CHAPTER III.

BLACK-HAWK INSULTED.

They had scarcely reached the house when the sound of voices could be distinctly heard upon the river and Joe sprung to the door, from which the stream was plainly visible. A dozen canoes were upon the water full of Indians, crossing from the other shore.

“You’d better git out of sight, Minneoba,” said Cooney Joe. “It won’t be well for them to see you here unless you are forced to come out.”

The Indian girl hurried into the cabin, and went into Sadie’s room. A moment later a tumultuous band of Sacs, shouting out furious threats against the whites, landed near the cabin and came hastily toward it.

“Drunk as lords, every man jack of them,” said Joe. “We’ve got to talk sweet to them or thar will be some ha’r raised right about yer. Thar; that’s old Black-Hawk himself, by George. I wonder what he wants.”

An Indian somewhat advanced in life, and wearing the usual insignia of a chief of the Sacs, headed the party, and a word from him stilled the clamorous tongues of the warriors. Mr. Wescott and Joe stepped out to meet them, and the chief received them by a lofty gesture.

“We come for corn,” he said, “and my young men are so angry that they need the hand of a chief. It is hard that the Sacs must come like thieves in the night to take corn from their old fields.”

“It is hard indeed, Black-Hawk,” replied Mr. Wescott. “I am as much grieved as you can be that this thing has happened, and upon my word, I hope that you may settle this trouble peaceably.”

“Why do you stay on the Sac fields then?” replied the Indian, morosely. “The words of my brother are wise, but they do not agree with his actions. I stand upon Sac ground, which is _not_ sold and _can not_ be sold unless Black-Hawk puts his totem on the paper and gives a belt. Why is the white man here then?”

“I bought of a man who claimed the right to sell,” said Wescott, “but I am willing to give you a fair price for the fields, even now.”

“Black-Hawk will not sell his fathers’ graves,” replied the chief, fiercely. “Look; your white men are making my warriors like themselves, good at talking but no workers. They drink the accursed fire-water and become hogs. In a few years, the name of Sac will be forgotten and they will be but beasts to carry the loads the white man puts upon their backs.”

“It’s no use talkin’ now, Black-Hawk,” said Cooney Joe. “I don’t say it’s right—because it ain’t—for Keokuk had no right to sell your land. But, the thing’s done and our fellers have possession, and I’m afraid they won’t give it up.”

“They must.”

“Oh, pshaw; you ought to know that they are darned good at takin’ things but they don’t give back wuth a cent. You may as well build a village over yender.”

“That they may come and take it again,” replied Black-Hawk, with a bitter laugh. “Let us speak no more, for my tongue grows bitter in my mouth. Sons of the Sac, let us go for corn.”

The Indian stalked away, followed by a shouting crowd of his adherents, and Cooney Joe looked uneasily at Wescott.

“I don’t like this, ’square. You see our fellers ar’ mighty rough on the Injins, and I heard some on ’em say that ef the Sacs came over to steal corn they’d give ’em an all-fired lickin’. Now if they do that it means war.”

“I hope our men will not be so impudent,” said Wescott. “They ought to give the poor fellows a chance to carry away corn for their suffering families, since they have dispossessed them of their land.”

Half an hour passed, when suddenly there came a great tumult from the direction in which the Indians had gone. The shouts of men, the loud and continuous barking of dogs, and the occasional crack of fire-arms, could be heard.

Cooney Joe caught up his weapons, and followed by Mr. Wescott, hurried away in the direction from which the sound came. They had not gone half a mile when they came upon a great rabble of whites surrounding the party which had come over for corn, abusing them in every possible way. Showers of stone were hurled upon them, clods of earth and filth of every description was cast upon them, and they were fighting their way slowly back toward the stream, apparently unconscious of the insults heaped upon them. Foremost among them, walking with a firm step, but with a dark cloud gathering upon his brow, strode Black-Hawk. A stone had struck him on the forehead, and the blood was trickling slowly down his face, but he did not seem to be aware of the fact. Once or twice he turned his head when some unusually vile epithet was heaped upon him, with a haughty glance at the offender, which they remembered in the after times, for two men who struck him, and whom he marked for destruction, were the first to fall when the struggle commenced in earnest.

