CHAPTER III.
At four o’clock the next morning the troops—who had slept upon their arms—were roused from slumber and ordered to fall into rank. There they stood, guns in readiness, until the first faint rays of the cold, gray dawn dispelled the enveloping darkness and revealed near-by objects with clear-cut distinctness. Governor Harrison realized that he was in the enemy’s country. He was well aware that the wily foe with which he had to deal preferred to attack in the early morning. He had not served under Mad Anthony Wayne in vain. Nor had he forgotten the lesson of St. Clair’s awful surprise and defeat.
Immediately after the order to break ranks was given, the soldiers began to prepare their breakfasts, while the teamsters went to water and feed their pack and draught animals. The camp-fires were relighted, and soon the appetizing odors of cooking food pervaded the place.
Douglas left his companions to the performance of their various duties, and went to report at the tent of the governor. He found a number of scouts—who had returned to camp too late to report on the previous evening—in conversationwith the commander and his staff. Ross took up a position near the door of the tent, to wait until the others should finish their business and take their departure.
The central figure of the group of scouts was a tall, broad-shouldered man of fifty years. His long black hair was plentifully sprinkled with silver, and his countenance was a crisscross of fine care-lines. His dark blue eyes were alert and beaming with native intelligence. But a puckered red scar on the right cheek drew up the corner of his mouth and marred the symmetry of his face. He wore the picturesque garb of a backwoodsman; but there was an indefinable something about him that gave the lie to his outward appearance.
Ross had seen the man almost daily since leaving Vincennes, but had not formed his acquaintance. Now, for some reason, the young man’s attention was closely drawn to the scar-faced scout. He heard him saying in answer to a question from the governor:
“Yes, I was clear inside of the Injin town; that’s why I didn’t git back till late last evenin’.”
Douglas started. The man’s husky voice sounded strangely familiar. Governor Harrison was remarking:
“And you found the savages friendly, Bradford?”
Ross strained his ears to catch the answer.
“Yes, governor, I did.”
“Who went into the village with you?”
“Nobody—I was all alone. Price an’ Hunter, there”—indicating two other scouts—“started out with me, but we got separated somehow.”
“Did the Indians avoid you as you approached their town?”
“No, they was sociable. I talked with quite a number, an’ they said the’r chiefs wanted peace an’ was ready to hold a council with you.”
There was the faintest hint of suspicion in Harrison’s tone, as he said quickly:
“But other scouts bring me different reports, Bradford.”
“I can’t help that,” the man replied doggedly. “I can only report what I’ve seen an’ heard. Anyhow, none o’ the others had the grit to go into the town.”
This last he said with a toss of his head and a defiant look at the other scouts.
“I don’t think your comrades lack courage,” the governor replied coolly. “Their reception was different from yours. On the march to-day I want you to remain within call. As you speak several of the Indian tongues, I may want to use you as an interpreter. Your comrades have already received their orders. You may go.”
Was Ross mistaken, or was there a look of malignant triumph on Bradford’s scarred face, as with the others he left the tent?
The young scout now stepped forward and saluted the commander.
“Ah! You are here, Douglas,” was Harrison’s pleasant greeting. “You have come for your orders?”
“I have, governor.”
“Very well. To-day you and the Wyandot are to remain near me. I’ll use you as interpreters.”
Ross bowed and withdrew. As he sauntered away from the tent, he felt that he ought to return and inform the commander of his experience of the night. Yet what had he to tell? Perhaps his imagination was magnifying a molehill into a mountain. He halted—half turned about—then proceeded upon his way.
Just as he was passing a point midway between the governor’s quarters and his own mess-fire, he discovered Bradford in earnest conversation with a burly negro—an ox-driver, named Ben. The scar-faced scout and the black man were standing between two of the covered wagons. The darkey’s brutal visage was alight with pleasure, as he jingled a number of silver coins that Bradford had just dropped into his outstretched palm. Ross heard the white man say:
“Now, Ben, if you don’t do what you’ve promised—well, you’ll hear fromme. Git away from here now—we mustn’t be seen together.”
