“Whar’ll the volunteers rendezvous?”
“At Beardstown.”
“Well, they should raise a pile of volunteers,” Tom remarked, “with excitement running high, as it no doubt is.”
“Yep,” nodded Bill, “ther’ll be a sight of ’em flock in. But how hard they’ll fight is a horse of a diff’rent color.”
“You said it, pardner,” agreed Sandy, with a dubious look on his grizzled face. “I don’t put much stock in the fightin’ qual’ties o’ these fly-by-night volunteers. Ther purty much a rabble. Chances are ten to one they’ll run like sheep when they clap eyes on ther first screechin’ Injun.”
Bill Brown was about to make further comment, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Turning quickly about, he found a blue-coated orderly waiting to talk with him.
“Major Whistler wants to see you at his quarters at once,” said the orderly. “Also the two lads here. Better get up there as soon as you can, as he’s in a thunderin’ sweat over this Injun monkey-bus’ness.”
“Will the sentry let us through?” immediately asked Bill, who knew that a closer guard would henceforth be maintained at Fort Dearborn,—now that the Sacs had taken the war-path.
“I was comin’ to that,” went on the orderly. “Here’s a pass from the Major entitlin’ you to come and go freely at all hours of the day and night.”
Within the fort, the three found a scene of varied activity. It was evident that preparations were being pushed forward at all speed, for the coming expedition against the rampaging Sacs under mighty Black Hawk. The boys saw soldiers walking back and forth, rifle on shoulder, across the parade ground, and beyond them other soldiers. Most of them were straight, sinewy and alert men, well equipped to cope with any danger or other problem that might present itself.