“No, I asked why it was done,” corrected Robert.
“You said we had done most of the fighting so far,” explained Mason. “That, to my mind, is why we are stationed back here.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Joseph, greatly puzzled by his friend’s remark.
“Simply this: General Henry has gotten what little glory there has been to get in this war. The others are jealous of him and jealous of the way he won the battle at Wisconsin Heights. They think that the next fight will put an end to the war and they don’t intend that General Henry shall get any credit for that, if they can help it.”
“Is that really so?” exclaimed Robert.
“I’m sure of it,” replied Mason. “I shouldn’t like to be quoted as saying so, though.”
“It’s a pretty mean trick, I should say,” cried Robert. “I hope General Henry will fool them. He has three hundred men in his brigade, and if I were in his place I’d take them and go off on my own hook. We’ve got enough here to defeat all Black Hawk can put in the field.”
“General Henry must obey orders, Red,” reminded Mason. He smiled at the boy’s impetuosity, and, though he concealed it, had somewhat the same feeling that Robert had.
Five or six miles northeast of Helena the trail was discovered leading westward toward the Mississippi. The country it traversed was rugged and unfamiliar to the Whites. Their Indian guides were scarcely better acquainted with it and evidently Black Hawk had chosen this route to retard the progress of the white army and give his people more time to escape.
Great swamps loomed up before the army. Rushing rivers had to be crossed, while thickly wooded hills constantly imposed themselves between the Whites and the fleeing redskins. The trail grew constantly fresher, however, and this fact spurred the men on. Corpses of dead Sacs strewed the pathway; some had died of wounds and some of starvation. Dead ponies, the flesh partly eaten from their sides, and the half-chewed pieces of bark showed how desperately in need of food the Indians were.