Douglas screened himself behind a wagon. Now he knew why Bradford’s husky tones had sounded so familiar in the governor’s tent. It was the same voice he had heard at the river-side. Thescar-faced scout was the mysterious personage he had met the night before.
The negro slyly slipped away from the spot. A half minute passed. Then Bradford boldly stepped from his place of concealment. As he did so, he swept a hurried glance around him—and fastened his keen eyes upon Douglas.
“What the devil ’re you doin’ there?” was his expressive question.
His disfigured countenance was aflame with rage; and drawing his tall form to its full height he nervously fingered the trigger of his rifle.
“Attending to my own business,” Ross answered with provoking coolness, as he strode forth and faced his questioner.
“Meddlin’ with mine, more likely,” was the growling rejoinder.
“No,” Douglas replied laughingly, “but if the negro ever sues for his wages, I can be a witness to the fact that you’ve paid him.”
“What do you mean?” blustered Bradford, his face purple.
“I was passing and saw you give the darkey the money. Are you the contractor that employs those black fellows?”
“You know very well I’m not. What’re you insinuatin’?”
“Nothing.”
“What was you spyin’ upon me fer?”
“I wasn’t spying upon you. Why should I?”
“You’re a liar—youwasspyin’ upon me!”
Douglas’s steel-gray eyes flashed and his nostrils dilated. For a few moments he glared hard at the other—his thin lips compressed. Then he said with icy calmness:
“Bradford—if that be your name—you have mistaken the mettle of the man to whom you applied that term. Let me warn you. Put a curb upon your hasty tongue—or stand ready to defend yourself. Your bluster didn’t frighten me last night—nor does it now.”
“What—what do you mean?” Bradford faltered, recoiling a step.
“You know well what I mean,” Ross went on quietly. “You’re not what you seem. You’re masquerading. For what purpose I don’t know.”—Bradford’s face brightened; he was recovering his equanimity.—“You’re an educated man—youmaybe a gentleman and a patriot.”
“I might return the compliment,” the older man interrupted sneeringly. “You, too, are an educated man. Perhapsyouare masquerading—you are so ready to accuse others. At any rate, I know less of you than you do of me. I don’t know your name, even.”
“I’m notcertainthat I know yours,” Ross replied meaningly.
An expression of alarm flitted across Bradford’s scarred face, but he answered promptly:
“Yes, you know my name. It’s Bradford—Hiram Bradford.”
“And my name’s Ross Douglas.”
Bradford dropped the butt of his gun to the ground with a thud. An ashen hue overspread his face, and the red scar upon his cheek stood out with a vividness that was startling.
“Ross Douglas, you say?” he asked with livid, trembling lips.
The younger man was greatly surprised at the effect the announcement of his name had produced upon his companion. But he kept control of himself and simply nodded in answer to the question.
Bradford’s hand shook as he fumbled with the buttons upon his rough coat.
“And your—your mother’s name?” he inquired.
“Why should I answer your questions?”
“Tell me—tell me!” the other panted.
“Mary.”
“Your father’s?”
“John.”
A wonderful change came over the scar-faced scout. He appeared to age ten years in as many seconds. With the words—“My God! My God! And I would have killed him!” He shouldered his rifle and hastened from the spot, leaving his companion staring after him.
Ross slowly made his way toward the place where his messmates were preparing the morning meal. His mind was in a tumult. What was the meaning of it all? Who and what was the mysterious scout?
“Why did the announcement of my name so affect him—and why did he wish to know the name of my father and mother?” he asked himself over and over.
He forgot where he was and passed the spot he sought, without knowing it. He was aroused to a sense of his surroundings by hearing Farley bawl:
“What’s the matter o’ you, Ross Douglas? Have you gone daft an’ blind, that you don’t know y’r own comrades an’ go right past ’em without speakin’? Say!”
