The Trail of Black Hawk

by Paul G. Tomlinson

The volunteers, however, made no resistance. Instantly they wheeled their horses and at full speed turned and fled for their lives.

It was now Black Hawk’s opportunity to exult and to take his turn as the pursuer. Terror filled the hearts of Major Stillman’s men, and in spite of the efforts of their commander to rally them, they made off as fast as their mounts could carry them.

The rout was complete. From behind came the exultant yells and shrieks of the Indians who were bending every effort to overtake and cut down their white foes. They were still a considerable distance behind, however, and fortunate it was for the volunteers that such was the case.

Joseph, Robert and Deerfoot, once side by side, were now separated and with no other choice they were obliged to flee with their comrades. The two young brothers had stood their ground when the Indians first charged and each had emptied his rifle at the onrushing warriors. No one else of their company, however, had seemed inclined to stay with them. Consequently, as it undoubtedly meant certain death for them to face their foes alone, they too turned their horses and joined in the mad flight. They did not even have time to see the effect of their bullets.

As Joseph bent low over his horse’s back and urged the animal forward, a man white with terror came alongside and by reason of his swifter mount soon passed him. It was Walt. Even at such a time, Joseph could not repress a grim smile, as he saw the traces of fear written all over the man’s face. Walt, the one who had boasted of his prowess and his ability to deal with the hostile Indians, was now running like a scared rabbit for safety. Joseph’s smile changed to a snort of disgust.

A bullet whirred past his head. Just ahead of him a man crumpled up in his saddle and slid to the ground, a limp mass that but a few moments before had been a human being. Joseph shuddered involuntarily at the sight, but he could not stop. His thoughts were not for his own safety alone, however. He wondered what had become of Robert and of Deerfoot. He raised his head to look about him in an attempt to discover their whereabouts. A bullet struck his cap, tearing it from his head, and Joseph made no further effort to find his brother.

Ahead of him, on both sides and behind him was a confused mob of panic-stricken horsemen. The blood-curdling yells of the Indians sounded constantly over the prairie, as the men sped onward in their attempt to escape a massacre. Into Sycamore Creek they plunged. Coming out on the other side they kept on in mad disorder, until they had reached the clump of trees where their camp was pitched. They did not stop there, however, nor did they seem to have any thought of checking their flight.

Every man in the expedition seemed intent on putting as much space as possible between himself and the yelling pursuers, who were now pressing them so closely.

“Fools,” thought Joseph to himself, as they passed the camp. “Why don’t they stop here? We could defend this place against ten times our number. With the trees for protection and the Indians still on the open prairie we could pick them off at our leisure.”

No one else seemed to share Joseph’s views, however, or if any one did he did not try to put the plan into execution. On they sped, becoming more scattered and more demoralized every moment. Many men had been killed and Joseph himself had seen several fall from their horses. As far as he could determine no one tried to oppose the Indians either. A few shots had been fired at first, but since that time every man seemed to be more interested in the fleetness of his pony than he did in offering any resistance to the pursuers.