“White men,” cried the chief, halting, at length. “Do not dare to stand in the track of Black-Hawk, upon his own land.”

“Your land, you old thief,” roared a man named Churchill. “You lie! It is ours—fairly bought—and we will keep it.”

“Black-Hawk does not waste words with a man with a double tongue, who is only fit to sit with the women when the warriors are on the battle-field,” replied the chief.

Churchill caught up a handful of sand and flung it into the face of the old chief. Black-Hawk trembled in every limb but not with fear, and he clenched his hands until the blood started from beneath his nails.

“Fool!” he hissed. “In the days to come, remember Black-Hawk!”

That the man had good cause to remember this insult, the history of that time will show.

The Indians went on their way, but all around them the confusion became greater, and it was with the utmost difficulty that they kept their ranks, and kept down their passions enough to prevent the use of the tomahawks, which every man carried. Had Black-Hawk but given the word, they would have rushed like tigers upon their prey, and torn the rabble asunder like cobweb. But the policy of the chief had been opposed to bloodshed, and he hoped to be able to get to the river without being forced to draw a weapon.

“Look at the black thieves,” roared Churchill. “Down with them, boys; shower the mud on them; stone them out of the country.”

He was but too well seconded by those who followed him, and many of the Indians were badly hurt by the missiles which were thrown at them. Directed by Churchill, three or four strong men rushed suddenly forward and laid hold upon the chief, with the intention of beating him.

“Dogs!” cried the Sac, casting them aside like feathers. “Take your clubs, sons of the brave.”

Up to this moment the Indians had not lifted a hand, but at the order of their chief they lifted their clubs, and sprung forward with furious yells. The chief singled out Churchill, and leaped upon him like a tiger, but the man ran backward, and the chief, never thinking of support, followed him with uplifted club. Before he was aware of his danger he was in the midst of a circle of infuriated whites, who commenced an indiscriminate assault upon him, striking and kicking him with merciless force. It is impossible to say whether he would have escaped with life, but at this moment the rabble parted before the rush of strong men, and Cooney Joe and Mr. Wescott darted into the circle, and placed themselves beside the chief.

“Back, if you are men,” cried Wescott. “What, thirty against one poor old man!”

“Keep cl’ar, keep cl’ar,” cried Joe, flourishing his rifle in a threatening manner. “He’s an Injin, but fair play’s a jewel, you know. You won’t strike him ag’in while I stand hyar.”

“Get out of the way, Joe Bent,” screamed Churchill. “What business have you to interfere?”

“Because I’m called on by a magistrate,” replied Joe. “Keep cl’ar, I tell ye, or I’ll make my rifle-butt acquainted with the softness of yer head. Back a little.”

“Disperse, every one of you, and let the Indians return to the river, and I will see to it that you are punished for what you have already done,” said Wescott, as they hesitated. There was some grumbling, but after a little they began to step away, and the little knot of Indians were left alone upon the field.

“I am sorry that this has happened, Black-Hawk,” said Wescott. “You want corn, you say; go to my crib and take out what you want.”

The chief did not reply, but he stood looking after the retreating forms of the white men, with a moody brow. Many a man who was in his grave before that season closed, might have been alive and happy but for that vile attack.

“Black-Hawk owes much to the white man,” he said, slowly. “They have stolen his village, trampled upon his father’s grave, plowed up the earth above the dead, and scored the earth with their axes. Now they have insulted Black-Hawk and he will remember.”

“I would not take it too much to heart, Black-Hawk,” said Wescott.

“Black-Hawk will remember,” was the reply. “But look my brother. By this blood which drops upon the earth I promise friendship to you and yours. You are two just white men; and all the tribes shall honor you for what you have done this night. Let my good brother go toward the rising sun and stay until the tempest has passed by.”

