grimly.
“Say, feller, listen har! I take six rattle-snakes an’ a bar’l o’ whiskey fer breakfast, when I’m feelin’ my us’al self. Blood’s my fav’rite drink, an’ the moans o’ the dyin’ is soothin’ to my ears. But ef yer gwine ter git yer back up ’bout the matter, I’ll break down an’ state that my name is Pete Perkins.”
“Pete Perkins!” burst out Bill Brown, unable to conceal his surprise. “Why, you double-dyed ol’ rascal, are you still pollutin’ the earth?”
“Whoopee! that sounds powerful like ol’ Bill Brown, the Kaintock border-man with the petrified gizzard.”
“You appear to know this party, Bill,” laughed Lieutenant Clark. “Let him come on, sentinel.”
“Whoopee, that’s good!” cried Pete, jumping up and cracking his heels together three times before he lit. “I’m comin’ on; but don’t git over near me, ez I’m fust cousin ter the cholera, an’ close related ter the smallpox on my father’s side.”
There followed a few moments of quick question and answer, and it was learned that Perkins was the advance scout for a large force of volunteer militia that followed a mile behind.
“We be more’n a thousand strong,” declared the voluble scout, letting fly a torrent of tobacco juice, “all hossmen, ’cept ’bout tew hunderd foot sojurs.”
“Who is in command?” asked Clark.
“Brigadier-Gen’ral Sam Whiteside, the best dad-blamed Injun fighter on the frontier. An’ in jest a half-hour yew kin confab with him person’ly. The men has marched twenty mile terday, over muddy roads. But ol’ Sam set his sights fer Dixon’s Ferry, this mornin’ when we busted kemp, an’ I’ll be durned ef we didn’t make it.”