Ross forced a laugh and joined the men at their morning meal. But he ate little and talked less; seeing which, one of the militiamen remarked mischievously:
“Douglas, you don’t ’pear to be very peart this mornin’. You must be grievin’ ’bout the gal you left behind you. You’d better pitch into the grub; it’ll be gone purty soon. We may have a fracas with the redskins ’fore night. An’ a man always fights best on a full stomach.”
“Ugh!” Bright Wing grunted approvingly. “Eat heap much—fight heap hard. Kill many Shawnees. Ugh!”
“That’s ph’losophy fer you,” grinned Joe. “The Injin knows w’en his bread’s buttered—he does. Ross, you ain’t eatin’ enough to keep a pigeon alive. You’ll be lanker ’n a starved houn’ ’fore night—you will, by Melissy! Peart up, man; don’t let love-affairs git you down. Lordy!I’ve had hundreds of ’em—an’ I’m able fer three square meals a day yit. What’re you so down in the mouth bout?”
“I’m all right—nothing ails me,” Douglas replied hastily, arising and walking away.
Duke followed him. The intelligent animal knew that something had gone amiss with the master he loved. Farley looked after them and lugubriously shaking his head muttered:
“Well, if that don’t beat my reckonin’, my name ain’t Joseph Peregoy Farley!”
It was mid-forenoon ere the army was again upon the march. Very slowly the great serpent—that was intended to choke the life out of Tecumseh’s infant confederacy—dragged its cumbersome body forward. Governor Harrison and his staff rode in the van. Ross Douglas and Bright Wing kept near him. When the army was four miles from camp, savages were seen skulking from one sheltered point to another. The commander halted his troops and sent forward a number of scouts and interpreters. The men returned and informed him that they could not come up with the redmen, who fled from them, with insulting words and threatening gestures.
Among the interpreters sent forward were Douglas and the Wyandot. On his return to Harrison’s presence, Ross reported as follows:
“Governor, the Indians fled from us, as on yesterday. They mean mischief. You must be prepared for treachery, if you hold a council withthem. You know now that Bradford attempted to deceive you this morning, when he told you the savages were anxious for peace.”
“You heard his report?” Harrison asked quickly.
“I did.”
“By the way”—and the governor glanced hurriedly around—“whereisthe man? I ordered him to remain within call.”
“I haven’t seen him since we left camp,” Ross answered.
The commander bent forward in the saddle and motioned the young scout to come closer. Then drawing down his brows until his eyes were almost closed, he whispered:
“Do you believe Bradford entered the Indian town at all?”
“Yes, I do,” was the positive reply.
“Ah!” The governor looked relieved.
“Yes,” Ross continued in a low, cautious tone, “I think he entered the village. And no one but a friend of the allied tribes would dare to do that—in my opinion.”
“You mean——” Harrison began, but stopped suddenly, and, smiling, shook his head.
“I hardly know what I mean,” Douglas said with an uneasy laugh. “However, I’ll explain as best I can.”
He told the commander of Bradford’s suspicious words and actions, concluding:
“It’s not for me to offer you advice, governor; but if you’ll pardon my boldness, I would suggestthat you keep an eye on Bradford and the negro ox-driver, Ben.”
A worried look rested upon Harrison’s rugged countenance, as he murmured slowly:
“I thank you for your information—for your watchful loyalty to your commander and your country. You did well to tell me. Appearances are against Bradford, but I can’t believe him a traitor. As to keeping an eye on the two—it’s easier said than done. I don’t know the negro. And it seems impossible to get an eye on Bradford to-day—to say nothing of keeping it on him. However, I’ll be watchful. If you learn anything more definite, come to me at once.”
Then turning to an aide, he commanded:
“Find Bradford, the scout, and bring him to me.”
In a few minutes the young officer returned to report that the man could not be found. The governor looked grave, but gave the order for the column to move forward.
