“He fears the great army of White Beaver.”
“Ho! and whither is he bound?”
“The big swamps of Koshkonong, by the headwaters of Rock River, where Black Hawk thinks the Big Knives cannot find him.”
“Ho!” commended Bright Star, “the White Beaver gives thanks for your words. He orders that one blanket, one knife, three pounds of tobacco, one piece of blue cloth and one piece of red cloth be given to each of you. He wishes you well on your homeward journey.”
“Hm!” mused Atkinson, when the two towering, raw-boned chiefs had left the tent, “the great marshes of Koshkonong! That is bad, very bad.”
“It ain’t good,” assented Bill Brown grimly.
“I once skirted those swampy fastnesses, two years ago on a trip into the Wisconsin forests,” went on Atkinson. “I can very well see where the wily Black Hawk would consider them an impregnable position.”
“It’ll be a hard job, General,” nodded Bill, “to root the Injuns out o’ them orful bogs.”
“Well, that will be all for now, men,” declared Atkinson, suddenly popping to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, “but I have something in mind that may develop into a scouting trip for the four of you. Brown, you drop back in the morning, say about ten o’clock. If I make up my mind about the matter, I’ll give you definite instructions at that time.”
This news of an impending scouting foray was most welcome to the four. Not only the three whites were weary of the long stay at Dixon’s Ferry; but even Bright Star, possessed of the interminable patience of his race, was beginning to show signs of restlessness.