“Hold, boy!” shouted Van Alstyne hotly, likewise spurring his mount forward. “Put down that rifle! These Indians are miserable scoundrels, but nevertheless they are under a flag of truce.”
“This one is no Indian, sir,” declared Ben firmly, the barrel of his rifle not moving a jot.
“No Indian! why, the red villain looks the part.”
“I repeat, sir, that he is no Indian.”
“Then, by the sun and moon and stars, lad, who is he?”
“Pat Fagan, deserter from the garrison at Fort Dearborn!”
“Fagan, the deserter? Are you sure, lad?”
“Dead sure! He has—”
As Ben Gordon spoke, he turned his head a bit, to look the officer directly in the face. With the speed of a striking rattler, Fagan knocked up the rifle barrel and wheeled away on his fleet Indian pony, his body bent low over the beast’s neck. Like a flash, his four Sac companions were also away.
Instantly, Ben Gordon’s gun sprang to his shoulder, and he sent a bullet humming after the fleeing renegade. Three or four others of the party likewise fired, at the same time urging forward their mounts in pursuit.