By mid-afternoon the advance guard was within three miles of the Prophet’s Town. Here the ground was broken by ravines and covered with scrub timber. It became necessary to exercise the utmost precaution, to avoid an ambuscade. Scouts and interpreters were pushed to the extreme front, and every pass was reconnoitered by mounted riflemen before the main column entered it. Harrison kept changing the relative positions of the variouscorps, as he advanced, that each might have the ground best suited to its maneuvers.
Within about two miles of the town, the trail descended a steep hill, at the bottom of which was a small creek running through a narrow strip of swampy prairie. Beyond this was a level plain covered with oak forest without underbrush. Near the ford, the woods were very thick—an admirable place for the Indians to practice their mode of warfare.
The governor apprehended that the savages would fall upon him at the crossing—if they meant to give him battle at all—and arranged his troops accordingly. Indians were seen hovering around the front and flanks of the army, but they made no move to attack. The long column crossed the creek unmolested and formed on the other side. The redmen retreated toward their village, a mile and a half away.
The afternoon was far advanced, so the commander decided to go into camp. But a number of his officers urged him to move quickly forward and attack the town at once. This he refused to do, saying:
“My orders are to avoid a conflict with the savages, if possible. However, I’ll determine what their intentions are as soon as I can—and act promptly as soon as I have positive information. I can’t imagine what has become of the friendly chiefs I sent out from Fort Harrison. They should have met us miles back. I hope they are in thevillage and will come out to us this evening. We’ll fortify ourselves as we did last night—and await the issue.”
“But, governor,” urged Major Daviess, “the Indians mean to give us battle—their actions indicate the fact. They are attempting to draw us into a trap. Our men are in high spirits and anxious to attack. We should take advantage of their ardor and——”
“And fall headlong into the trap of which you speak,” Harrison interrupted. “No, it won’t do to advance until we know more of the ground between here and the town. Already we are badly situated—these woods and ravines are favorable to the Indians. A small body of the enemy could harass us terribly. If I knew what lies between here and the village, I would consent to a cautious advance—but not otherwise.”
“The rough ground soon ends,” Major Daviess answered. “The town lies upon the low bottoms of the Wabash and is surrounded by level, cultivated fields.”
“How do you know this, major?” the governor inquired.
“Adjutant Floyd and myself advanced to the precipitous bank that descends to the valley, and had a fair view of the place.”
“Then,” said the commander, reluctantly, “I’ll advance slowly and in order of battle, provided I can get some one to enter the town ahead of the army with a flag of truce.”
Captain Dubois of Vincennes stepped forward and volunteered his services. Harrison turned to Douglas, who was standing near, and said:
“Douglas, will you and the Wyandot accompany Captain Dubois, as interpreters?”
“Of course, governor,” Ross replied cheerfully.
“Be off, then—and note carefully all you see and hear. Captain, obtain a positive answer from the Prophet, whether he will comply with the terms I have so often proposed. Have a care that you don’t get cut off from the army.”
Taking with him several soldiers and the two interpreters, Captain Dubois set out for the town. The army moved slowly after, in order of battle.
When the captain and his comrades were within a mile of the town, they encountered a large body of Indians. The interpreters tried to open communication with them, but the treacherous savages gave no heed to repeated hails. All the while they circled around the little band of whites, attempting to separate them from their friends in the rear.
“It’s useless and dangerous to proceed further,” the captain exclaimed angrily. “Brown,” addressing a soldier, “go back to the governor and inform him of our want of success, and of the perilous position we occupy.”
On receiving the word from his peace messenger, Harrison set his teeth and said firmly:
“I’ve done with the Prophet’s dillydallying; I’ll treat him as an enemy. Recall Captain Dubois and his men, and order the entire army toadvance at a brisk pace. If the Indians don’t come out to treat with me, I’ll attack their town at once.”
