THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 "Ma" Crandtll
 
 A Knight 
 of the Wilderness
 
 As he smiled he raised his eyes and met Sylvia's 
 glance. (See page 21.)
 
 A Knight 
 of the Wilderness 
 
 By 
 
 OLIVER MARBLE GALE 
 
 and 
 
 HARRIET WHEELER 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY IVIN NEY 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 THE REILLY & BRITTON CO. 
 
 1909
 
 Copyright, 1909 
 
 by 
 THE REILLY & BRITTON CO. 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 Published October, 1909
 
 List of Chapters 
 
 CHAPTER NO. PAGE 
 
 I THE MAN IN THE FLATBOAT 9 
 
 II THE BRAVE WHO SHOULD HAVE DIED 25 
 
 III LOVELIGHT 35 
 
 IV THE MAN WITH HAIR OF BRONZE 48 
 
 V THE FRONTIER CLERK 66 
 
 VI THE MILLHAND 79 
 
 VII SHADOWS 96 
 
 VIII LOVE AND FEAR 112 
 
 IX CANT-HOOKS AND CAPTAINS 125 
 
 X THE FLAG OF TRUCE 138 
 
 XI MASSACRE 152 
 
 XII A MESSAGE FOR THE HAWK 167 
 
 XIII SANCTUARY 181 
 
 XIV IN THE THICKET 189 
 
 XV THE CAPTURE 206 
 
 XVI THE WHITE MAN'S CHILD 215 
 
 XVII THE SHADOWS DEEPEN 226 
 
 XVIII THE RISK 236 
 
 XIX THE WHITE MAN'S FRIEND 242 
 
 XX THE CAVE IN THE EOCK 252 
 
 XXI THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL 265 
 
 XXII THE END OF THE TRAIL 277 
 
 XXIII RESIGNATION 290 
 
 XXIV THE MAN FROM THE DEAD 299 
 
 XXV DARKNESS 312 
 
 XXVI LIGHT . 324
 
 Illustrations 
 
 AS HE SMILED HE EAISED HIS EYES AND MET 
 
 SYLVIA'S GLANCE. (See page 21) Frontispiece 
 
 LINCOLN SHOOK HIM TILL THE BREATH RATTLED 
 OUT OF HIM PAGE 76 
 
 "IT REMINDS ME OF TWO MEN DOWN IN KEN 
 TUCKY WHO CAUGHT A 'POSSUM IN A BOX 
 TRAP." PAGE 172 
 
 "FlRE FLY WILL NOT DIE. HE WILL BE A GREAT 
 
 CHIEF AND A MIGHTY HUNTER." PAGE 220 
 
 "SYLVIA!" His HAND REACHED FORTH AND 
 
 TOUCHED HERS, GENTLY PAGE 336
 
 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 THE MAN IN THE FLATBOAT 
 
 ALL New Salem, tingling with excitement, was 
 down by Cameron's dam. It was not often that 
 excitement came to that little cluster of log cabins 
 perched on the banks of the Sangamon River in the 
 year of our Lord 1831. They had their births and 
 their burials, the people of New Salem, and their 
 wooings and their weddings ; but a village of a dozen 
 or more log houses cannot well keep itself fully 
 awake with stimulation so meager. 
 
 Now and then the outer world permitted them a 
 wanderer with gossip from Vandalia; or from 
 Louisville, if their fortune ran strong. Occasionally 
 an itinerant preacher passed that way and aroused 
 them to a state of pleasurable panic. At intervals 
 the boys from Clary's Grove paid them a rough, rol 
 licking call in facetious mood, making the present 
 exhilarating and leaving the future uncertain; but 
 the agreeable sensations which might have been de 
 rived from that form of diversion were marred by 
 danger to life, limb, and law which usually attended 
 these visits. 
 
 9
 
 10 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 But all these things, in their uttermost possi 
 bilities, were as nothing compared to that which 
 stirred the inhabitants to the highest pitch of agita 
 tion and brought them hurrying down to Cameron's 
 dam on this morning in April. They were all there, 
 from the elegant and important James Kutledge, 
 descendant of the Eutledges of South Carolina, 
 founder of the settlement and keeper of the tavern, 
 down to the least toddler of the tow-headed, bare 
 legged Kelso brood, arrived the preceding autumn 
 from Indiana. 
 
 There was old John Cameron, who with Kutledge 
 owned the mill and the milldam. There were the 
 men of New Salem the merchants, the smith, the 
 carpenter, the cooper ejaculating and gesticulating 
 on the bank of the stream. There was Dame Rut- 
 ledge, with uncovered head, hot from her kitchen, 
 her bare arms wrapped in her apron against the 
 coolness of the spring air. There were all the 
 matrons of the settlement gathered about her in 
 voluble concourse. 
 
 There was Ann Butledge demure, beautiful, 
 tender standing by the side of her accepted lover, 
 John McNeill, the young and prosperous merchant. 
 There was Rachel Hall, the girl from Indian Creek, 
 black-haired, black-eyed, levying tribute upon her 
 blundering yokels in the midst of the envious daugh 
 ters of the town. There was her sister, Sylvia, fair- 
 skinned, with hair of twisted gold and eyes gath 
 ered from the skies of June; sedate, contained,
 
 The Man in the Flatboat 11 
 
 smiling indulgently upon the capricious one at her 
 side. 
 
 The children of the settlement were there, awed 
 in the presence of the unusual, clinging to the skirts 
 of their mothers, staring dumbly out upon the river. 
 Even Mentor Graham, the schoolmaster, was among 
 them, book under arm, horn-bowed spectacles down 
 his nose, gazing with academic absorption upon the 
 scene that had turned the whole town out of doors. 
 
 A flat-boat, floating down the river in charge of 
 two men, had run aground on the middle part of the 
 dam, where the current flowed most swiftly. Her 
 nose hung in midair in front of the dam. Her stern 
 was buried deep beneath a tumbling rush of yellow, 
 muddy water. Every moment the waves piled 
 higher. Every moment they bore her down, clamp 
 ing her more firmly against the obstruction that 
 held her. She could not move. So much water had 
 already poured into her that she would not have 
 floated if she could have been freed. For all that 
 the people of New Salem could foresee, she was a 
 doomed wreck. 
 
 One of the two occupants sat on a barrel, which 
 the curling waters folded and lapped, and gazed with 
 stupid fascination at the slanting lines that the 
 waves were tracing higher and higher along the gun 
 wales. The other was exhibiting to the spectators 
 at the moment nothing more definite than a pair of 
 amazingly long and angular elbows and a couple of 
 interminable legs. He wan stooping over in the
 
 12 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 after part of the boat, where the water was deepest, 
 for a purpose not then apparent. 
 
