“Where Rock River meet Mississippi,” replied Deerfoot. “That was his village.”
“Why do you say was?”
“White people take it away from him,” said Deerfoot.
“Is that why he’s fighting?” inquired Joseph. “If they stole his village, then I don’t blame him.”
“Don’t forget this though,” exclaimed Robert hotly. “The Whites may have cheated the Indians lots of times, but just the same the Sacs signed a treaty to move across the Mississippi, and they have refused to go. At any rate nothing can excuse their killing our family. We did nothing to Black Hawk or any of his people and I intend to get even if I can. How can the country ever expect to be settled if the people are liable to be murdered at any moment?”
“That’s true,” agreed Joseph. “It’s hard to blame Black Hawk from his point of view though. He probably thinks he’s entitled to all this land and that every white settler is a thief who is trying to steal from him.”
“Black Hawk isn’t the head of his tribe anyway,” continued Robert. “Keokuk is the big chief, isn’t he, Deerfoot?”
“That right,” grunted the Indian. “Black Hawk the war chief. He fighter.”
“All Pottowattomies are fighters, aren’t they?” said Robert, at the same time covertly nudging Joseph as he spoke. Deerfoot merely grunted but his eyes shone at this remark of his young white friend, and unconsciously he felt for the two scalps at his belt. They were not there, however, but stretched on frames, were drying in the sun before the cabin. They presented a gruesome sight but one from which the brothers found difficulty in keeping their gaze.
Both boys smiled at the pride exhibited by Deerfoot in response to Robert’s insinuation as to the prowess of the Pottowattomies. For some time they lazily discussed Black Hawk and his deeds.