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THE TRAIL OF BLACK HAWK

CHAPTER I
BLACK HAWK TAKES THE TRAIL

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“Black Hawk is on the trail again.”

Joseph Hall was the speaker. With his parents, two sisters and a brother he lived on the American frontier in Illinois. In these days a reference to that part of the country as “the frontier” would cause a smile to appear on the faces of those who might hear such a statement, but in the year 1832, when the scene of this story is laid, Illinois was very far west. On Indian Creek, near its junction with Fox River, in a little clearing in the forest, the Hall family dwelt and made a hard living from the soil and from the game they might secure with the rifle.

Ten years before this time they had forced their way westward from eastern Pennsylvania and had hewn a home for themselves out of the wilderness. At that time Joseph and his younger brother Robert were only nine and seven years old, respectively. Brought up in the woods and on the prairies they had learned the wisdom of the forest, the secrets of the trees, the flowers and the streams; they knew the habits of the wild animals and the favorite pools of the fish. Thorough woodsmen they were both of them, sound in mind and strong in body. Fatigue was almost unknown to these boys, and to endure hardships was a part of their everyday life.

It was now spring. The sun was warm and the trees were bursting with new life as the days grew longer and summer approached. The time had come when the crops must be planted and it was in this occupation that the two boys were engaged when Joseph made his remark concerning Black Hawk. A space several acres in extent, had been cleared in the heart of the forest and here it was that the Hall family eked out a scanty existence.

At one end of the clearing stood their home. A rough log cabin was all it was, but it was home and consequently was very dear to the Halls. In the rear the clearing ran down to the edge of the woods and as much as possible of this land was under cultivation. Year by year the clearing had been enlarged until now it occupied a considerable extent. Joseph and Robert were busy at the opposite end from the place where their home stood.

“Black Hawk on the trail again!” exclaimed Robert in response to his brother’s remark.

“Exactly.”

“Who told you?”

“Deerfoot. I saw him early this morning down by the river.”

Deerfoot was a Pottowattomie Indian, friendly to the white settlers and to the Halls in particular. He had taught Joseph and Robert much of what they knew of woodcraft and that he was a skillful teacher was attested by the prowess the two boys had acquired.

“Is it serious?” demanded Robert anxiously. He had been removing weeds from the newly sprouted cornfield and he leaned on his hoe as he waited for his brother’s reply.

“Deerfoot says it is,” replied Joseph. “He says that Black Hawk is very angry and means business this time.”

“But what’s it all about?” Robert insisted.

“The same old trouble. Black Hawk doesn’t want to leave this side of the Mississippi and doesn’t intend to either, if he can help it.”

“He signed a treaty nearly thirty years ago saying he would go, didn’t he?”

“I know it,” said Joseph. “According to Deerfoot, though, Black Hawk thinks he was deceived at that time and that the treaty doesn’t bind him. I think that if he had been made to leave at the time he signed that treaty down at St. Louis, everything would have been all right. They told him, however, that he could stay on until this country was thrown open for settlement and now that they want him to go he refuses. At least that’s what father thinks.”

“Is he going to fight?” exclaimed Robert.

“Deerfoot says so. He told me we’d better get to some safe place, too.”

“Did you tell father that?”

“I did, but he laughed at me. You know how he is; he said he wasn’t afraid of all the Indians in North America.”

“That’s foolish, I think.”

“So do I,” agreed Joseph. “Black Hawk and his warriors may be right around here now as far as we know. They’ll start by making war on the settlers, too; you know they always do that. They blame the settlers for taking their land away from them.”

“How about Keokuk?” demanded Robert. “He is the head of the Sac tribe, while Black Hawk is only a smaller chief. What is Keokuk going to do?”

“He is already across the Mississippi, I understand. He evidently was willing to go, or at least he thought that would be the wisest thing to do. He is not a fighter like Black Hawk.”

“I should say not,” exclaimed Robert. “Old Black Hawk has been fighting nearly all his life, I guess.”

“Ever since he was fifteen years old, so Deerfoot told me this morning. He is about sixty-five now, so you see he has been on the warpath off and on for fifty years. He must be a great old warrior if all Deerfoot told me is true.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Well,” continued Joseph, “he said that when Black Hawk was only fifteen he started fighting and that before he was seventeen he led a war party against an Osage camp and brought back several scalps. When he was nineteen he led another fight against the Osages and killed six people with his own hands. A few years later in another battle he killed nine men single-handed. In the war of 1812 he sided with the British and was a terror along the border settlements. He’s a real old warrior, from all accounts.”

“He must be,” exclaimed Robert. “He doesn’t think for a minute that he can whip the United States, though, does he? How many warriors has he, anyway?”

“About five hundred or more, according to Deerfoot. He expects, however, that the Winnebagos, Pottowattomies, and Kickapoos will go in with him, and if they do they can make it pretty hot for a while around here.”

“Deerfoot won’t fight, will he?”

“No, indeed,” said Joseph. “At least he said he wouldn’t fight with Black Hawk. He doesn’t think that those other three tribes will join him, either. He thinks Black Hawk will find only his own men with him when the time comes.”