 Near the water, at the end of the dam, a small, 
 nervous, excitable man divided his time between 
 pacing the ground with frantic gesticulation and 
 profane admonition, addressed to the one stooping 
 in the after part of the boat which that one did not 
 heed in the least and sitting on a stump by the 
 river's edge in a state of the most profound and 
 absorbed melancholy. It was obvious that he was 
 the owner of the boat and the cargo. 
 
 The men of New Salem shouted advice. The 
 women clucked sympathy. The young men hooted. 
 The young women tittered. The children continued 
 to stare dumbly, stupefied by the spectacle of ship 
 wreck come to their very door. Mentor Graham, 
 adjusting his horn-bowed spectacles, stepped nearer 
 the scene to illuminate it with the light of science. 
 James Eutledge, being a man of tactful address, 
 endeavored to engage the owner in sympathetic 
 conversation, but to no purpose. 
 
 The man stooping in the stern of the boat, 
 oblivious to the confusion of tongues, arose slowly, 
 unfolding himself to a prodigious height. In his 
 hand he held a huge sack. Struggling slightly under 
 the weight of it, he carried it forward, dripping, 
 and placed it in the bow. Having done so, he 
 straightened himself to a still greater height, and 
 looked calmly with quizzical interest at the crowd 
 gathered on the bank. His eyes passed leisurely
 
 The Man in the Flatboat 13 
 
 from one to another. As his glance turned, a hush 
 followed. 
 
 The hush was broken by a titter among the girls. 
 The titter grew into a nervous laugh, which ran 
 among the spectators and died abruptly. There was 
 something about the boatman that stirred them to 
 mirth. There was something about him which made 
 them doubt whether they should laugh. He was 
 ludicrously tall. He was grotesquely thin. He was 
 a succession of inelegant angles. High on his almost 
 interminable legs dangled a pair of frayed and 
 faded jeans. His raw wrists straggled below his 
 sleeves. His head inclined slightly, in a posture 
 half droll, half pathetic. 
 
 His face was as gaunt and bony as his frame. 
 High cheek-bones he had, and prominent jaws; 
 between them a great length of sallow cheek. His 
 nose was large, and somewhat awry. His mouth 
 was big and repressed. His features completed the 
 paradox of his figure. Those who looked could not 
 tell whether to laugh at him, or weep for him. 
 
 They could not tell until they saw the eyes 
 and then they could not tell ! These were more baf 
 fling still. Pale blue they were, with lids that 
 drooped across them; unutterably sad, wistful, and 
 appealing. But in the moment that they were wist 
 ful, without so much as the slightest change coming 
 into them, they were commanding, compelling; and 
 while they were compelling, in their depths there 
 twinkled a sly mirth.
 
 14 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 It was this spectacle of a man that the people of 
 New Salem gazed upon this April morning. 
 
 "Howdy," said the long boatman, presently, in 
 an even voice. Another titter, beginning with 
 Rachel Hall, grew into a laugh, which died away as 
 the first had done. 
 
 "You make me think of a little boy I used to 
 know down in Indiana," continued the man, sol 
 emnly. The mirth in the depths of his eyes flashed 
 and played fitfully as he began to speak. "His 
 father had a cow he called Betsy. Betsy was a 
 great cow to kick, and the little boy used to like to 
 watch his father milk her. One day the cow kicked 
 the old man in the head and killed him. Pretty soon 
 the boy's mother married again. Somebody asked 
 the boy how he liked his new father. 'Oh, well, I 
 don't think much of him,' said the boy, 'but I 'm 
 glad he 's come, 'cause now there 's somebody I can 
 watch Betsy kick again.' Maybe you don't think 
 much of us, but you seem powerful glad to see us 
 this morning, just the same." 
 
 Without further word he turned and strode back 
 where the water piled over the stern of the boat. 
 On shore there was a moment of silence. The peo 
 ple of New Salem were not immediately alive to the 
 significance and application of the story. Presently 
 a soft and silvery laugh tinkled above the sound of 
 the cascade rushing over the mill dam. 
 
 The man in the boat, taken by the music of the 
 laugh, cocked his head where he stood stooping in
 
 The Man in the Flatboat 15 
 
 the water. His eyes searched among the specta 
 tors. They fell upon the demure, tender, beautiful 
 young woman standing beside the young man of 
 assertive and prosperous bearing; Ann Butledge 
 and her accepted lover. As he looked, she laughed 
 again. Her blue eyes, full of merriment, returned 
 his glance. Without the stirring of a muscle, with 
 only a changing light in the depths of his own, the 
 man in the boat answered her laugh and her look 
 with complete understanding. There are meetings 
 that are electrical. There are companionships that 
 begin with ages of comprehension already behind 
 them. 
 
 In the moment of their communion the gaze of 
 the boatman fell, and he returned to his labors, 
 whelmed with self-consciousness. In the same 
 moment the story reached home, and a gust of 
 laughter arose from the spectators; even Mentor 
 Graham wisely smiled. 
 
 The shouts of advice, the banter of the young 
 men, presuming upon the boatman's facetiousness, 
 redoubled. The long boatman, stooping in the stern 
 of the craft with his wrists buried beneath the 
 swirling water, paid no heed. Neither did the other 
 boatman, still sitting on his barrel island. Neither 
 did the melancholy man against the stump. 
 
 Again the tall and angular boatman unfolded. 
 Again he had in his great hands a sack, heavy and 
 cumbrous, which he carried to the bow of the boat. 
 Depositing it there, he grinned amiably at the peo-
 
 16 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 pie on shore, setting them off into another gust of 
 laughter, and turned once more toward the stern. 
 
 Hope awakened in the breast of the disconsolate 
 man leaning against the stump at sight of the activi 
 ties aboard. His eyes lighted. His lips moved. 
 
 " What what you tryin' to do, Abe?" he 
 faltered. 
 
 " Trying to get your boat over this dam, Mr. 
 Offutt," replied the one addressed. "Perhaps you 
 may have noticed that it isn't moving very fast 
 right now." 
 
 It was clear now that this man was to be laughed 
 at, and the people of New Salem laughed joyously, 
 uproariously, even down to the children, who laughed 
 because the others did, and because they thought 
 the man in the boat was making faces at them. And 
 to please them, he did make faces at them as he con 
 tinued to move sacks and barrels and sides of pork 
 from the stern of the boat to the bow, overhanging 
 the river below the dam. 
 
 Under a constant fire of suggestion, serious and 
 facetious, the tall boatman continued to labor with 
 the cargo, bringing it bit by bit into the projecting 
 bow. In course of time the big, cumbrous craft 
 began to teeter, to seesaw on the dam which held it, 
 as he passed back and forth. Each time the bow 
 dipped beneath his weight, a shout of warning went 
 up from the banks, topped off with a shrill scream 
 from the unhappy Mr. Offutt. Each time that it 
 dipped, the tall boatman watched it, with careful
 
 The Man in the Flatboat 17 
 
 and calculating observation, and immediately 
 brought forward another piece of cargo. 
 
