******************************
The Lodge of Black Hawk
THAT same evening, in an Indian lodge on the banks of Sycamore Creek, a small stream flowing into the Rock River about thirty-five miles north of Dixon’s Ferry, an important conference was taking place.
The Indian lodge was that of the famed Sac chief, Black Hawk. It was a large lodge, covered with grass mats and very nicely arranged. Four sticks of wood, placed to form a square in the center, answered the purpose of a hearth, within which was a crackling fire of birchwood, the smoke escaping through an opening in the top. Against the sides, hanging from the poles or framework, were various skin bags containing food and other belongings. Sundry ladles, small kettles, and wooden bowls also hung from the cross-poles; and dangling from the center pole, by an iron chain, was a larger kettle, in which a meat stew of vension, rabbit and squirrel was seething over the brisk fire.
On the floor of the lodge, between the warm fire and outer wall, were spread mats, upon which were seated three dusky Indians of the Sac tribe.
One of these, on the north side of the lodge, was Black Hawk himself, dressed in a buckskin suit. The noted sachem was only some five feet, five inches in height, and rather spare as to flesh. His somewhat pinched features exaggerated the prominence of the cheekbones of his race. As to other facial characteristics, he had a full mouth, a pronounced Roman nose, bright and piercing eyes, no eyebrows, a high forehead, and a head well thrown back with a pose of quiet dignity. His hair was plucked out, with the exception of the scalp-lock, in which, on occasions such as this, was fastened a bunch of eagle feathers.
On the south side of the lodge, across the fire from Black Hawk, sat the sinister Ne-a-pope, dark of visage and wrapped in his familiar, faded green blanket. The third brave, seated on the west, was none other than the burly young chief, Prairie Wolf. Ne-a-pope and the Wolf, together with the soldier deserter, Pat Fagan, had arrived at Sycamore Creek only an hour before, after their hurried journey across country from Fort Dearborn.
“Ho, Ne-a-pope,” spoke up Black Hawk, “you are back from your long journey.”
“Aye,” responded Ne-a-pope, “I have returned.”
“You had talks with the British in Canada?”
“Aye, we took council for many hours.”
“What was decided?”
“The British will send help, oh Black Hawk.”
“It is well,” the chief rejoined, his eyes glowing brightly at the news. “When and where will the red-coats come?”
“By way of Mil-wa-ke, so they said. It may be that they have started up the lakes ere now.”
“Your words lift my drooping spirits, oh worthy Ne-a-pope,” confessed Black Hawk.
“Your heart is heavy?”
“My heart is heavy, very heavy.”
“Why so?”
“It is this way. When I took up the war-hatchet against the hated pale-face, I had reason to think that the Foxes, Winnebagoes and warriors of other tribes would rush to my side. They had sent me the red wampum.”
“None have come in?”
“Only a handful.”
“Why is this so?”
“The Pottawattomee chief, Shaubena, and others of his powerful nation, have passed among them, saying that Black Hawk is a madcap, a fool to fight the swarming pale-faces, who number as the leaves of the trees.”
“The accursed Pottawattomees have been bought with pale-face gold!” cried Ne-a-pope, his face writhing with fierce anger.
“It may well be,” admitted Black Hawk. “Also, I begin to fear that the Foxes and Winnebagoes are old women, afraid to raise the war-cry. The ancient courage of their fathers has gone. Their hearts are faint and their muscles feeble.”
“Mayhap Fox and Winnebago await the day when Black Hawk gives battle to the pale-face soldiers,” put in the sullen Prairie Wolf, who had been listening silently to the conversation.
“Did I not cross the Wapt-pa-ton-ga (Great River),” replied Black Hawk, somewhat stung by the Wolf’s blunt statement, “and throw down the gauntlet? What did noble Fox and brave Winnebago do then? I will tell you. They skulk in their lodges, like beaten dogs.”
“Aye, but they only await a victory. That will bring out their war-paint. Advance, oh chief, with your valiant warriors.”
“The Prairie Wolf speaks words of great wisdom,” nodded Ne-a-pope vigorously. “When Fox and Winnebago hear how the white soldiers ran at our fierce charge, and see the many scalps hanging from Sac girdles, they will flock to our side. We will drive the thievish pale-faces from our lands forever!”
