“Messengers from Black Hawk,” mumbled Pat Fagan, trying hard to mask his voice.
“What does the chief want?”
“He demands you git out from the Injun lands.”
“Ho, ho!” snorted Van Alstyne, “Black Hawk has a short memory. The United States Government bought these lands from the Indians thirty years ago.”
“Black Hawk claims it a swindle,” went on Fagan, his words scarcely more than a mutter.
“The red fraud is trying to crawl out of his bargain,” rejoined the Captain, with a contemptuous leer. “Return to him at once, and tell him that we ask his immediate surrender.”
“The Hawk laughs in yer face,” replied the renegade. “It’ll be bloody war now.”
“Ha!” taunted Van Alstyne scornfully, “the red blather-skite is afraid to fight. This is nothing but bluff on his part. We’re on to his game.”
Meantime, Ben Gordon had been studying the Indian interpreter with increasing suspicion. The voice, the carriage, the very manner of the burly brave had a familiar note. For a few moments the boy was puzzled; but abruptly it came to him. His keen eyes pierced the savage disguise. This was none other than Pat Fagan, the border bully, who had sworn his vengeance!
And now, as the Sac messengers turned their horses to depart, Ben gave quick spur to his nimble pony. With three or four long bounds he was at the side of the astounded renegade, who suddenly found the muzzle of a rifle in his very face.