 At last he brought forward no more. Standing 
 in the bow, he surveyed the grinning crowd with sad 
 visage. 
 
 ''You remind me of a man I used to know in 
 Kentucky," he said to them, after a pause. "One 
 night he got lost in a storm. It was thundering 
 pretty bad. All of a sudden there was a tremen 
 dous crash that lasted for a minute. The man 
 dropped on his knees. 'Oh, Lord,' he said, when it 
 was over. ' Oh, Lord ! If it 's all the same to you, 
 give us a little more light and a little less noise.' 
 If some one of you people will fetch me an auger 
 I can get along without his conversation while he 
 goes to get it. ' ' 
 
 The people of New Salem roared again with 
 delight at the tale. William Munson, chief hand in 
 the mill and chief swain among those who hovered 
 about Rachel Hall, disappeared into the building, 
 followed by the hoots and jeers of the delighted 
 audience. He emerged with an auger in his hand. 
 
 "How we goin' to git it to yer?" queried Mun 
 son, standing at the edge of the stream. 
 
 "Throw it," returned the tall boatman, sitting 
 on the suspended bow, his heels dangling nearly to 
 the water beneath. 
 
 Old John Cameron came into action. He was 
 canny Scotch, was old John Cameron. If the boat 
 must be lost, that would be unfortunate for the
 
 18 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 owner of the boat. There was no need, however, of 
 risking his auger. Whatever was going to happen 
 to the boat, there was no immediate danger that it 
 was going to injure the dam in its wreck, and there 
 fore no ground for sacrifice on his part. 
 
 "Na! Na!" he cried, in deep agitation, laying 
 hand on the arm of William Munson. * * Dinna heave 
 it ! Dinna heave it ! Ye might droon it, lad ! ' ' 
 
 Mr. Offutt, ignorant of any purpose that might 
 be behind the auger, but confident that his boatman 
 and his boat stood in need of it, pressed upon Cam 
 eron with fantastic and alluring offers of reward 
 and insurance. Munson, uncertain, stood with arm 
 uplifted, ready to hurl the tool. The spectators 
 were in a flurry of excitement. The tall boatman 
 himself was in the first words of an anecdote suit 
 able to the occasion, when the entire course of events 
 was abruptly arrested by the appearance on the 
 scene of another actor. 
 
 He was a young man with a face of clean and 
 manly beauty. Hair, the color of bronze, escaped 
 in waves from beneath his soft hat and fell across 
 his temples. His skin was smooth and fair, with a 
 translucent blending in it of brown and white. His 
 eyes were a warm, rich brown, behind gentle lids. 
 His mouth was full-lipped, tender, sympathetic. It 
 gave a suggestion of softness of character, which 
 was brought into balance by the firmness of his chin 
 and the strength in his jaws. 
 
 He was mounted on a roan horse of surpassing
 
 The Man in the Flatboat 19 
 
 beauty and spirit. He had come among them like 
 an apparition. They had not seen him as he rode 
 toward them, following the road from Springfield, 
 splashing through the mud of the rough way. They 
 had not seen him until this moment, when he drew 
 horse beside William Munson. The stranger leaned 
 over and took the auger from his hand, made limp 
 and unresisting by the suddenness of the other's 
 appearance and the assurance of his action. 
 
 "Let me have the auger," he said, quietly, as he 
 took it. 
 
 Before those who looked on could bring their 
 thoughts together, before the bewildered John Cam 
 eron could interpose objection, the young man on 
 the roan had taken his horse to the head of the dam 
 and driven it out upon it, with soft words and gentle 
 strokes of encouragement. 
 
 Snorting nervously, quivering, with crouching 
 knees, the animal bore its rider out along the nar 
 row way. The yellow waters of the Sangamon 
 spurted against hoof and fetlock. They leapt up the 
 slender, trembling limbs. They piled against shoul 
 der and flank. With soft words, with gentle strokes, 
 the rider urged on, calm, cool, deliberate. 
 
 They were ten feet, five feet, from the stranded 
 boat. The rushing waves grappled with them, 
 striving to throw horse and rider over the dam into 
 the swirling, sucking backwater at its foot. Against 
 the force of it horse and rider leaned. The man, 
 speaking softly, stroked the neck of the beast coax-
 
 20 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 ingly. On shore there was no word. Old John Cam 
 eron held his breath. Denton Offutt stood with 
 hands in his hair, his eyes staring. The boatman 
 sitting on the barrel revived his interest in life and 
 took his eyes from the shifting lines which the 
 waves were drawing along the gunwales of the boat. 
 The tall one arose from his seat in the bow and 
 reached out his hand. 
 
 1 'Beckon I can reach it now, stranger. Much 
 obliged," he said, a ring of admiration in his voice. 
 
 The stranger handed on the auger. With quiet 
 touch, he reined his horse's head up stream and 
 spoke a word of command. The animal brought its 
 feet carefully together on the narrow top of the 
 dam. There was no trembling of the limbs now. 
 There was no snorting. With every muscle steeled, 
 with every nerve tense and drawn, it stood balancing 
 on the brink. 
 
 A muffled sound, half gasp, half scream, broke 
 from the midst of a group on shore. Sylvia Hall, 
 her heart pulseless, clenched hands upraised as 
 though they could hold the horse and rider safe 
 where they balanced, stood pale and wavering, not 
 knowing that it was she who made the sound. The 
 tall boatman, auger in hand, gathered himself, 
 ready to do what might be needed in the rapids 
 below. Denton Offutt groaned and sank against 
 his stump. John Cameron shut out the sight with 
 his hands. Dame Kutledge clutched her apron
 
 The Man in the Flatboat 21 
 
 between her fingers till it tore. Ann Rutledge 
 pressed against her lover's side. 
 
 The rider, hearing the sound of alarm, turned 
 his head toward the group whence it had come, to 
 reassure with a look those who feared. His eyes 
 were calm and unperturbed as they fell upon them; 
 but as they fell upon the drawn, tense face of Sylvia 
 they glowed warm, as the eyes of one who sees a 
 vision of beauty for the first time. 
 
 The danger of the adventure was largely in the 
 minds of those who saw it. They were accustomed 
 for the most part to such mounts as they could 
 bring from plow or treadmill. The roan was of 
 finer quality and spirit than the horses of which 
 they had had experience. It crept back step by step 
 to the end of the dam with sure and cautious foot. 
 It scrambled upon the shore with a little volley of 
 pent-up snorts. Nickering, it turned its head 
 towards its master, to ask if it had done well. He 
 smiled upon the animal and spoke tenderly to it. 
 
