Colonel Dodge was silent for a half-moment. The effusive words of the Winnebago raised a slight doubt in his mind. Likewise, he thought that he noted a fleeting, sardonic gleam in the Crow’s one, gleaming eye.
“That is good,” he at length replied, brushing away his suspicions. “It is my hope that it will always be so. But there is one misguided chief who has taken the warpath against the whites. He is the Sac, Black-Hawk.”
“Ugh!” grunted the Grow. “The Hawk is a madman and a fool.”
“Aye, that he is. He cannot withstand the might of the pale-face soldiers, who are as many as the sands of the lake-shore, and bold as panthers.”
“Will the pale-face soldiers fight?”
“Of course the pale-face soldiers will fight, Kaukishkaka,” rejoined Dodge sternly. “Why should you ask that?”
“The whites did not fight on the banks of the Sycamore. They ran like rabbits. The Sacs say that the whites will not fight. They are a soft-shelled breed. When the spear is put to them, they will quack like ducks.”
“I will soon show Black Hawk,” responded Dodge testily, “that my rangers are not of the soft-shelled breed.”
“Your words are good to my ears. The Black Hawk is an evil one. I spurn him.”
“Will you help us?” invited the officer.