Wescott shook his head, and walked beside the chief to the river. He refused to take any corn, and as the canoes pulled off the two foresters looked at each other.

“This is bad, Joe,” said Wescott, “but we must get to work. Do you know where the General is now?”

“He’s at Jefferson Barracks—that’s whar he is,” replied Joe.

“Then he must be spoken to and at once. In the mean time I will take a horse and see other officers and concert measures for the public safety. The whole North-west is in danger, for many will follow Black-Hawk.”

They hurried back to the cabin, and to his delight the settler found Captain Melton there, who had returned unsuccessful from the pursuit of Black Will and Dick Garrett.

The young officer was well known to both Mr. Wescott and Cooney Joe, and was cordially greeted by both.

“What was this disturbance I heard just now, Mr. Wescott?” said Melton, as they shook hands. “It sounded almost like a battle.”

“It was very near one as it was,” said Wescott. “Our people surrounded a party of Indians who came over for corn, insulted them in every conceivable way, beat and threw stones at them and injured Black-Hawk quite severely.”

“You don’t tell me that they have hurt Black-Hawk?”

“Yes, and if I know any thing of the Indian he will resent it.”

“This is too bad, just when we hoped to settle the matter peaceably. Let the people on the frontier look to it now, for there is trouble ahead as sure as we live. Hi, there, Stanley,” he cried, addressing one of his men. “Ride to the Post and see the General. Tell him exactly what has happened, word for word, and when you have done that, go back by way of the island and tell the rest of the boys to come up.”

“Do you think they will fight, captain?”

“Of course they will, and we have a lot of dunderheads who will do their best to force it on. With your permission, Mr. Wescott, I will stay here to-night, if you will let the men sleep in your barn.”

“Certainly; if the house were large enough they should be welcome to that.”

The command of Melton was an independent one, composed principally of bordermen and scouts, selected for their known valor and knowledge of the country. As usual in such cases they were despised by the dandy regiments until two or three rough bouts between the men had taught them a lesson. They were very popular with the masses, however, and in a bush fight, were capable of doing more work than any body of men in the service.

Two or three couriers were dispatched in various directions, and then the party camped outside, while the captain entered the house, where he was received by Mrs. Wescott and the daughter. The elder lady had just returned from a visit down the river.

“This is Charley Melton, my prince of borderers, the best scout captain in the territories,” said Wescott. “Captain, my daughter Sadie.”

“I met Miss Wescott early in the evening when in chase of a desperate gambler who had shot a man over a card-table. And indeed we met twice in the village.”

“I hope you caught him, captain,” said Wescott.

“Sorry to say I did not. How the fellow managed to slip away I don’t know, but when we got to the bend, all trace of them was lost. He had a man in his company whom I want to see, for I believe he is stirring up the Indians against us.”

“You mean Black Will Jackwood, I’ll bet,” said Joe Bent.

“Yes; what made you think that?”

“’Cause I see the bloody cuss at Rock Island, whisperin’ round old Black-Hawk, and it looked bad to me, somehow. It will be a ’markably good thing when he is hung up out of harm’s way.”

“That good thing will be very likely to happen if we have the good luck to catch them. Ha! What Indian girl is that?”

“Minneoba, the daughter of Black-Hawk,” replied the girl, coming forward. “Let not Loud Tempest fear that she will speak the words she hears in the lodge of her white father in the ear of the Sacs. Minneoba is not a creeping serpent, and will not betray her friends.”

“Loud Tempest, eh? Poetical name the Sacs have given me, though for what cause I do not know. What have you there, Dix?”

An orderly had appeared at the door and saluted.

“Caught a Pottawatomie, just now, who claims that he has something to say.”

“Who is he?”

“Little Fox.”

“Pah! I don’t think much can be made out of _him_. However, bring him in, and let us hear what he has to say.”

The orderly turned and beckoned, and an Indian, greasy and smoke-begrimed, with a face which bore evident signs of hard potations, appeared in the doorway. This “lord of the forest” was very drunk. His eyes rolled in their sockets, and he found it easiest to stand by the aid of the door-post.