 As he smiled he raised his glance toward the 
 group where Sylvia was, and met hers full upon 
 him. Swiftly as she turned aside, she was not so 
 quick that she did not see the warmth which came 
 swiftly into his eyes beneath her look. With the 
 warmth still in them, he drew his horse behind the 
 crowd to avoid the marveling applause bestowed 
 upon him by those who had watched, and modestly 
 retired from their sight. 
 
 It was not hard to escape them. Their attention
 
 22 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 was not long diverted from the wreck, where the 
 sad-faced boatman was now down on his knees, bor 
 ing a hole with his auger through the planks in the 
 bow. In a moment it was done. In another moment 
 the other of the crew was swept from his seat on the 
 barrel by the long arm of his fellow, and the barrel 
 itself was rolled far forward. Another barrel, and 
 another, was added to it. The vessel careened 
 beneath their weight. The stern lifted clear of the 
 tumbling current behind it. Splashing and churn 
 ing, the water in the craft surged forward, and 
 spouted through the hole in the planking. Denton 
 Offutt, comprehending at last, arose from the stump 
 with a mighty shout. 
 
 " Hurrah for Abe! Hurrah for Abe Lincoln!" 
 he cried at the top of his shrill voice. "I told you 
 he was smart ! I told you he was smart ! ' ' 
 
 As it was the first time he had opened his mouth 
 in direct address to the crowd during the morning, 
 there were grounds for disputing the statement of 
 the excited boat owner, but no one was in a mood 
 to do so. Instead, they added their voices to his, 
 acclaiming the knowledge and daring of Abe Lin 
 coln, the tall boatman, with a noise that could have 
 been heard in the last log-house in the settlement, 
 if anyone had been left there to hear it. 
 
 The boat was drained. The hole was plugged 
 up by the long boatman. A rope was passed. The 
 craft was dragged from her dangerous perch by 
 the men ashore and floated in the stream below.
 
 The Man in the Flatboat 23 
 
 Denton Offutt, as exuberant as he had been miser 
 able, demanded the instant attendance of all New 
 Salem at the tavern, and forthwith started thither, 
 his arm linked through the angular elbow of his 
 boatman; on the other side of whom with an arm 
 linked through the other angular elbow, marched 
 James Rutledge, descendant of the Eutledges of 
 South Carolina, keeper of the inn of New Salem 
 and part owner in the dam that had brought it all 
 about. 
 
 As they went, a young man on a roan horse, 
 climbing the road that led from the river to the 
 village, turned to look back on the shouting crowd 
 he left behind. One there was who took no part in 
 the demonstration. One there was whose blue eyes 
 followed him in his climbing, whose glance fell 
 abashed before his own as he turned. With a 
 warmth in his beautiful brown eyes, he wheeled into 
 the village street at the brow of the hill, and was 
 lost to sight. 
 
 That was a big day in the history of New 
 Salem bigger than they knew, though they held it 
 in vast importance. That night, in the mingling of 
 many potations, Denton Offutt, happy beyond 
 description, made open declaration, among other 
 things, that he was coming to New Salem to open 
 a store, and that he was going to make Abe Lincoln 
 his clerk, soon as ever Abe Lincoln should return 
 from New Orleans, whither he was taking the boat. 
 He furthermore asseverated that Abe Lincoln was
 
 24 A Knight of the Wilderness . 
 
 the smartest man in the United States, and could 
 wrastle any man in Illinois; in which statements 
 none felt presently inclined to dispute him. 
 
 In the next room was to be heard the even voice 
 of Abraham Lincoln in narrative mood, punctuated 
 at intervals by the hearty, uproarious laughter of 
 the young men of Salem. He was the man of the 
 hour.
 
 CHAPTER H 
 THE BKAVE WHO SHOULD HAVE DIED 
 
 AT the right angle formed where the clear waters 
 of the Black River flow into the tawny floods 
 of the Mississippi, in the years that have been, was 
 the village of Saukenuk, a town of the Sacs and the 
 Foxes, the town of Black Hawk's people. It was a 
 village of some five hundred lodges, large, comfort 
 able, substantial. The houses were placed symmet 
 rically, with equal spaces between them and at an 
 even distance from the open space through the cen 
 ter of the town, which served at once for street and 
 common. At the point of land, the apex of the 
 angle, was the lodge of Black Hawk, more preten 
 tious than the others and somewhat separated from 
 them by a greater space surrounding it. About the 
 whole was a palisade of brush, through which a 
 gateway opened to each cardinal point of the 
 compass. 
 
 Not far to the east of the village a hill arose 
 abruptly from the plain to a height of about two 
 hundred feet, overlooking town and rivers and 
 much of the country 'round about. Its steeper sides 
 were covered with woods and thickets. Upon its 
 lesser slopes were patches of the fields of corn and 
 potatoes and beans, which spread over the rich soil 
 
 25
 
 26 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 in picturesque variety about its base. At the foot of 
 the hill, along the banks of Bock River, crept a 
 beautiful grove of oaks and elms and maples, 
 fringed with willows that grew at the water's edge. 
 Beneath the trees were the graves of generations 
 of Sacs and Foxes. It was the Silent City, the City 
 of the Dead, sacred and holy to the Indian. 
 
 It was mid-June in the year 1831. Black Hawk 
 stood upon the summit of the hill, called by his lov 
 ing people Black Hawk's Watchtower. Full of 
 years was Black Hawk; but his slight, spare frame 
 was straight and vigorous. His red lips were full 
 and mobile ; his nose was sharp and hooked, like the 
 beak of the hawk for which he was named; his eyes 
 flared and gleamed with emotion, or grew dull and 
 heavy with sorrow. This day the shadow of sad 
 ness had fallen across them as they gazed upon the 
 panorama of river, field and woodland, his domain 
 for many years, which it had been given him by his 
 people to keep for his people. 
 
 He was not alone as he stood there. Beside him, 
 close pressing, her tiny hand clasping his own, her 
 cheek upon bis shoulder, stood an Indian maiden, 
 beautiful beyond the wont of her kind. Slender, 
 straight, graceful, rounded into the exquisite con 
 tour of perfect maidenhood; dusky cheeks like the 
 autumn skies when the last sunlight flushes across 
 them ; lips delicately curved, hinting of song and of 
 love, of scorn and of hate ; eyes as dark and as deep 
 as the sea where the depth of water makes it black ;
 
 The Brave Who Should Have Died 27 
 
 eyes as potent as the sea sleeping beneath summer 
 zephyrs ere the storm awakes; teeth of snow; radi 
 ant, tender, loving, reliant, fiery, high-souled, she 
 was one to dream of through the evenings of June 
 one to cling to through the storms of January. She 
 was Feather Heart, daughter of Black Hawk, 
 beloved of the tribe. 
 
