“This is only the rear guard!” shouted the commander. “Give them a volley or two, men, and then charge!”
There was the deafening crash of a hundred rifles and muskets, as the black barrels spat jets of fire. A hail of lead whistled across the glade and into the thicket. It seemed incredible that a single Indian could escape alive, so furious was the gunfire. In answer, however, a few challenging whoops arose, followed by scattering shots. The troops swiftly reloaded and sent in another thunderous volley.
“Press on!” bellowed Dodge hoarsely. “Dig out the red knaves!”
The hardy rangers sent up a shout of triumph and dashed into the thicket, ready for hand-to-hand combat. But not a single redskin, living or dead, was to be found. The Indian warriors had withdrawn westward into the forest, carrying their slain fighters with them.
“Fiddle-sticks!” declared Bill Brown. “This delayin’ skirmish ain’t improved Black Hawk’s sitchiation one jot.”
True words! The Hawk’s harried band had again increased its lead over the pursuing soldiers to perhaps three miles; but the position of the Sacs seemed actually worse, due to the fact that immediately ahead of the fleeing braves lay the wide channel of the Wisconsin River, a big stream that flowed straight down from the trackless forests of the north, and then swept eastward in a great bend to join the mighty tide of the Mississippi, some eighty miles beyond.
It was now mid-afternoon, and the harassed Black Hawk called a hasty council of his sub-chiefs.
“Our cause is lost,” spoke up Ne-a-pope bluntly.
“We could not fight the Big Knives alone,” snarled the surly Prairie Wolf. “The accursed Foxes—”
“Cease!” commanded the haggard Black Hawk, his face full of travail. “Put those things behind us. The Big Knives press us closely. What is best to be done?”