In a few minutes Dubois and his comrades had rejoined the command. An animated scene presented itself to their gaze. Orderlies were galloping hither and thither; officers were giving hurried commands; and regulars and militiamen were exchanging oaths and jokes, as they stood in line, awaiting the order to advance. Every man thought an engagement imminent—and was depressed or elated at the prospect, according to his temperament.
“Forward!”
The compact lines moved. But scarcely were they in motion ere they were met by a deputation of three chiefs—including the Prophet’s chief councilor—who had come from the village to meet the commander and confer with him.
Again the army halted. Officers swore and privates grumbled. Why should they listen to such tardy envoys? Why not make prisoners of them—and proceed to the attack? But Harrison gave no heed to the stormy protests of his staff, nor to the sullen mutterings of the rank and file. He had resolved to give the chiefs an audience. He did so; and received from them the information that the Prophet was desirous for peace—that he wished to know why so large a force of armed men was approaching his town. Also, they said the Prophet had sent back the Pottawatomie and Miami chiefs—whomthe governor had dispatched from Fort Harrison—with a pacific message, but the friendly emissaries had made their return journey on the south side of the Wabash, and for that reason had missed the army.
All this seemed so fair and candid that the commander agreed to an armistice and told the chiefs to inform the Prophet, that he—Harrison—would hold a council with him the next day.
Once more the columns moved forward. The commander intended to camp on the low ground near the village, which occupied a slight eminence overlooking the wet bottoms. But not finding the place to his liking, he sent Major Waller and Taylor to select a more suitable location. The site the officers chose was an elevated piece of dry ground, a short distance northeast of the Indian town and directly facing it.
Toward this spot the army proceeded. As the lines of soldiers filed past the village, numbers of armed warriors sallied forth, and appeared ill-humored and threatening.
When the troops were nearing the chosen site of the encampment, an incident occurred that created a momentary ripple of excitement. Ben, the negro ox-driver, suddenly threw down his whip and, leaving his companions, ran off at full speed toward the Indian town. A number of braves—as though expecting him—met him and conducted him within the walls. The other drivers hooted in derision, and flung curses at the woolly head disappearingwithin the gate of the palisade surrounding the village.
“Dang-it-all-to-dingnation!” shouted Joe Farley. “Let the black deserter go. I wish I had my ol’ rifle out o’ the wagon, fer jest a minute! I jest hope the redskins ’ll roast an’ eat him. It’ll do two good things—be the end o’ the nigger-traitor, an’ kill the Injins.Danga nigger, anyhow!”
Governor Harrison’s attention was attracted by the hubbub and he inquired the cause of it.
“One of the negro ox-drivers employed by the contractor has left his team and entered the Indian village,” explained an aide at the governor’s elbow.
“What’s the fellow’s name?” Harrison asked quickly.
“I don’t know, governor.”
“Send Ross Douglas to me at once,” was the sharp command.
The aide obeyed. And soon the young scout was at the commander’s side.
“What’s the black’s name, who just went over to the Indians?” Harrison asked, bending down until his face was on a level with Douglas’s.
“Ben,” was the curt reply.
“The same of whom you told me?”
“The same, governor.”
“Lieutenant”—addressing an officer of his staff—“go and bring the negro back. Take with you a squad of men—and yonder Wyandot, as interpreter.”
Then again turning to Ross:
“Have you seen that man Bradford, to-day?”
“I have not, governor.”
“Do you know what has become of him?”
Douglas silently shook his head.
A fierce scowl darkened the commander’s face as he said in a low tone:
“Nor do I—but I have an opinion. He’s an infernal traitor—and has deserted. I have no doubt that at this moment he’s in the Prophet’s Town. Dark and devilish treachery is afoot. But thanks to you, my young friend, I shall not be taken by surprise. When I again have that man before me, I shall know how to deal with him. The black is a mere tool—an ignorant dupe. Keep your knowledge to yourself. I’ll defeat Bradford’s purpose—whatever it may be.”
