Accordingly, at mid-morning, right on the dot, Bill Brown took off again for Atkinson’s headquarters. He didn’t get back until nearly noon. Upon his return, he found Ben and Tom Gordon sitting outside their tent, fairly chewing their nails in suspense. The hawk-eyed Bright Star stood at one side, skillfully flipping his gleaming knife at a wooden tent-peg.
“Git yer travelin’ bags packed, boys,” chuckled the stalwart scout, as he approached.
“You aren’t spoofin’, Bill?” answered Ben suspiciously.
“No, I ain’t,” responded Brown, stretching his powerful frame on the soft turf. “That’s straight from the shoulder.”
“Whoopee!” yelled Tom; and the Pottawattomee raised a ringing war-cry that made several soldiers pop out of their nearby tents like scared gophers.
“Durn you, chief,” howled one of them, “you scared me outen seven years growth! Save that dingbusted war-whoop of yourn fer the pesky Sacs.”
“I spent more’n an hour with the White Beaver,” began Bill, with a twinkle in his eye. “You see, I rigged out a plan fer him to end the Sac war.”
“Yah!” scoffed Tom, “Bill Brown, greatest military strategist since Napoleon.”
“Well, you doutin’ Thomases, let’s put it thisaway, then,” continued the scout. “The White Beaver an’ me got our heads together an’ cooked up a scheme to bag ol’ Black Hawk fer keeps.”
“How?” burst out Ben.