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Scouts of the Prairie
THE weather continued warm and dry, and by late afternoon of the second day the four, fast-traveling scouts had arrived at Kellogg’s Grove, a tiny hamlet forty-five miles to the northwest of Dixon’s Ferry. Here they talked with several settlers who had taken part some weeks earlier in the bloody skirmish with Black Hawk’s prowling braves. They also visited the graves of the ten unfortunate whites who had been shot down and scalped in the melee.
“But we kilt more’n a score o’ the Hawk’s men,” declared a survivor grimly. “We tuk two lives fer one.”
Camp was made for the night in a sheltered opening in the timber. The dry grass that littered the campsite made excellent tinder. It was lighted by sparks from the flint, and fed by broken branches and bits of light wood. Soon there shot up a cheerful flame. Bill Brown, who was a veteran axe-man, proceeded to fell a small dead tree, to serve in setting up the little tent, which they had brought along on their one pack-horse. Bright Star went to the nearby creek to get water.
Otherwise, they were traveling light, carrying on the pack-horse, in addition to the tent, only a tea-kettle, a water bucket, and some extra ammunition; while each rider toted his own tin cup and hunting knife. The knife was a handy article at meal time. Its first duty was to stir the tea, and secondly to cut the ham and bread. The meal being finished, the utensils were rinsed in hot water and set aside till morning. A wisp of dry grass was employed to wipe the knife before returning the blade to its sheath.
Afterwards, they sat before the tent until dark, chuckling at the awkward movements of the spanceled horses, as they hobbled from one spot to another in search of tender pasturage.
At the first indication of daylight, following a night of refreshing slumber, the whites were aroused by the lusty shout of Bright Star, who had stood the last watch.
“Ho! ho!” he yelled.
The pale-faces jumped up abruptly from their blankets. The fire, which had been allowed to die down in the evening, was soon nursed into a hot flame. The horses were caught and saddled, and the tent taken down, while breakfast, similar to the meal of the evening before, was being prepared. Finishing with that, they once more rinsed kettles and cups, loaded the pack-horse and tied their cups to their own saddle-bows. Then they quickly mounted and rode away, leaving behind only a heap of feebly smoking ashes to tell of their visit.
They traveled steadily the live-long day, barely making a halt at noon to bait their horses and refresh themselves with a cold lunch. They were now getting among the branches of the Pecatonica, a stream which flowed eastward to feed the larger Rock River. The country had lost its prairie character and become rough and broken. But the four sped on, sometimes down open ravines, again through narrow defiles, where they were hard put to dodge the projecting and interwoven branches.
The next morning, the nature of the landscape remained much the same. Their progress, however, was made miserable by a light, but steady, rain that set in soon after daylight. Their only recourse was to wrap their blankets about their shoulders, bend low in their saddles and forge grimly onward. Not so much as a single human habitation was seen. Neither Indian lodge nor white cabin broke the unending solitude. It was the vast, primeval wilderness, unspoiled as the day of Creation.
Suddenly however, about mid-day, a glad shout came from Bill Brown, who was leading the little procession.
“Hooray, boys!” he cried, “a fence, a fence!”
With new life in their wet, tired bodies they spurred on. Presently the crowing of a cock saluted their ears; and following the rail fence down a slope they came upon a group of log cabins, low, shabby and unpromising; but a welcome shelter from the pelting rain that was now driving in from the northeast with increasing violence.
“What place is this?” called Brown, to a man who came out from one of the cabins.
“Hamilton’s Diggings,” was the reply; and with the ready hospitality of the border he stepped forward at once to guide them to a shed, where he assisted in putting up their horses.
Afterward, he took them to the largest and most comfortable looking of the cabins. A bright little fire was burning in the fireplace, and they were cheered by its grateful warmth, chilled as they were from their long hours in the drizzling rain. Their guide then left them, saying that he would summon their host.
Forthwith, a man of medium stature, stout and well-built, with abrupt, active movements, entered the cabin, greeting them in the most agreeable manner.
“I am Captain William S. Hamilton,” said he, “proprietor of these diggings. I am happy to offer you the shelter of my cabins.”
Captain Hamilton, as they later learned, was one of the younger sons of Alexander Hamilton, the famous American statesman, who was killed in a duel by Aaron Burr in July, 1804. The Captain had spent his boyhood at “The Grange,” country-seat of his father, eight miles up the Hudson River from New York City. After spending two years at West Point, he had quit that institution in 1817; and had come into the Illinois country as a surveyor. Some years later, he had moved north to Wisconsin Territory to his present abode, where he was operating a large lead mine.
“You say you are scouts from General Atkinson’s camp at Dixon’s Ferry,” he went on, after he had learned their identity. “Hm! How goes the war with Black Hawk?”
“The Hawk is pullin’ in his horns,” replied Bill Brown. “He’s retreatin’ north into the big Koshkonong Swamps.”
“Great guns! into Wisconsin Territory?”
“Yep, but the White Beaver is on his trail.”
“What forces has he?”