 ' * Nay, ' ' she was saying, in a voice like the night 
 winds through the pine trees, like the shaded waters 
 plashing among the white stones in the brook; "nay, 
 my father should not be downcast. Many years has 
 the Black Hawk led his people to the planting since 
 Quash-Quame, senseless from their fire-water, sold 
 our lands to the whites, and they have not come to 
 take it away from us. Surely they will let us go in 
 peace till you, and even I, my father, have passed 
 on to the happy hunting grounds, where my mother 
 sings for us through the long night." 
 
 "The Hawk knows! The Hawk knows!" 
 responded the chief, with heavy heart. "What 
 should my little Feather Heart know of the whites? 
 Even now they are upon us. Look! See, their 
 lodges are at our gates!" 
 
 He pointed across the vista to the eastward, 
 where a little cabin stood in the midst of a culti 
 vated field. About the door played a white child. 
 Within, a white woman busied herself about her 
 household duties, singing as she worked; singing a 
 song of the whites, a hymn of the church militant. 
 Beyond, scattered through the distance, other cab-
 
 28 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 ins, of logs roughly thrown together, told of the 
 forefoot of advancing civilization. 
 
 "What should Feather Heart know of them?" 
 continued Black Hawk, restraining his glance 
 from roving among the scattered houses. "Why do 
 the whites tear our fences? WTiy do they plow our 
 fields? Why do they slay our horses when they 
 rove? Why do they take our women, to beat them 
 and send them back, broken, to us? Why do they 
 taunt and revile us? What should Feather Heart 
 know of their ways? It is that they may tempt the 
 Hawk to strike; that they may drive our young 
 men to revenge, so that they may call their warriors 
 from their white lodges in the land of smoke and 
 drive us across the Father of Waters. Many years 
 has Black Hawk led his people forth to the plant 
 ing, and much wisdom has he got of the ways of the 
 whites!" 
 
 The bitterness of his knowledge was in his tones. 
 For a moment there was silence. Feather Heart 
 spoke : 
 
 ' ' But is it not that Quash-Quame made it so with 
 the whites that we should live and plant here till 
 they need our fields for their lodges ? Surely, there 
 is room here for them, and for us. Surely they will 
 not drive us away!" 
 
 "Feather Heart knows nought of the blackness 
 in the heart of the white man," the chief returned, 
 and was silent.
 
 The Brave Who Should Have Died 29 
 
 The slumbering seas within her eyes awoke 
 before the storm that sprang into her soul. 
 
 "Then shall the Black Hawk fight!" Her voice 
 was sharp as the wind that whips the wavetops into 
 spindrift; harsh as the spray that dashes against 
 the rocks of islands in the sea. "The Hawk has 
 many young men. . The Hawk has braves that are 
 as the trees in the forest. The paleface shall not 
 drive us from our planting. The spirits of our dead 
 cry out to us from the Silent City. Shall the Sauk 
 not hear their cry ? ' ' 
 
 "The braves of the Great Father are as the 
 leaves on the trees," returned the chief, sadly. 
 "Feather Heart must speak no more of fighting." 
 
 His voice grew stern. His firm eye met hers. 
 There was command in word and look. She obeyed, 
 though the storm still surged in her eyes. For a 
 space it swept across them, and was gone; the 
 obedience of the Indian daughters was without 
 question. 
 
 The storm was gone when she raised her eyes 
 to gaze upon the bluffs lying black against the 
 reclining sun on the distant side of the mighty river 
 that rolled to the west of them. It was gone, and in 
 its place there was a trace of sadness which she 
 would have hidden from her father by turning her 
 head from his shoulder, where it had nestled again 
 with the going down of the storm. 
 
 "The party of our young men which went lately 
 among the Ihoways ; was it not the party that came
 
 30 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 back to our village this morning?" she said, at 
 length. 
 
 Black Hawk aroused himself from revery to 
 answer that it was. 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "Did not the White Eagle go forth with them?" 
 continued the girl. 
 
 "The White Eagle went with them." 
 
 "He came not back!" murmured the maiden. 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "Did our young men say why it was that he 
 came not back?" Her voice was as though she 
 spoke of that which was nothing; for this maiden 
 was an Indian maiden. For a space there was no 
 sound between them ; only the call of the thrush, the 
 song of the robin saluting the setting sun, the plain 
 tive cry of the cat-bird from the thicket behind them 
 rose to the top of the hill where they stood. 
 
 The voice of Black Hawk floated out upon the 
 dying afternoon, low, intoned, sepulchral. "The 
 White Eagle went forth into the west with his death 
 song in his throat," he said. "The White Eagle 
 will come no more among his people. He has gone 
 to the land of his fathers ; he walks to-night in the 
 happy hunting ground. Such is the law of blood 
 between the Ihoways and the Sacs." 
 
 Sad as the lonely sea were the eyes of the Indian 
 maiden as the words of her father sank into her 
 heart. Cold as the vacant depths of the sea was her 
 voice when she made response. "It is well," she
 
 The Brave Who Should Have Died 31 
 
 said. "If the hand of the White Eagle hath been 
 raised against the friend of the Sacs, the hand of 
 death must be raised against the White Eagle. But 
 I did not know that he had slain among the Iho- 
 ways!" she added, with a tone of misery in her 
 voice which she could not restrain, Indian maiden 
 though she was. 
 
 "It was not he. It was his brother Half Ear 
 who slew," Black Hawk made answer, after a 
 pause. 
 
 A tremor passed across the beautiful shoulders 
 of Feather Heart as she heard. Now of all times 
 she dared not turn her face to look upon the face 
 of her father. If she had turned, she would have 
 seen it all tenderness, all compassion, full of under 
 standing; she would have thrown herself into his 
 firm arms and cried out against life. But Feather 
 Heart did not turn. Feather Heart, daughter of a 
 chief, erect, with head thrown high, looked across 
 the great river into that West whither White Eagle 
 had gone with the song of death in his throat, and 
 spoke again with a voice as gentle in her soft throat 
 as the plashing of the surf upon the margin 01 
 southern seas. 
 
 "Tell me," she said. 
 
