Now and then the route led through marshy stretches of country, where progress was slow and difficult. Myriads of wild geese, brant, and ducks rose up screaming at their approach. At other times, the trail meandered through dense thickets of alder, willow and wild-plum. At late afternoon, just as they had passed one of the densest parts of such thickets, they rode out onto a pleasant, little plain, where the view was more open before them.
“The Fox River!” called Bill Brown, pointing ahead.
“Humph!” snorted Van Alstyne irritably. “About time! I thought we never would come to the end of those wretched thickets.”
“Travel is better tother side o’ the Fox,” the big scout consoled him.
“Let’s trust so. If I had my way, I’d let the plaguey Indians have this accursed country. It isn’t fit for white habitation.”
They presently made camp for the night on the far bank of the Fox, having swum their mounts across the channel. After the horses had fed in the rich grass and the men had eaten their supper, Bill Brown took charge,—at the order of the Captain, who seated himself somewhat disconsolately on a handy log and proceeded to pull off his heavy cavalryman’s boots to rest his weary feet.
Every trooper was instructed by the veteran scout to hobble his horse, and to see that his lariat was knotted properly. He was told, also, to drive his picket pin firmly into the ground, and before going to sleep for the night he must see that it was still right. Careful instructions were likewise given in case of surprise. Every trooper was to seize his horse’s lariat with one hand and his musket with the other. He was then to stand by his horse to prevent a stampede, about the worst thing that can happen to a mounted troop.
“Lot of nonsense,” the Captain remonstrated. “As if those beggarly redskins would venture to attack a contingent of United States Regulars. Bah! Preposterous!”
After they had tethered their mounts, Bill Brown, Bright Star, and the two Gordons walked down to the edge of the river. The sun had now set, but some of its last rays lingered over the opposite bank, tinting the sand and the alders and willows as if with blood. A chill breeze had sprung up from the west, and the water in the river looked dark and cold. Suddenly, a strange shiver, a premonition, as it were, of something ominous to come, ran through every nerve and vein of Tom Gordon.
“What’s the matter, Tom?” asked Bill Brown, who had been watching the boy closely.