The army reached the elevated piece of ground three-quarters of a mile from the village, and went into camp. It was late in the evening. The sun was sinking in a bank of dun-colored clouds—an indication of a dark and rainy night.
The teamsters disposed of their wagons, as on the previous evening. Wood and water in abundance were near at hand, for a clear creek, bordered by trees and bushes, flowed at the rear of the camp. Night shut down and a drizzling rain began to fall. But supper was under way, and the appetizing odors of broiling meat and boiling coffee cheered the hearts and loosened the tongues of the tired men. The merry snap and crackle of dancing flames drowned the doleful voice of the wind sweepingacross the open prairie and soughing among the scrubby trees.
While the men were unloading the vehicles and pack-horses and preparing supper, several Indians from the town ventured within the lines. Having in mind the mysterious disappearance of Bradford and the open desertion of Ben, Governor Harrison promptly ordered the red warriors to betake themselves to their own camp. At the same time he requested them to send back the negro—whom the staff officer had failed to find, and who was still in hiding at their village. This they promised to do.
Ross Douglas listened silently to the idle tales of his companions, but his thoughts were far away. He was thinking of Amy Larkin—as he had thought of her a hundred times that day. He wished that he might see her, if only for a few seconds. He felt lonely and depressed. Then the disfigured countenance of Hiram Bradford arose before his mind’s eye and shut out the fair face of his sweetheart.
Ross rubbed his eyes and tried to rid himself of the unwelcome mental vision. But it would not depart at his bidding. His thoughts refused to revert to Amy, but persisted in dwelling upon the scar-faced scout. It made him angry; and he arose and sauntered about in the darkness.
On returning to the fire he heard a militiaman remarking:
“Well, I reckon this ends the whole matter. We’ve come on a reg’lar fool’s errand—a wild goosechase. To-morrer the gov’ner ’ll hold a powwow with the Injins—make another treaty with ’em that they’ll break ’fore we’re back to Fort Harrison. Then what? W’y, we’ll march back to Vincennes an’ be discharged. Cuss it! We ort to whip the red devils while we’ve got ’em cornered. It puts me in mind o’ the ol’ story ’bout the king o’ Spain; how he marched up the hill—an’ then marched down ag’in. The idee of a man totin’ a gun every day fer six weeks, to git a shot at a redskin, an’ then when he’s got the critters holed, somebody sayin’ he can’t do it!”
“I don’t know ’bout y’r not gittin’ a chance to shoot,” Joe Farley answered reflectively. “Wouldn’t be s’rprised you’d git the chance when you was least expectin’ it. Injins is dang cunnin’ varmints, sure’s you’re born. From all I’ve seen an’ heerd o’ this Prophet an’ his band, I’m o’ the ’pinion we’ll have a scrimmage with ’em ’fore we git out o’ this clearin’. An’ if wedo, it’ll come mighty sudden—an’ in the night, most likely—an’ you’ll have a chance to shoot y’r gun off more times ’n you’re hankerin’ fer.
“The idee o’ you complainin’ ’bout totin’ a rifle! You ort to be ashamed—you had by Jerushy! If you’d had to whack bulls from Fort Harrison—wear y’r back out a-lickin’ ’em an’ y’r breath out acussin’ ’em—you might complain. But I’m through with it at last—thank the Lord! I’ve resigned my commission. Somebody else ’ll drive’em back ’r they won’t be druv—that’s all. The idee o’ puttin’ a free-born American along with a lot o’ niggers to drive oxen! It’s a disgrace—a shame—a blot on the Constertution! Laugh, dang y’r skins!”—His companions were hawhawing boisterously.—“Laugh at the agony of an abused man! But you chaps ’ll be laughin’ out o’ the other corner o’ y’r mouths, ’fore mornin’—’r I missmyguess.”
The laughter suddenly ceased. And one of the militiamen inquired gravely:
“What do you mean, Farley?”
“Jest this,” Joe replied impressively. “I’ll bet any man a pound o’ powder we have a rumpus with the Injins ’fore sun-up to-morrer mornin’. What do you say, Bright Wing?”
