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Pursuit of Black Hawk
WHEN Colonel Dodge had been informed by the two scouts of the surprising result of their nocturnal mission, his rage at the duplicity of the White Crow was fearful to see. With a mighty effort, however, he controlled his feelings, and his handsome face was once more bland and impassive as he summoned the Winnebago chief to his presence.
“Ho, Kaukishkaka,” he said, in a disarming manner, “can you not find us an easier trail? This one is nothing more than a series of mud-holes, each one worse than the last. We make poor progress.”
“The trail grows better each day,” promised the Crow, never blinking an eye.
“That is sweet music to my ears; for we are eager to look down our gun barrels at the Sacs. How many more days of travel, till we reach the hiding-place of Black Hawk?”
“It is yet far, oh Big Knife. Nearly three suns.”
“Three days farther! You are sure of that?”
“The Crow does not speak with a forked tongue,” reiterated the Winnebago, drawing himself stiffly to his fullest height.
“So I have heard you say!” cried Dodge.