The Trail of Black Hawk

by Paul G. Tomlinson

“Only two more,” thought Joseph as this party disappeared. “I wish they’d hurry up and come, too.” The young pioneer was greatly puzzled to know what could have happened to the remainder of Black Hawk’s band. He had been sure that the volunteers were attacked by at least several hundred warriors. Little by little, however, he began to change his ideas as he saw the few that had followed in pursuit of the white men. “Could it be possible,” he thought, “that over three hundred white men had been put to flight by a mere handful of Indians?” He had counted twenty-five in all and he doubted if more than twice that number could have attacked them in the first place.

“What a disgrace,” he thought. “We ran like a lot of cowards. The first shout scared us away and we didn’t even stop to see how many there were against us.” He became still more angry as he thought of the rout and when he recalled the look of fear on Walt’s face a snort of disgust and contempt expressed his feelings in the matter.

Once more, however, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horses’ hoofs. A moment later two Indians came within sight and Joseph heaved a sigh of relief as he realized that these were the last he was waiting for. In a few moments more he could mount his horse and proceed to Dixon’s Ferry and then he could discover what had befallen Robert and Deerfoot.

The Indians were now opposite Joseph’s lookout. He remembered distinctly seeing these men pass before, for one of them rode a spotted pony, easily distinguished from all the others. As Joseph noted this fact, the pony in question suddenly thrust his head forward and whinnied. This in itself was not remarkable, but its consequences certainly were.

Joseph was horrified to hear from behind him the answering whinny of his own horse. That this desire for company on the part of his horse might easily have fatal results the young frontiersman knew only too well. His limbs were almost paralyzed as with wide eyes he watched his two foes to see if they had heard the sound. That they had done so was only too evident from their actions. They immediately wheeled their ponies and peered eagerly in the direction from which the unexpected sound had come.

Spellbound, Joseph watched them. Perhaps they might pass on after all, thinking their ears had deceived them. That there was but slight chance of this, however, he well knew, and for a moment he thought his best plan would be to fire at them. On second thought he decided that the sound of the shots might summon help to the redskins and that was the last thing Joseph desired to happen.

Motionless, and with their guns ready for instant use, the two warriors sat and looked straight at Joseph’s hiding place. He knew they could not see him from the place where they were stationed, and he hoped and prayed that they would not investigate. This hope was quickly dissipated, however, for suddenly his horse whinnied again. For a moment the young volunteer was so angry he could have shot the animal, but he knew that any such action would only spell ruin to his chances of escape. At any rate, the horse knew no better and was probably lonesome.

No sooner had the sound reached the ears of the waiting Indians than they raised their guns and fired. Two bullets came crashing through the bushes close to Joseph’s head and he heard one of them flatten itself against a rock just behind him. Taking quick aim he fired his own rifle and saw one of the Indian’s ponies drop to the ground. He waited for no more, but jumping quickly upon the back of his horse he sped away down the ravine.

A hundred yards in advance of him the gully led out onto the open prairie. Soon Joseph emerged; his appearance was greeted by a yell of rage, and two bullets which whistled past his ears. Glancing behind him the young volunteer saw the Indian, whose horse had been shot, struggling to reload his gun, while the one that was mounted on the spotted pony was speeding forward in hot pursuit.

Joseph bent low over the neck of his horse and urged the animal to do its best. He had one bullet in his rifle and this he decided to use only when he could be reasonably sure of hitting his mark. Behind him he heard the war whoop of the pursuing redman, and this time Joseph knew that he was engaged in a race for life, such as he had never had before. The opportunities were more equal this time, but the Indian being behind had whatever advantage there was. “His life or mine,” decided Joseph.