When they had been ushered once again into the familiar quarters of Major Whistler, that harried officer came straightway to the point.
“You’ve doubtless heard, men,” he said crisply, “that the die is cast. Black Hawk has raised the war-cry. I am, therefore, straining every nerve to get the mounted detachment ready to start west tomorrow.”
“An’ we’re to go with ’em?” questioned Bill Brown.
“Most certainly,—as I told you.”
“Very well, Major. We’ll be on hand. What time is the start?”
“Any special orders?”
“Yes,—also one other item, that may or may not be to your liking. But it can’t be helped, I assure you of that.”
“Hm!” said Bill, a trifle perplexed.
“Now as to the orders, you are to act as scouts for the detachment, spying ahead of the line of march. Above all, try to keep those red knaves of Black Hawk’s from setting an ambush. That’s what I fear most.”