"In camp! there were others with you, then. Who were they? the party you had trailing us?"
"Yes," a decidedly sullen tone creeping into his voice. "Five of them; one was a Winnebago."
"And Rale was along, I presume. What became of the others?"
He shook his head, but with no show of feeling.
"That's more than I know. Things were hot enough for me without bothering about the rest. I never saw any of them again, except Rale. He was killed in the fight. About an hour after that I shot the buck who was guarding me, and got away on his horse."
"What Indians were they?"
"Sacs mostly; some Foxes, and maybe a Winnebago or two."
"Was Black Hawk with them?"
"I don't know—I never saw Black Hawk."
I felt firmly convinced that he was deliberately lying, and yet there was nothing in his story which might not be true. No doubt it was prejudice, personal hatred, and distrust which led me to come to this conclusion. Well, true or not, I meant to see that he fought now.