“Get out of the way, Joe Bent,” screamed Churchill. “What business have you to interfere?”
“Because I’m called on by a magistrate,” replied Joe. “Keep cl’ar, I tell ye, or I’ll make my rifle-butt acquainted with the softness of yer head. Back a little.”
“Disperse, every one of you, and let the Indians return to the river, and I will see to it that you are punished for what you have already done,” said Wescott, as they hesitated. There was some grumbling, but after a little they began to step away, and the little knot of Indians were left alone upon the field.
“I am sorry that this has happened, Black-Hawk,” said Wescott. “You want corn, you say; go to my crib and take out what you want.”
The chief did not reply, but he stood looking after the retreating forms of the white men, with a moody brow. Many a man who was in his grave before that season closed, might have been alive and happy but for that vile attack.
“Black-Hawk owes much to the white man,” he said, slowly. “They have stolen his village, trampled upon his father’s grave, plowed up the earth above the dead, and scored the earth with their axes. Now they have insulted Black-Hawk and he will remember.”
“I would not take it too much to heart, Black-Hawk,” said Wescott.
“Black-Hawk will remember,” was the reply. “But look my brother. By this blood which drops upon the earth I promise friendship to you and yours. You are two just white men; and all the tribes shall honor you for what you have done this night. Let my good brother go toward the rising sun and stay until the tempest has passed by.”
Wescott shook his head, and walked beside the chief to the river. He refused to take any corn, and as the canoes pulled off the two foresters looked at each other.
“This is bad, Joe,” said Wescott, “but we must get to work. Do you know where the General is now?”