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Bill Brown, Border Scout
AFTER the finish of the Indian duel, Tom and Ben Gordon started back toward the village by the fort. The fresh, perfumed air of early spring was blowing out of the west, sweeping in from the hundreds of miles of wide, clean prairie lands that stretched away to the distant Mississippi and beyond. Redbud trees were putting forth their first pink blossoms, and the butter-colored dandelions were here and there beginning to fleck the grass. A sunset of an extraordinary brilliance made the western sky glorious.
“Well, if it ain’t my young friends, the twins!” suddenly boomed a cheery voice from behind them.
The two boys turned abruptly. What with the soft earth path they were following, they had not noticed the approach of anyone, but now they quickly saw that the newcomer was the tall frontiersman whom they had talked with briefly at the Indian council that morning.
They beheld a man not only of six-foot height, but also uncommonly big of bone and evidently very powerful. He had brown, curly hair, rosy cheeks and a superb set of even, white teeth. His dress was all of deerskin, except that on his head was a raccoon skin cap, with the short tail hanging down behind. A knife was in his belt and he was plainly a man of resolute character, but he had a smile of such wonderful friendliness, and his tone of voice was so cordial, that the hearts of the two eastern lads warmed to him at once.
“An’ what did you think o’ the Injun duel?” he continued.
“Quite a fight,” acknowledged Ben.
“And the right fellow came out on top,” added Tom, with evident satisfaction.
“I kinda think so,” the frontiersman agreed. “From what I hear, that Prairie Wolf is a nasty one, ’bout the wust young ruffian in the hull Sac tribe.”
“Do you suppose this duel will make bad blood between the Sacs and Pottawattomees?” questioned Ben.
“It no doubt will, as they is pizen enemies to start with. The tribal lands o’ the two touch each other, an’ ther’s alus a ruckus goin’ on over who’s gittin’ on whose territory.”
“Bright Star will have to watch his step,” Tom observed sagely. “The Wolf looks like the type who will plot his vengeance.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him to knife the Pottawattomee in the back, some dark night,” Ben put in.
“Well, jest ’member, lads, that ther wouldn’t be anythin’ wrong with that, ’cordin’ to Injun law. They believe strickly in an eye fer an eye, an’ a tooth fer a tooth. The white man’s code is beyond the understandin’ of a feathered savage.”
“Do you think,—err—?” Tom began.
“Oh, I’m beggin’ yer pardon,” broke in the frontiersman genially. “I’m Bill Brown, an’ I came ’rig’nally from Kentucky, but I’ve been a hunter an’ trapper an’ scout up this way fer the last ten years.”
“Well, I’m Tom Gordon,” responded Tom, “and my brother’s name is Ben.”
“Tom and Ben, h-m! Good short, honest names, an’ easy like to ’member.”
“We’re glad you like them,” went on Tom smiling. “But as I started to ask, do you think there’ll ever be any trouble again, between the Injuns and the whites in these parts?”
“You mean the fightin’ kind o’ trouble, I s’pose,” answered Bill Brown slowly. “Well, yer askin’ me a straight question, an’ I’m givin’ you a straight answer. I reckon ther’ll be more bloodshed betwixt the reds an’ whites, an’ mebbe soon.”
“And maybe soon, you say, Mr. Brown?” exclaimed Ben, his eyes kindling with excitement.
Bill Brown suddenly stopped and frowned.
“What did you call me?” he asked.
“Why, Mr. Brown, of course.”
“Now listen, lad, I’m Mr. Brown only to them as don’t like me, an’ that I don’t like. But I was sorta figgerin’ that we was goin’ to be friends.”
“We’ll surely be friends, Bill,” chorused the two boys, with one voice.
“That’s good. That’s heap good, as an Injun would put it. But to git on with yer question. You’ve heard, small doubt, o’ the famous old redman, Black Hawk?”
“The great Sac chief?”
“Yep, that’s the feller.”
“What about him, Bill?”
“Jest this. I’m back from a scoutin’ trip, ’cross the Mississippi River, an’ I’m comin’ out flat-footed an’ statin’ that the big chief is gittin’ purty nigh ready to hit the war trail.”
“Black Hawk! Across the Mississippi?” questioned Tom, in a puzzled way. “Why, I thought Black Hawk and his Sacs lived here in Illinois.”
