“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.