“Your tongues are sharp,” Black Hawk replied thoughtfully, “but it may well be that your advice is of the best.”
“Ho!” said Ne-a-pope.
“Ugh!” urged the Prairie Wolf. “Sac, Winnebago and Fox will stand as one. Death to the pale-face!”
At this juncture there was a sudden sound of “hogh!”, the mat which hung over the entrance of the lodge was raised, and a Sac warrior entered with that graceful bound which is peculiar to the race. He was a tall, finely-formed savage, with a grave, open countenance. It was Walking Cloud, famous medicine man of the Sacs.
“Ho, Walking Cloud,” greeted Black Hawk with the utmost friendliness, for he had deep respect for the big medicine man, “what news do you bring?”
“At sunset, oh Black Hawk, white men make camp down river.”
“Near at hand?”
“One hour’s journey.”
“Ugh! is the number big?”
“Big, very big. Many guns, horses, wagons.”
“Do the soldiers have blue coats?”
“Our scouts say they wear coats of deerskin.”
“Ho!” said Black Hawk. “Men from village and farm.”
“Good!” exclaimed Ne-a-pope. “Blue-coats from fort have not yet come.”
“Blue-coats from fort maybe camp for night at the ferry,” observed the Wolf, shrewdly hitting the nail on the head.
“Let us then, oh Black Hawk,” urged Ne-a-pope, “give attack before the blue-coats come.”
“Blue-coats heap brave,” warned the Wolf. “Fight like wild-cats.”
“Your words are well meant,” mused Black Hawk, “but I yet hope to keep more blood from spilling.”
“Ugh!” snarled the Wolf disgustedly.
“How so?” asked Ne-a-pope skeptically.
“At daybreak I will send out three braves with a white flag to the pale-face camp. I will demand that the pale-faces withdraw from the Sac lands within the hour. Otherwise, I will order an attack.”
“A wise plan,” declared the medicine man, Walking Cloud, disregarding the protestations of Ne-a-pope and the Wolf, “and one which will place the blame for further warfare on the pale-faces. If they do not retreat, give them the tomahawk.”
“It is a fool’s scheme,” averred Ne-a-pope bluntly.
“It will do no good,” agreed the Prairie Wolf, shaking his head doggedly.
“Nevertheless, I will try it,” persisted the Hawk, rising to his feet to conclude the council. “Go to your lodges. I will summon you at sunup.”
When dawn came, the Sac encampment awakened to sudden activity. The sun was barely above the horizon when Walking Cloud and three other braves rode out from the lodges toward the camp of the whites. On the end of a spear the Cloud bore a white flag, signifying that the Sacs wished to have a conference with the white militia.
Accompanying the four Sacs, on their all-important mission, was a white man—none other than the giant deserter, Pat Fagan. Black Hawk had prevailed on the big renegade to act as an interpreter, not knowing whether or not the whites had one in their ranks. Fagan had at first refused pointblank, but when told that the whites were volunteer militia, and not regulars, he agreed to go along, albeit with some reluctance. He also foolishly beguiled himself with the idea that he would be safe under the white flag of truce, although a deserter; even if he were recognized, which appeared unlikely, as he had donned Sac raiment—including a feathered headdress—and rubbed his face and body with a dark stain.
The Indians, with their white flag flying prettily in the light breeze, had progressed across the green prairie to within a mile of the volunteer camp, when they suddenly found themselves face to face with a little band of white horsemen who emerged from behind a thick grove of trees. With a sinking heart the renegade, Fagan, quickly discerned that one of the approaching whites was his old commander at Fort Dearborn, Captain Van Alstyne. A low cry of consternation came from the deserter’s lips, as he made the startling discovery.
“You lyin’ red varmint!” he said hoarsely to the impassive Walking Cloud, who luckily did not understand the epithet.
Walking Cloud, moreover, was innocent of the accusation. What had happened was that Van Alstyne and his party had reached the volunteer camp at a late hour, the previous evening, long after the Sac spies had scouted the place. Hence, the spies had seen no blue-coated regulars.
