“Let’s get down there and find out for certain,” proposed Tom, hurriedly pulling on his jacket.
“What are we waiting for?” cried Ben.
As the trio hurried across the old log bridge, they could see a cluster of people gathered about the river gate of the fort. There were soldiers, trappers, traders, half-breeds and villagers talking animatedly, with much waving of hands and nodding of heads.
“Somethin’s poppin’, that’s fer certain,” affirmed Bill, at the same time breaking into a trot.
“What’s brewing, Sandy?” called Tom, a moment later, as they reached the fringe of the crowd and caught sight of the friendly trapper.
“Plenty! Chief Black Hawk’s crossed the Mississippi with his Sacs!”
“When?” asked Bill Brown, his face muscles very taut.
“’Bout five days ago, I guess, on the twenty-sixth of April.”
“Wonder where he crossed?” the big scout went on.
“At the Yellow Banks, they say, jest below the mouth o’ the Rock.”