“When is the time coming?”

“It has already come. Black Hawk is on the trail with a party now, and is going to make war on the settlers. He expects it will take the Whites some time to organize and by that time he himself will have large reinforcements from the other tribes.”

“Well,” said Robert, “if he intends to make war on the settlers what is there to prevent him from picking out the Hall family to start with?”

“Nothing in the world. That’s just what I said to father, but he told me to pay no attention to such nonsense. I thought we ought to have guns out in the field here, but he said not. Just the same, I sneaked both yours and mine out of the house and hid them in that bush over there. Maybe father isn’t worried, but I am.”

“Well, I’m worried, too,” agreed Robert. “I don’t think I’m a coward by any means, but it seems to me it is a silly thing to do to stay right on here as if there was no danger at all, when at any moment we may be attacked by a band of hostile Indians.”

“Still,” said Joseph, “we have no special reason for thinking that we are to be the first ones attacked. Perhaps if some other family is murdered, father may realize that it is serious and move on to some safe place for a while.”

“Yes, and he may wait too long.”

“You can’t tell father there is any danger, though.”

“I know it,” agreed Robert. “He holds all Indians in contempt and thinks they’re all bad. Why, he hardly treats even Deerfoot like a human being.”

“Deerfoot knows it, too. I don’t think he likes father, and if it wasn’t for the rest of us he wouldn’t be half so friendly.”

“He likes us all right, and he’s been awfully good to you and me.”

“He certainly has,” exclaimed Joseph eagerly. “Personally, I think he’d warn us if he knew that Black Hawk and his band were coming this way.”

“But he might not know it.”

“I know,” protested Robert, “but you must remember that in this case it is Indian against Indian. The Sac tribe is just as clever as the Pottowattomie, and old Black Hawk is no fool. You don’t suppose he’d go around telling everybody just where he intended to strike first, do you?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Perhaps not,” exclaimed Robert. “You mean certainly not, I guess. If I intended to attack you, you don’t think for an instant that I’d go around telling everybody, do you? If I did, some one would be sure to tell you, and what chance then would I have of being successful?”

“You’d make a great chief, Bob,” said Joseph laughingly.

“Not at all,” protested Robert. “I’m just stating what seems to me to be common-sense.”

“You’re right, of course,” agreed Joseph quickly, becoming serious once more. “I think we’re in a dangerous position and I wish we were out of it.”

“Does mother know?”

“Father wouldn’t let me tell her. He said it would only worry her and the girls, and there was no use in it.”

“We’ll talk to him tonight, both of us.”

“It won’t do any good, I’m afraid. You know how stubborn he is. He thinks there’s no danger, and no one can change his mind by talking to him.”

“Well,” said Robert, “I hope he’s right. But if he’s wrong I hope he’ll find it out and change his mind before it is too late.”

“Anyway,” exclaimed Joseph, “it won’t do us any good to stand here and talk about it and it won’t help the corn to grow, either. Let’s forget it, if we can.”

The two young pioneers lapsed into silence and soon the only sound heard in the cornfield was the click of their hoes as they dug the weeds out of the soil and cleared a space for the tender shoots to gain the light and air. The thought uppermost in the mind of each boy, however, was of Black Hawk and his band of marauding warriors.

It is hard for us to understand in these days what a peril and a menace to frontier life these hostile Indians were. Every little while word would come of some family wiped out by the uprising of a nearby tribe and no one could tell at just what moment these onslaughts might come.

Everyone went armed, not only for the sake of the game which provided much of the food on which the pioneers lived, but also as a guard against any surprise attack of warlike redmen. It is needless to state the country abounded in “crack shots,” as the most skillful in the use of the rifle were termed. Ammunition was scarce and no one could afford to waste powder or bullets. Consequently they made every shot count and it was wonderful to see the skill some of our early settlers acquired with the rifle. In this sport, or rather in this serious business, no one in the region surpassed Joseph Hall and his brother Robert.

Through the warm spring afternoon the two brothers toiled on in the cornfield. Their hands were busy with the hoe and their minds with thoughts of Black Hawk and his warriors. The shadows grew longer, and when at last dusk crept over the land they made ready to cease work for the day. As they were preparing to stop, the call of a quail sounded from the woods close to the place where the two boys were standing. Both boys were immediately alert. A moment later the call was repeated.

“Deerfoot,” exclaimed Joseph in a low voice.

The two brothers hastened in the direction from which the call had been heard and a moment later discovered their Indian friend hiding behind a thick bush, waiting for them. He was nearly exhausted and had evidently traveled far and fast.

“What is it, Deerfoot?” exclaimed Joseph eagerly. “What is the trouble?”

The Indian was panting and a brief time elapsed before he could speak. Finally he regained his breath.

“Black Hawk, he come!” gasped Deerfoot, and he pointed toward the opposite end of the clearing.

Hardly had he uttered these words when from the direction of the Hall’s cabin came the blood-curdling sound of the Indian war whoop.