 Black Hawk complied. "Half Ear loves the 
 strong waters. He knew not what he did when he 
 struck down one who was as a brother. It was in 
 the hunting across the river, before the snows. The 
 man was of the Ihoways. They cried out for blood,
 
 32 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 as the law runs. The time came when our young 
 men were to go to them with the one who had slain. 
 Half Ear, lying sick with a fever in his mother's 
 lodge, could not go. It was needful that some one 
 of the blood give blood back to the Ihoways, lest 
 much blood should run. It was the word of the 
 Sauk that it should be so." The voice of the chief 
 lowered. "The White Eagle went forth into the 
 land beyond the rivers, which is the land of the 
 Ihoways, with the song of death in his throat. ' ' 
 
 There was no sound from the Indian maiden as 
 she stood with her face fixed upon the west. There 
 was no motion of her body. It was as though she 
 were already one of those who dwelt in the Silent 
 City. The sun, sinking into the sky where she 
 gazed, struck red upon the surface of the Father of 
 Waters. Across the sky spread the color of blood, 
 softened into beauty by the brush of nature. 
 Through the hush that was about them came the 
 laughter of children in the village beneath, the song 
 of the robin, the trilling of the thrush, the plaintive 
 call of the cat-bird. 
 
 "It is it is well," murmured the Indian 
 maiden. 
 
 Deep over the face of the Father of Waters 
 flushed the glow of the setting sun. Deep across the 
 fields and forest settled the hush of eventide. Deep 
 into the heart of the Indian maiden, the daughter of 
 the chief, sank the sorrow of the Law of Blood. 
 Motionless, silent, she stood there, her face ruddy
 
 The Brave Who Should Have Died 33 
 
 in the glow that came from sky and water. Motion 
 less, silent, the chief, her father, stood behind her, 
 gazing beyond her slight form, gazing beyond the 
 red, flowing river ; gazing beyond all that was within 
 the ken of eyes. 
 
 As he gazed, a low, sharp cry came from the lips 
 of the girl. He was at her side. He looked swiftly 
 into her face. Her lips were parted. Her cheeks 
 were flushed with a higher flush than that of the 
 dying day. Her eyes were fixed upon the broad 
 bosom of the Mississippi. His own glance followed 
 them ; he saw what she saw. 
 
 Black against the rushing red of the current, 
 leaving a wake that closed red behind, something 
 came toward the shore with slow and even motion. 
 Beside it, like wings of the eagle, feathering 
 splashes of water came and went rhythmically, fall 
 ing back into the smooth surface in ruddy drops 
 and films through which shone the glow that was 
 on the water. The plashing sound of them came 
 faintly to those who watched from the Tower. 
 
 For an enduring silence they stood there. 
 Nearer and nearer came that which was black 
 against the glow on the water. The red turned to 
 pink, to grey; that which was dark against the 
 waves came closer still. It was the head of one who 
 swam. It came near the shore. It stopped. It arose 
 from the water. A young Indian, magnificent in 
 grace and strength, stood in the shallows. He 
 breathed deeply. He plashed to the shore. He
 
 34 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 walked toward the village and into the gate that was 
 by the lodge of Black Hawk. 
 
 Black Hawk bent his glance upon the Indian 
 maiden. Her face was set against the West. Her 
 eyes were wide. Her lips moved. She spoke. She 
 spoke to the sun that was gone, to the hush that was 
 about them, to the star that fluttered in the grey sky 
 of twilight. 
 
 "The White Eagle should not have come," she 
 said. Her tone was dead as the sea when the wind 
 has long laid dead. "It was the Law of the Blood. 
 It was the word of the Sauk. My father would not 
 have come back. It were better for him that he had 
 not come." 
 
 "It were better for him that he had not come," 
 echoed the Black Hawk. 
 
 He turned into the trail that led to the village, 
 and left her with her face fixed upon the West, 
 whence the last red of evening had died into ashes.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 LOVELJGHT 
 
 GREAT was the grief that night in the lodge of 
 Light Foot, the mother of Half Ear; the 
 mother of the White Eagle, his brother. The Eagle 
 had gone into the land of the Ihoways for a sacri 
 fice; he had come back living into the land of the 
 Sacs. The eye of the chief had looked aslant upon 
 him. The braves of the Sacs had made a scoff at 
 him. His shame was upon the lodge of his mother ! 
 
 Bitter were the reproaches heaped upon him by 
 Half Ear, his brother, now well of the fever which 
 had detained him from the sacrifice. Long and elab 
 orate were the repinings of Light Foot. All through 
 the night, while her son, the White Eagle, lay at 
 her feet, Light Foot mumbled her woe, from time 
 to time casting over her locks dust from the floor 
 of her lodge. 
 
 "He of the hollow heart has come back," she 
 moaned. "The White Eagle went that his brother 
 Half Ear might live. The White Eagle has come 
 back ; now must we all die, for the law of blood has 
 been broken. Like the eagle went he forth; like the 
 duck he came back, swimming in the water. His 
 mother is the mother of a coward. Old squaws will 
 laugh at her ; the children of young squaws will mock 
 
 35
 
 36 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 his brother with their fingers; his brother is the 
 brother of a coward. Half Ear is brave; but the 
 White Eagle is a coward; Half Ear is a friend of 
 the whites with much honor; the White Eagle is the 
 enemy of his own people, and will be made to work 
 in the corn with the squaws. He will hoe corn when 
 his brother goes to the hunt!" 
 
 Thus through the night she moaned. If the 
 White Eagle heard her, he made no sign or answer, 
 but lay peacefully at her feet, until the day broke, 
 and the Sauk song to the sun reverberated through 
 the village. He made no answer when Half Ear, 
 lowering over the parched corn which Light Foot 
 gave them to eat, upbraided him anew for cowardice 
 and perfidy. With eyes cast down, with even breath, 
 he ate his corn in silence. 
 
 Surly and ill-natured, Half Ear left the lodge of 
 his mother as soon as he had eaten his corn. With 
 hanging head and muttering lips he slunk past the 
 corner of the bark house and slipped stealthily 
 behind the rows to the gate in the palisade of brush 
 that ran along the eastern side of the village. 
 
 "He goes to his friends, the palefaces," mumbled 
 Light Foot to herself. 
 
 Sinister and forbidding was Half Ear. In his 
 youth he was the Blue Wolf ; now he was Half Ear, 
 for that one half of his right ear had been lopped off 
 in a drunken fight with his friends, the whites. He 
 had a lean and hungry look, had Half Ear. His nose 
 was thin and twisted. His eyes, close together,
 
 Lovelight 37 
 
 seemed to look at divergent things though their gaze 
 was straight. His mouth was sharp and drawn. His 
 ears, so much as were left him, were small, and stood 
 abruptly from his head. The sun shone yellow and 
 sick through them. Of all the Sacs in Saukenuk, he 
 alone did not stand upright on his heels, as a Sauk 
 should. His voice was thick, and shook when he 
 spoke. About him was the air of the fallen, the 
 degenerate. He was victim to the firewater of the 
 whites. That, in the beginning and the end, was the 
 wickedness of Half Ear. 
 
