“What of it, lad? what of it?” he asked waspishly. “I see nothing but a tumble-down cabin and barn, no doubt deserted by some poor settler who had his belly full of this detestable hole.”
“Why, that’s Dixon’s place, Cap’n,” Bill Brown informed him, “er what’s left of it. John Dixon ’stablished a ferry an’ stoppin place here ’bout four years past, back in 1828. His buildin’s was sure ’nuff standin’ two weeks ago, when I come through on the way to Dearborn. ’Pears to me that Black Hawk an’ his Sac ruffians has been here since.”
“Cabin burn. Ugh!” offered Bright Star, squinting his eyes upriver.
“Very likely struck by lightning,” sniffed Van Alstyne. “You’ve all got Black Hawk on the brain. I still believe that the bally old chief is sitting before his lodge fire, over in Ioway, toasting his toes.”
“No siree!” protested the scout sternly, “this is Injun doin’s. Let’s press on!”
When they reached the place, they found it to be a complete ruin. From the foundations, and what Bill Brown knew of the place, it could be determined that there had been several structures,—house, barn, shed and three other outbuildings. Nothing now remained but a few fragments of charred walls, and a portion of roof on the low shed.
“Yep,” repeated Bill solemnly, “torch an’ tomahawk did this deviltry.”
“I wonder what was the fate of those who lived here,” mused Ben sadly.
“Sliced to ribbons by the Injun knives, lad. Mebbe the kids an’ women-folk was carried off to captivity.”
“Ugh, ugh!” interjected Bright Star, pointing suddenly to the rear of the ruined barn.