“They once did, lad. For untold years, the Sac tribe hunted an’ fished in the valley o’ the Rock River, which is a branch o’ the Mississippi in nor’western Illinois. There they tilled the rich prairie soil. In the time o’ the fallin’ leaves an’ Injun summer, they would pile high the harvest corn in ther little villages. An’ ther would us’lly be many days o’ songs, dances an’ prayers, as they thanked the Great Spirit, Man-ee-do, fer a good corn year.”
“How did they happen to give up their lands?” Ben asked, as the tall borderer paused.
“’Way back in the year 1804, the Sacs signed a treaty, sellin’ their tribal lands to the United States Guv’ment. Then they took ther horses, squaws, papooses, an’ assorted dogs an’ moved ’cross the Mississippi.”
“Did they like their new home?” said Tom.
“Were they satisfied with the deal?” added Ben.
“Not fer sour apples. An’ who could expect ’em to. The Rock River country was the land o’ ther stories, ther corn-plantin’ an’ harvest, ther fav’rite huntin’ an’ fishin’ places, the battle-ground an’ buryin’-ground o’ ther fathers, who had fit hard to gain it an’ keep it from other hostile tribes.”
“And now Black Hawk aims to recover it?” inquired Ben.
“Aye, he feels the Great Spirit, Man-ee-do, tellin’ him to git back ’cross the Mississippi, an’ chase off the hated settlers what have put up cabins ther.”
“That will mean bloody war, sure enough,” pondered Tom Gordon, “because then the soldiers will come.”
“Black Hawk knows that,” explained Bill Brown, “but he reckons he’s so strong an’ cunnin’ that he kin ambush an’ rub out all the pale-face fighters what is sent agin him.”
“But the Sacs duly sold the land to the U. S. Government,” mused Ben.
“The Hawk says not, lad. He reasons that the land couldn’t be legally sold. The Great Spirit gave it to his forefathers to live on. They had an eternal right to the soil. The way he figgers, the treaty is a fraud; fer nothin’ could be rightfully sold, ’cept such things as could be carried away.”
“Look here, Bill,” broke in Tom, with sudden inspiration, “have you told Captain Van Alstyne at the fort what you discovered on your scouting trip, I mean that you think Black Hawk is about ready to dig up the hatchet?”
“No. I ain’t had time.”
“You just got to Chicago?”
“Only today. But I aim to see the Cap’n in the mornin’. That is,” he added sarcastically, “if he’s dressed to receive vis’ters.”
“He should be grateful for your warning.”
“No, I don’t calc’late he’ll do anythin’ ’bout it.”
“Well, why not?” protested Ben. “Maybe, if he’d send a batch of troopers into western Illinois, it’d cool off the Hawk’s war fever.”
“Bless you, Ben, the Cap’n ’ll never heed me. He’ll say it’s all a mess o’ gossip.”
“But why?”
“Because he’s a macaroni.”
“A macaroni?”
“Yep, a macaroni, meanin’ a dude sojur. He thinks that all he has to do is strut the parade ground in that Fancy Dan uniform o’ his, an’ every painted Injun this side o’ the Rocky Mount’ins ’ll be struck dumb with fear.”
The trio was now approaching the vicinity of Fort Dearborn, the log walls of which loomed up less than a half-mile ahead. At this point, the muddy path led between a swamp, on one hand, and the door of a squatty log structure, known to the garrison of the fort as the “Mud Turtle,” on the other. The Turtle was nothing more than a grog-shop and gambling dive, much frequented by the rougher element among the troopers. It was also known as a rendezvous for fur poachers, Indian renegades, white border ruffians, and, in fact, every sort of frontier riffraff of the worst stamp.
“Stay away from the neighborhood o’ this robbers’ roost after dark,” called back Bill Brown, who was in the lead, as they wound single-file along the narrow path, “er you may git yer heads caved in an’ yer pockets picked.”
“I hear it’s a good place to steer clear of,” agreed Tom.
“Yep, it’s the wust dadbusted dive this side o’ Natchez-under-the-Hill.”