 "See! Half Ear steals away from before the 
 faces of the people," wailed Light Foot, when that 
 one had left. "Such is the shame that the Eagle 
 brings to the wigwam of his mother ! ' ' She fell again 
 to moaning and casting dust upon her head. 
 
 White Eagle, looking sorrowfully upon her, 
 passed from the lodge and walked along the village 
 street. As he went, silence fell upon those who were 
 gathered there, like the hush that comes upon sing 
 ing birds when the shadow of the eagle hovers over 
 the copse. With half glances, they whispered to each 
 other behind their hands. The warriors and the 
 young hunters grunted their contempt for a Sauk 
 who had betrayed the word of a Sauk, given unto 
 the friends of the Sacs. 
 
 ' ' Like an eagle he went away ; he comes back like 
 a duck, squattering in the water," mumbled White 
 Cloud, the prophet, taking up the words of another, 
 after the manner of prophets.
 
 38 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 "His liver is the liver of a chicken!" replied the 
 Black Hawk, walking by the side of his prophet. His 
 look was more sad than angry when he said it. 
 
 The White Eagle, hearing their contumely, see 
 ing their scornful nods and gestures as he passed, 
 walked to the end of the village street with slow step 
 and head held proudly in the air; walked past the 
 lodge of Black Hawk with eye unbending; deigned 
 not a glance toward the door of the lodge where 
 Feather Heart stood watching him; walked to the 
 southern gate, turned, and made his way back among 
 the scoffers to his mother's lodge. There, with eyes 
 fixed in sadness upon the fire where Light Foot 
 parched corn, setting aside his proud demeanor, he 
 sat grieving through the hours of morning. 
 
 The sound of a drum rattled through the village ; 
 the drum of the crier. White Eagle, sitting on the 
 ground of his mother's lodge, raised his head, alert 
 and listening. He questioned Light Foot with a look. 
 
 "This is the day of the dance, when the braves 
 of the Sacs tell of the deeds they have done since the 
 last planting," said the woman, in a doleful voice, 
 making lament. "There is none from the lodge of 
 Light Foot to go among the warriors with a tale of 
 bravery; for the White Eagle has turned into a 
 duck, and Half Ear is brought low by the disgrace 
 of his brother!" 
 
 The grief of the woman awakened again. She 
 went on dismally, rocking and groaning on the floor 
 of her lodge.
 
 Lovelight 39 
 
 The drum rolled once more. Cries arose 'from 
 the warriors, gathering in a square in the center of 
 the village. One leaped into their midst to chant in 
 loud voice of the deeds of valor he had done since 
 the last dance; of his mighty hunting; of slaying 
 braves of the Sioux tribe, their deadly enemies; of 
 stirring ventures and close escapes. He was done. 
 The warriors raised a mighty cry. The drum rattled. 
 Another advanced to the center of the square, and 
 chanted his tale. Another, and another, through 
 hours, they came and told of their deeds. 
 
 White Eagle, sitting in the lodge of his mother, 
 listened long to the sounds of the dance. The last 
 brave chanted his story ; the drum beat for the last 
 time. The dance was finished. Loud shouts went up 
 from the warriors and hunters; the final ceremony. 
 In a moment they would disperse. 
 
 Above the shouting floated the sound of a young, 
 strong voice, raised in lamentations ; in the farewell 
 song of the Sacs. White Eagle, stripped of feathers, 
 with his face raised to the sky, chanting the song of 
 farewell, entered the square. He was met by out 
 cries. Some of the young men would have laid hand 
 on him. To the cries and the violence he paid no 
 heed, walking to the center of the square with face 
 raised to the sky and the song on his lips. 
 
 11 Listen!" he said, from the center, sweeping his 
 eye about him as he turned to face them all in suc 
 cession. "Hear the White Eagle before he goes. 
 When the night comes the White Eagle will be gone.
 
 40 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 He will chant his morning song to the sun in the 
 forests, far from the lodges of his people. His 
 mother's lodge shall know him no more; no more 
 will his voice be heard in the council or the dance; 
 no more will he ride to the hunt with his brothers. 
 He sings the song of farewell. But before he goes, 
 let the brothers of the Eagle listen to what he will 
 tell them. 
 
 "The White Eagle has been brave in the hunt 
 and on the war path. The young men of the Sacs 
 have said so; the old braves have looked with kind 
 eyes upon him. His spear is long; his arrows are 
 true ; his feet are swift in the war path ; many scalps 
 dangle at his belt, though he is small in years. Never 
 has the liver of the Eagle turned soft in danger; 
 never has foe seen his back; the bear and the 
 panther have fled from his knife this his people 
 knew. But now his people, the people of his father 
 and his father 's father, have turned their faces from 
 him. Now, in the setting of a sun, their fingers have 
 been crooked against him. He goes from the land 
 of his people, from before the faces of his brother, 
 to make his bed with the wolves and to lie in the 
 caves of the hills. But before he goes, let his 
 brothers listen to what he tells them. 
 
 "For the Law of the Blood went he forth to the 
 land of the Ihoways, singing his death song. His 
 brother had slain ; his brother could not go to fulfil 
 the law between our people and the people of the 
 Ihoways that says 'blood of the blood for blood.*
 
 Lovelight 41 
 
 The White Eagle went that the Law of the Blood 
 should be fulfilled ; that the word of the Sauk should 
 not stand as naught in the ears of the Ihoways. 
 
 "He came to their village with the young men 
 who went forth with him. Singing his death song he 
 went among the Ihoways. Singing his death song he 
 held out his hands, making the sign of the Law of the 
 Blood. The young men who were with him, singing 
 no song, turned their backs and went again to their 
 people. White Eagle, singing his song, was among 
 the Ihoways. 
 
 ' ' They bound him to a stake. They built a fire at 
 his feet. They shouted about him with spears and 
 hatchets when the fire burned. The White Eagle 
 made no cry. On his lips were the words of his death 
 song, raised to the Great Spirit; in his heart was 
 gladness, for he was fulfilling the law. The fire 
 burned his feet; look, you may see" the lower 
 part of his limbs were seared and sore. * ' They struck 
 him with their spears ; look, you may see" he laid 
 open his shirt of doeskin; there were red wounds 
 upon his breast and shoulders. "They danced the 
 dance of death about him. He made no cry ; for was 
 he not a Sauk, fulfilling the word of the Sacs? 
 
 "The fire burned. The spears struck him. His 
 strength went away. He hung limp in the cords that 
 bound him. His voice was raised in the song of 
 death. His eyes gazed into their eyes ; for the White 
 Eagle is a Sauk, and knows how a Sauk should die. 
 At the last, when death was upon him, the braves of
 
 42 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 the Ihoways raised a mighty shout. 'He is too brave 
 to die!' they cried. 'It was his brother who slew. 
 The law is fulfilled!' 
 
