“The Pottawattomee chief, Shaubena, and others of his powerful nation, have passed among them, saying that Black Hawk is a madcap, a fool to fight the swarming pale-faces, who number as the leaves of the trees.”
“The accursed Pottawattomees have been bought with pale-face gold!” cried Ne-a-pope, his face writhing with fierce anger.
“It may well be,” admitted Black Hawk. “Also, I begin to fear that the Foxes and Winnebagoes are old women, afraid to raise the war-cry. The ancient courage of their fathers has gone. Their hearts are faint and their muscles feeble.”
“Mayhap Fox and Winnebago await the day when Black Hawk gives battle to the pale-face soldiers,” put in the sullen Prairie Wolf, who had been listening silently to the conversation.
“Did I not cross the Wapt-pa-ton-ga (Great River),” replied Black Hawk, somewhat stung by the Wolf’s blunt statement, “and throw down the gauntlet? What did noble Fox and brave Winnebago do then? I will tell you. They skulk in their lodges, like beaten dogs.”
“Aye, but they only await a victory. That will bring out their war-paint. Advance, oh chief, with your valiant warriors.”
“The Prairie Wolf speaks words of great wisdom,” nodded Ne-a-pope vigorously. “When Fox and Winnebago hear how the white soldiers ran at our fierce charge, and see the many scalps hanging from Sac girdles, they will flock to our side. We will drive the thievish pale-faces from our lands forever!”
“Your tongues are sharp,” Black Hawk replied thoughtfully, “but it may well be that your advice is of the best.”
“Ho!” said Ne-a-pope.
“Ugh!” urged the Prairie Wolf. “Sac, Winnebago and Fox will stand as one. Death to the pale-face!”