As the big frontiersman swung past the Turtle and continued east along the muddy path, the towering figure of a soldier suddenly lurched from the tavern door. This soldier was clearly in a half-drunken state. He was a large man, dark of face and with piggy, close-set eyes. His faded uniform was torn and unkempt.
Catching sight of Bill Brown’s back, some ten feet ahead in the path, the tousled fellow stopped short, then wiped the back of his brawny hand across his bleary eyes. A hoarse mutter came from his throat. His mighty frame fairly trembled with rage. He began to creep stealthily up the trail, soft-stepping as a cat, meanwhile drawing a knife from a sheath in his belt. It was now plain as print that he was stalking Bill Brown!
For a split second, Tom and Ben Gordon were stupefied with amazement. Then they reacted, swiftly and sharply.
“Stop him, Tom!” rasped Ben to his brother, who was several paces nearer than he to the creeping knife-wielder.
With a quick cry of alarm, Tom Gordon sprang forward, as if propelled by a strong, steel spring. He was upon the crouching soldier before the latter could be more than vaguely aware of his intent. With a mighty shove he sent the burly fellow reeling from the narrow path. He staggered for a moment, tried desperately to retrieve his balance, and then lost his footing in the slippery mud at the swamp edge. Into the slimy, reed-grown water he pitched, a snarl of helpless wrath coming from his lips.
“Bully for you, Tom!” sang out the exultant Ben.
But the coldness of the water served to quickly clear the mind of the befuddled fellow, driving the liquor fumes almost instantly from his head. With a wild howl of rage he clambered instantly to his feet in the shallows. The glittering knife had been lost in the dark, swamp water in the course of his violent fall. But now he leaped forward, savage as a forest panther, and with his great hamlike fists swinging dangerously.
By this time, however, Bill Brown had wheeled about. A single, sweeping glance told him the story. With a swift movement of his right arm he reached inside his hunting-shirt. From an under-arm holster he drew forth a short-barreled pistol of heavy caliber, known on the border as a derringer.
“Halt in yer tracks, Pat Fagan!” he commanded, leveling the weapon with great speed.
Ben and Tom were startled by the change in the big frontiersman. All the kindliness and gentleness were gone from his voice, which now had the sharp, fierce crack of a pistol-shot.
“Don’t tell me what ter do, Brown!” raged the charging ruffian; but nevertheless he came to an abrupt halt.
Stock-still he stood, dripping and muddy, the picture of impotent wrath, clenching and unclenching his big fists convulsively. And his face was ugly to see. All his evil passions, to be thwarted thus by a mere boy, flared forth upon it. Seldom had his heart been torn by so murderous an anger. Furthermore, it was past endurance to be held in this fashion at the point of a pistol. Black rage swelled the veins of his face. His hand stole toward his hip pocket.
“Keep yer hands up, Fagan, er I shoot!” ordered Brown grimly. “Now, Tom, jest step up an’ relieve him o’ that pocket-gun. Ah, that’s a spry lad. An’ now, sojur, jest tuck yer tail atween yer legs, so to speak, an’ slink off to the garrison.”
A fresh flood of rage swept over the fuming trooper. His eyes glowed hotly. But he knew full well that Bill Brown meant all that he said; and he was wise enough to hold his fearful passion in check. With a mighty effort he gained his self-control. A sneer replaced the black wrath in his swarthy face.
“I kin bide my time, Brown,” he warned icily, “but don’t think I’m a goin’ ter fergit the dirt yuh once done me.”
“Meanin’, I s’pose, the time I put a damper on the swindle you was tryin’ to work on that pore ol’ trader.”
“Mark my words,” continued Fagan, disregarding the accusation, “I’ll have yer mangy hide some day. An’ that goes, likewise, fer the young squirt har that shoved me in the muck.”
“Talk’s cheap, Fagan,” retorted Bill Brown. “You have to ketch a fox afore you kin skin him, you know.”
“Oh, I’ll do it, Brown. I’m strong enuff fer it, an’ I don’t know of any law in these yar parts that’ll keep me from it.”
“No, ther ain’t no law,” agreed the tall borderer readily, “’cept that o’ pistol an’ knife. But pistol an’ knife have alus kept me safe; an’ as long as a man kin shoot fast an’ straight, ther ain’t no need to show the white feather to any bogus badman the likes o’ you.”