The Wyandot deliberately removed his pipe from his lips, with the stem of it waved aside the cloud of smoke he blew from his lungs, and answered in guttural but not unmusical tones:
“Bad Shawnees much sly, like fox. Make believe all time want peace—all time want war. Paleface camp here. Shawnee town there—two, three rifle shots away. Bad Shawnees—bad Winnebagoes—bad Senecas—all bad. But much brave—heap cunning. Big Prophet talk, talk. Night dark—palefaces sleep—Indians come and kill, Ugh!”
The Wyandot resumed his pipe; the militiamen sat speechless.
“There it is, as plain as the nose on a man’s face!” Joe shouted, exultingly. “Ross Douglas, you hain’t said a word. What doyouthink?”
Douglas answered quietly:
“I think the savages mean to try to surprise and massacre us. But whether they’ll make the attempt to-night, I don’t know—I have no idea.”
“Hark!” cried a militiaman, nervously springing to his feet. “What’s that hullabaloo ’bout?”
His companions hastily arose and stood listening intently. A chorus of shouts, mingled with curses, came from the direction of the governor’s tent.
“I’ll soon see what’s up,” muttered Farley, bounding away toward the spot whence the sounds came.
The others seated themselves and anxiously awaited his return. The uproar suddenly ceased. A few minutes later, Joe again stood within the circle of light. A broad grin irradiated his homely features.
“What was it?” bawled half a dozen voices at once.
“W’y, ding-it-all-to-dangnation!” Farley exclaimed excitedly. “Thenigger’scome back. An’ Cap’n Wilson’s captured him an’ got him in charge.”
“Where did he capture him?” Douglas asked quickly.
“Right behind the gov’nor’s tent—the dang sneak was a-hidin’ in the shadder of it.”
“And he returned to murder the commander,” Ross muttered under his breath. “So that, at least, was a part of Bradford’s plan; and it has miscarried. Whoisthat man—an agent of the British? He’s foiled for the present, at any rate. But what does he know of me? Why was he so agitated when he learned my name? And no doubt he’s at the Prophet’s Town, impatiently awaiting the news that the governor is assassinated. Thank God, he’s doomed to disappointment!”
Gradually the noises of the camp died out. Wrapped in their blankets and with their guns at their sides, the soldiers stretched themselves around the fires and fell asleep. The wind moaned dismally; the flames cast grotesque shadows over the sleeping forms. In the outer darkness the sentries paced their lonely beats. The murmur of shouting savages and barking dogs came in on the wings of the fitful gale, telling that the inhabitants of the Prophet’s Town were still astir. Then the fickle wind veered to another point of the compass—and all was still. Suddenly the silence was broken by the voice of a lusty singer. The sleepers stirred uneasily as they heard in their dreams:
“The Injins hankers fer my scalp,To sell to the highest bidder;An’ when I’m dead an’ in my grave,My wife ’ll be a widder!”
“The Injins hankers fer my scalp,To sell to the highest bidder;An’ when I’m dead an’ in my grave,My wife ’ll be a widder!”
“The Injins hankers fer my scalp,To sell to the highest bidder;An’ when I’m dead an’ in my grave,My wife ’ll be a widder!”
“The Injins hankers fer my scalp,
To sell to the highest bidder;
An’ when I’m dead an’ in my grave,
My wife ’ll be a widder!”
“Drat the critter, anyhow!” grumbled Farley, flopping over upon his stomach and raising hishead. “He’s at it ag’in. Seems he can’t sleep, n’r let anybody else. I wish to gosh he’d stayed in ol’ Kaintuck with his wife an’ babies—I do, by Tabithy!”
Then in a startled voice:
“Say, Ross, wake up! Y’r Injin’s took his departure. Ther’ ain’t hide n’r hair of him to be seen.”
Douglas rubbed his eyes and sat erect. Bright Wing had disappeared.