“Heading for the Rock River, to join up with the main Injun force under Black Hawk,” conjectured Ben Gordon.
“Maybe we can catch up with them and wipe them out, before they make a junction,” Tom added, raising himself in his stirrups and searching the rolling plain with his strong, young eyes.
“Ugh,” said Bright Star, shaking his head soberly, “it will not be.”
“I reckon the young chief is right,” Brown agreed. “The Wolf an’ his men are movin’ powerful fast, an’ while the trail is growin’ warmer, it don’t look as if we kin catch ’em afore they hit the river.”
“They’ve maybe reached Black Hawk by now,” concluded Ben.
At noon the usual pause was made. Food and black tea were served, and then the sixty remounted. For two hours more the trail led directly west, then veered very slightly to the north. A few more miles and suddenly, upon coming over a low rise of ground, they saw before them the dark, wide, rapid waters of a sizable stream.
“Rock River!” sang out Bill Brown.
“Zounds, at last!” grumbled Van Alstyne. “The more I see of this God-forsaken country, the less I like it. If I ever get to Washington, I’m going to introduce a bill in Congress proposing that we give the whole miserable region back to the Indians. It would seem that—”
“Look, Captain!” broke in Ben Gordon excitedly, “look up there, will you!”
The stoutish officer turned awkwardly in his saddle, and gazed north along the river bank where the boy was pointing.