AT daybreak, the next morning, the trumpet sounded “Boots and Saddles” at Fort Dearborn; and a few moments later, the little band of sixty mounted troopers rode out from the village. Bill Brown, Tom and Ben Gordon, and the young chief, Bright Star, were in the forefront of the column, acting as guides and scouts. It was a perfect May day, sunny and cloudless, with the songbirds piping gayly, the trees and shrubs leafing out, and the measureless blue arc of the sky stretching ahead of them to the western horizon.
The two red-heads, Ben and Tom, looked back along the column, both thinking that here, indeed, was a gallant little fighting force. Every man carried a musket, a heavy pistol, 100 rounds of ammunition for the musket, 30 for the pistol, and a large, strong hunter’s knife. Everyone had rations for ten days, already cooked, in his roomy haversack. At the tail of the column, six pack-horses bore picks, shovels, camp-kettles, extra rounds of ammunition, medical supplies, salt and tea.
“This is something like it, isn’t it, Bill?” said Tom Gordon, drawing a deep breath of the fresh, bracing air.
“Let’s hope so, lad,” replied the scout, with a dubious glance in the direction of Captain Van Alstyne, whose pompous figure awkwardly bestrode a big, dapple-gray horse.
All morning the little detachment advanced steadily, always keeping the same formation, as they followed a well-defined Indian trail that trended due west. The three white scouts and Bright Star led, Captain Van Alstyne was just behind, with Lieutenant Clark at his side; and then came the blue-coated troopers in a close group. A little past noon, they halted for a short rest and to water the horses in a stream. The hungry men also partook of food from their pouches. Then they resumed their journey.
“Makin’ mighty good time, Cap’n,” volunteered Bill Brown affably. “Reckon we’ll reach the Fox River afore nightfall.”
“And how far might that be from Fort Dearborn.”
“Nigh onto forty mile.”
The warm sun began to cool, the afternoon passed its zenith, and the band rode on, mostly in silence.
This trail, Tom and Ben noted surprisedly, was not anything like a highway, but was merely a narrow path, deeply indented by the hoofs of the horses on which the Indians rode in single file. So deeply was it sunk in the sod which covered the prairies, that it was difficult, sometimes, to distinguish it at a distance of a few, paltry rods. Furthermore, in this almost flat, open country there were no landmarks. One low elevation was so exactly like another, that if the trail were lost, there was about as little hope of regaining it as of finding a pathway in the midst of the ocean.