A second later, Fagan’s alarm grew even more pronounced; for, at Van Alstyne’s side, he saw the trim figure of young Ben Gordon. At this, the agitated renegade drew a quick rein on his Indian pony; but then abruptly let the beast go forward again, as he saw that it was now too late, by far, to permit of withdrawal. Gritting his teeth in abject rage, he steeled himself for the ordeal, hoping against hope that neither the Captain nor young Ben would penetrate his Indian disguise.
The two approaching parties, red and white, now slowed their mounts to a walk, meanwhile eyeing each other with the uttermost caution. At length, when they were not more than a few rods apart, Captain Van Alstyne threw up his hand in a gesture of warning.
“Who comes here?” he challenged.
“Messengers from Black Hawk,” mumbled Pat Fagan, trying hard to mask his voice.
“What does the chief want?”
“He demands you git out from the Injun lands.”
“Ho, ho!” snorted Van Alstyne, “Black Hawk has a short memory. The United States Government bought these lands from the Indians thirty years ago.”
“Black Hawk claims it a swindle,” went on Fagan, his words scarcely more than a mutter.
“The red fraud is trying to crawl out of his bargain,” rejoined the Captain, with a contemptuous leer. “Return to him at once, and tell him that we ask his immediate surrender.”
“The Hawk laughs in yer face,” replied the renegade. “It’ll be bloody war now.”
“Ha!” taunted Van Alstyne scornfully, “the red blather-skite is afraid to fight. This is nothing but bluff on his part. We’re on to his game.”
Meantime, Ben Gordon had been studying the Indian interpreter with increasing suspicion. The voice, the carriage, the very manner of the burly brave had a familiar note. For a few moments the boy was puzzled; but abruptly it came to him. His keen eyes pierced the savage disguise. This was none other than Pat Fagan, the border bully, who had sworn his vengeance!
And now, as the Sac messengers turned their horses to depart, Ben gave quick spur to his nimble pony. With three or four long bounds he was at the side of the astounded renegade, who suddenly found the muzzle of a rifle in his very face.
“Hold, boy!” shouted Van Alstyne hotly, likewise spurring his mount forward. “Put down that rifle! These Indians are miserable scoundrels, but nevertheless they are under a flag of truce.”
“This one is no Indian, sir,” declared Ben firmly, the barrel of his rifle not moving a jot.
“No Indian! why, the red villain looks the part.”
“I repeat, sir, that he is no Indian.”
“Then, by the sun and moon and stars, lad, who is he?”
“Pat Fagan, deserter from the garrison at Fort Dearborn!”
“Fagan, the deserter? Are you sure, lad?”
“Dead sure! He has—”
As Ben Gordon spoke, he turned his head a bit, to look the officer directly in the face. With the speed of a striking rattler, Fagan knocked up the rifle barrel and wheeled away on his fleet Indian pony, his body bent low over the beast’s neck. Like a flash, his four Sac companions were also away.
Instantly, Ben Gordon’s gun sprang to his shoulder, and he sent a bullet humming after the fleeing renegade. Three or four others of the party likewise fired, at the same time urging forward their mounts in pursuit.
“Spare the savages!” cried Van Alstyne, in consternation. “Honor their flag of truce! But get Fagan!”
Alas! the warning came too late. An ill-aimed shot from a soldier musket struck one of the flying Sacs. For a moment, it seemed that the brave would retain his saddle. He swayed desperately, then caught at the mane of his mount. A second afterward, however, he threw up his hands, raised a quavering death-song, and toppled heavily to the earth, not a breath of life in his coppery body.
As the pursuit continued, it began to look as if the big deserter would make good his escape. The Sac ponies were proving to be faster steppers than the mounts of the military. The gap between the two parties started to widen, almost imperceptibly at first, then more rapidly. Fagan rose in his stirrups, turned about and gave voice to a loud yell of defiance.
“Wahoo!” he cried.
The taunting call was hardly out of his mouth, however, when a hissing bullet struck his pony squarely in the back of the head, penetrating the brain. The speeding beast collapsed instantly, throwing the surprised Fagan forward in a wild, whirling somersault that ended only when he struck the ground ten feet ahead, with a prodigious thud.
“He’s knocked cold!” called Ben Gordon, as he sped up on his sweating horse.
“Good!” said Van Alstyne, checking his mount nearby. “That’ll make him easier to handle. Get a lariat, somebody, and tie him hand and foot! We’ll see that he gets his medicine in a hurry.”