“I guess he would,” agreed Joseph. “He is certainly a good friend of ours. He is a fine character, too, and I can tell you that Bob and I appreciate his affection.”
The next day the march was continued. On the thirtieth they crossed the Illinois-Wisconsin border where the Turtle village of the Winnebagos stood. The place was deserted, however, for the inhabitants had fled at the approach of the army.
Sac signs were fresh now, for Black Hawk had fled from Kellogg’s Grove directly for his stronghold, reaching the Rock River just above the mouth of the Kishwaukee only three or four days in advance of the White army. The trail was warm and the troops were following it with the determination and eagerness of bloodhounds.
Every night a camp was selected, in the timber if possible, and the men slept on their arms. There was constant fear of a night attack, for so close had General Atkinson pressed the fleeing Sacs that often they came in contact with the rear guard of the savages. Several times sentinels had been fired on.
On the second of July the army arrived at the outlet of Lake Koshkonong. Indian camps were found, all presenting the appearance of having been hastily deserted. Tepees stood empty and household goods had been abandoned by the Indians in their eagerness to leave.
“Look there,” exclaimed Robert as he and some of the scouts rode into the largest of these camps.
Hanging from a pole of one of the tepees were five newly taken scalps. White scalps they were which had been stretched on frames to dry.
“All I can say is,” remarked one grizzled old ranger, “that them Indians must have been in a powerful big hurry or they never would have left them things behind.”
“We’ll catch up with them soon,” cried Robert eagerly. “It can’t be too soon to suit me either.”