Robert had maintained that they would soon overtake Black Hawk, but such did not prove to be the case. Winnebagos had come into camp with information that they knew where Black Hawk was located and their offers to guide the troops to the spot had been accepted. As a consequence many days were wasted in running wild goose chases through the treacherous swamps and sink holes of that region. The Winnebagos had been constantly endeavoring to lead the army into a trap and only their good fortune had saved them from destruction more than once.
“I’m getting discouraged,” exclaimed Robert in despair. A week had been spent in following false clues, none of which had proved of any value.
“Don’t get discouraged, Red,” urged John Mason. “Better times are coming.”
“Maybe they are,” replied Robert disconsolately. “Not many seem to think so, though. Governor Reynolds left us this morning.”
“He did?”
“Yes, he did, and a lot of other officials went with him. They think that the Indians have taken to the swamps and that we’ll never get them out.”
“I don’t think it’s as bad as that.”
“But so many of our men are sick,” protested Robert. “This business of floundering around in the marshes isn’t very healthy, you know. We are almost out of provisions, too.”
“That’s the worst thing,” admitted Mason reluctantly. “Our food supply is low, I guess.”
“It certainly is, from all I hear. Something will have to be done soon.”