“A small batch o’ U. S. Reg’lars, an’ nigh onto three thousand Illinois volunteers.”
“If those Illinois militia don’t fight any better than they did at Stillman’s Run,” observed Hamilton drily, “the Hawk is pretty safe.”
“Oh, them Illinois fellers ’ll fight a heap better this time,” Brown assured him. “They’re achin’ fer another crack at the Hawk, so’s they kin redeem ther good name.”
“They’ll have to step lively,” stated Hamilton, “if they aim to keep up with Dodge’s Rangers. There’s a bunch of first-class Indian fighters.”
“You know of the rangers?” interrupted Ben Gordon.
“Know of them, lad,” smiled their host, “why, I’m one of Colonel Dodge’s staff.”
“One of Dodge’s staff, eh?” repeated Bill Brown, picking up his ears. “That bein’ the case, Cap’n, you’d better start shinin’ up yer sword. Yer goin’ to have work to do.”
“Hm! You arouse my curiosity.”
“What’s more,” the big scout continued, “yer jest the man we’re lookin’ fer. Whar kin we locate Colonel Dodge?”
“Colonel Dodge?”
“Yep, we bear important dispatches fer him, from General Atkinson.”
“Aha! Just as I was beginning to suspect. Well, he is at Dodgeville, some forty miles north of here. Like myself, he is in the lead-mining business.”
“Forty mile, you say,” remarked Brown. “Trail fair to middlin’, I s’pose?”
“Not too bad. And say, if you’ll wait till morning, I’ll guide you up there. If we get an early start, we can make it in one day.”
At late afternoon the rain abated, and the sky quickly cleared. A bright, warm sun shone down on a dripping world. The green of tree, bush and grass was fresh and vivid, after the life-giving moisture.
“How would you like to visit my lead mine, boys?” spoke up Captain Hamilton. “It’ll serve to pass the time.”
As he led them along the path, toward the mine, he explained that the Wisconsin lead mining district, rolling away westward for sixty miles to the Mississippi River, had been opened up by the whites only during the last few years. When Americans first entered the region, they discovered traces of ancient shallow diggings, and found Indians still engaged in scooping out lead ore from “near the grass roots,” using stone picks, bone spades, wooden shovels, and old gun barrels for crowbars. The savages broke up rocks by heating them, and then pouring on cold water. They smelted the ore in primitive, hopper-like pits, dug on hill slopes.
“Here is my mine,” their guide said, as they reached the top of a low hill.
At this place a shaft, like an ordinary well in appearance, had been sunk into a thick vein of lead ore that lay directly below. Over the five-foot opening of the shaft was a two-handed well crank or windlass, fixed upon stout posts firmly planted in the ground on either side. On this windlass ran a rope of great strength and length, to which was attached a heavy wooden bucket.
“Hop in that tub, boys, two at a time,” Hamilton directed, “and we’ll drop you down in a jiffy.”
Ben and Tom Gordon took the first ride. Two powerful miners manned the cranks, and they steadily descended into the murky depths. They could readily reach out and touch the rocky walls, which had been timbered in places to prevent caving.
“Don’t think I’d care much to be a miner,” said Ben dubiously, as the patch of light at the shaft mouth faded from view above them.
At the bottom of the hole, they found two tunnels extending out in opposite directions along the course of the vein. Pillars of rock had been left at intervals along these passages to support the roof. Stalwart miners were industriously at work, hacking at the rocky walls with shovel, pick, gad and hand drill.
“When the goin’ gits too hard, we use blastin’ powder,” one of them said.
The toiling miners wore heavy shoes, and warm felt hats were on their heads. Over their deerskin garments they had “wamuses” (jackets) and overalls made of bed-ticking. For lighting they used wax candles set in gobs of gummy clay, which seemed to stick to the rock walls at any and all angles. Wheelbarrows were employed to take the crude ore to the foot of the shaft for hoisting to the surface.
Presently the two boys rode the bucket to the top again; and after Bill Brown and Bright Star had had their turn, they all strode off with Hamilton to view a smelter. This proved to be a rock structure, built against a hillside. Large oak logs, about four feet long, rested on ledges near the bottom of this smelting furnace. On top of these the crude ore was piled. Other logs were then packed around, top and sides, completely enclosing the mineral.
“It takes about twenty-four hours of steady firing to smelt out the lead,” their host explained. “As fast as the hot lead flows out from the door at the bottom of the furnace, we ladle it with metal dippers into iron pig lead moulds.”
“Is this quite a rich vein?” asked Tom Gordon.
“Just average,” Hamilton replied. “Has a normal yield of about one hundred fifty pounds per worker each day. But let me tell you about a really rich vein! Old John Bonner over at Hazel Green blundered onto an ancient Indian diggings, back in 1824. A few feet down he struck “block mineral.” Imagine it, pure lead in solid chunks.”
The Colonel’s face shone with enthusiasm; and his deep voice trembled with excitement, as he continued:
“The very first day Bonner took out seventeen thousand pounds, and in a short time had one hundred thousand pounds piled on the bank near his shaft. Great Jupiter, what a find!”