“It is, indeed, a strong position,” nodded Van Alstyne, “camped in this grove as we are, with open prairie for two miles all around. It’d be suicide for the redskins to charge us. We could pick them off like pigeons.”
“You say that your detachment of sixty troopers will come up from Dixon’s Ferry today?” asked Stillman, suddenly changing the subject.
“Yes, I so ordered. They should be here by evening, at the latest.”
“Good! we will rest them overnight, and then make a quick sally against Black Hawk tomorrow. We’ll whip him soundly and put an end to his big notions. The gall of the red rascal, thinking he can scare us!”
Van Alstyne now left the tent, to lead away his horse to the south side of the grove, where all the mounts were picketed. He had been gone only a few minutes, when young Ben Gordon burst into the tent, his face aglow with excitement.
“Sac horsemen, sir!” he cried. “Charging across the prairie!”
“Bosh, lad!” the Major exclaimed, nevertheless jumping up from his campstool. “Probably another white flag!”
“No, Major! the Sacs mean business this time! fully armed and painted for battle!”
From without the tent there now arose a confused bedlam of shouts, yells, threats and bickering. The hubbub mounted with every succeeding second. The volunteer camp was in a growing uproar. Something was clearly amiss.
Stillman stood stock-still for a long second, on his face a look of complete amazement; then bent low and darted through the tent flap, with the boy close at his heels. Shouting at the top of his voice, he took to issuing orders right and left; but such was the turmoil among the frightened volunteers, that scarcely a man gave heed. All about, men were running hither and yon like scared rabbits, looking for their weapons, and casting fearsome glances through the trees toward the open prairie to the north.