The country consisted of open, rolling prairies, frequent groves of trees and occasional swamps. The men rode along in a careless manner, chatting with one another and boasting of what they would do to the hostile Sacs when they met them. Progress was slow on account of the disorderly march of the volunteers and it was late afternoon before they reached the vicinity of Sycamore Creek where they intended to camp. This place was hardly more than thirty miles distant from Dixon’s Ferry.
“We’re going to pitch camp there,” said Walt to Joseph and Robert, at the same time indicating a small clump of open timber some distance ahead of them.
“That looks like a good place,” remarked Joseph approvingly.
“It is,” agreed Walt. “You see it is entirely surrounded by open prairie and anyone who tries to attack us there will be completely exposed while we will have the protection of the trees.”
“Do you think Black Hawk would dare attack us?” demanded Robert.
“I don’t know,” said Walt in reply. “It all depends on how many men he has. I doubt if he’d try such a thing though.”
“Where is he now?” inquired Robert, somewhat alarmed by the prospect Walt had intimated.
“Somewhere near here, I think,” replied Walt. “He is supposed to be on the other side of Sycamore Creek with the Pottowattomies, trying to get them to join him in his war. You’d better watch your friend Deerfoot, too,” he added in a low voice.
Robert’s face flushed almost as red as his hair at this remark. “Don’t you ever dare say a thing like that again!” he exclaimed hotly. “If you do, I’ll refuse to be responsible for what happens to you.”
“And I’ll help you, Bob,” said his brother quietly. “Now look here, Walt,” he continued. “Bob and I like you very much and all that. We don’t mind your fooling, but we do mind your remarks about our friend. We told you that once before and this time we mean it.”