 ' 'They stamped out the fires that burned him. 
 They threw down the spears that made him bleed. 
 They unbound the thongs of deer skin. With much 
 shouting they led him to the wigwam of the chief of 
 the village. For a day they made honor to him, hail 
 ing him, dancing and singing before the door of the 
 wigwam ; the squaw of the chief healed his wounds. 
 When they were healed, they led him forth and bade 
 him go to the village of his people with honor upon 
 him ; a score of their young men went with him even 
 to the Father of Waters. 
 
 "He came again among his people with a glad 
 heart, for life is sweet to him. The eyes of the chief 
 fell aslant upon him; the eyes of old warriors shut 
 upon him ; the young men made a mock of him ; chil 
 dren of squaws howled at his heels ; young maidens 
 turned their faces; his brother reviled him; his 
 mother moaned that he had come back. He who had 
 been brave among them was treated as a coward. 
 He who was the son of a chief was made a mock of 
 by children of young squaws. His people turned 
 against him ; they believed his liver was soft in the 
 face of death ; that he had fled from the Ihoways and 
 the Law of Blood. 
 
 "Now the White Eagle goes forth from the home 
 of his fathers ; from the village of the Sacs and the 
 Foxes, his brothers. His lodge shall be the oak tree
 
 Lovelight 43 
 
 in the forest; the elm and the maple shall be his 
 wigwam. The squirrel and the thrush will be his 
 companions ; with the squirrel shall he eat nuts from 
 the tall trees; his voice shall be raised to the sun 
 with the voice of the thrush. The home of his people 
 shall know him no more ; for his people have turned 
 away their eyes in the hour of his honor. They did 
 not know. Now they have heard. The White Eagle 
 will go." 
 
 Passionately he sang his song to them. The war 
 riors stood in silence, listening. The women pressed 
 behind them to hear, hushing their babes. His voice 
 intoning his story was the only sound, save the 
 rustling of the distant waters of the Father of 
 Waters and the call of the cat-bird upon the Tower. 
 
 As he proceeded, the eyes of the braves kindled 
 with interest; they lighted with the excitement of 
 listening to a tale of bravery. The women whispered 
 softly and drew closer to one another, dreaming 
 dreams for the babes that were on their arms. Apart 
 from them, in the solitude she had sought, half 
 hidden behind the drooping branches of a maple, a 
 beautiful Indian maiden looked on and listened, with 
 a heart that beat like the wings of a bird flying to its 
 mate. Her eyes were like stars reflected in the bosom 
 of a deep and tranquil sea. 
 
 As his voice died into stillness a mighty acclaim 
 went up from the assembled braves. With shouts 
 that shook the Tower they closed about him ; for the 
 White Eagle had ever been dear to the hearts of his
 
 44 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 people ; their joy was great in his tale. Among them 
 pressed the Black Hawk. His eyes snapped with 
 happiness. He laid hand upon the shoulder of the 
 White Eagle, who still chanted his farewell song, 
 returning the acclamations of his brothers with 
 haughty eye. 
 
 "The White Eagle will stay with his people," 
 said Black Hawk. "He will have much honor; he 
 will be made a chief among them ; for the bravery of 
 the White Eagle is the bravery of the Sauk; his 
 honor will be high among his people; love will be 
 his in the hearts of the Sacs and their brothers the 
 Foxes." 
 
 A great shout burst forth at the words of the 
 chief. The Eagle looked upon faces that glowed with 
 love for him ; into eyes that gleamed their pride in a 
 Sauk brave. He looked upon the countenances of 
 women, turned to him in wide-eyed admiration. He 
 looked upon the face of an Indian maiden of sur 
 passing loveliness, all alight with adoration, in 
 among the leaves of a drooping maple. 
 
 "The White Eagle will stay," he said, his eyes 
 floating as they gazed among the leaves of the 
 drooping maple. 
 
 He hastened to the lodge of Light Foot, his 
 mother, to tell her. He found her sitting on the 
 floor of her lodge, casting dust upon her locks. In 
 a corner, glaring spitefully, with eyes that burned 
 with firewater, lay Half Ear in a huddled heap. 
 
 "Ah, who hath taught my son, the White Eagle,
 
 Lovelight 45 
 
 to lie!" moaned the woman. "Who hath taught the 
 White Eagle his lies!" 
 
 He saluted her. She made no response, save to 
 repeat in louder voice, ' ' Who hath taught the White 
 Eagle his lies!" 
 
 The young brave turned a pitying look from her 
 to the one who lay groveling in drink in the corner 
 of the lodge, and left to join the young men in their 
 games. But his heart was not in them; his heart 
 was in among the leaves of the drooping maple, 
 dwelling on the vision of the face he had seen there, 
 aglow with a light which set him afire. Weary were 
 the games; heavy were the hours until the night; 
 eager was his soul for the twilight. 
 
 For this was the eve of the Crane Dance; the 
 night of wooing among the Sacs ; the night when the 
 young braves sought out their well beloved and 
 made the test of fire. On this night he might enter 
 her lodge without hindrance from her father's spear. 
 He might kneel where she slept and place the light 
 at her side. If the light burned on, she loved him 
 not ; if that she breathed upon the light and it flut 
 tered out, it was that she loved him; and on the 
 morrow he might come to the door of her father's 
 lodge with his love song, and she would come forth 
 to him, to be his bride in the Crane Dance. Thence 
 forth they would be wed. Such was the custom 
 among them from the time when they dwelt by the 
 frozen river of the North, before the Iroquois drove 
 them forth.
 
 46 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 It was dusk. Many lights gleamed and flickered 
 through the village. A hush was upon the lodges 
 and in the streets. One could almost hear the faint 
 rush of the flames as they climbed from the tiny 
 torches into the still night air. 
 
 A rustling at the door of the lodge of Light Foot ! 
 A light breaking into the dusk that was about the 
 lodge ! A tall, graceful figure poised for an instant 
 before the door, till the light should burn steadily and 
 surely ! It was the White Eagle. 
 
 With eager step he pressed along the open way. 
 Other lights he passed, but paid no heed. It was the 
 solemn pretense among them all lovers, loved ones, 
 and those who dwelt in the lodges with the beloved 
 to pay no heed. 
 
 Swiftly he stole toward the lodge of Black Hawk 
 at the end of the village, toward the lodge of Feather 
 Heart. Soft footsteps were about him; tiny blurs 
 of light melted the dusk. He paid no heed. 
 
 His shadow danced off into the darkness, pro 
 jected by the flickering light he carried. So his heart 
 danced as he hastened toward the lodge of Feather 
 Heart. 
 
 He was before the door. He stopped. He hesi 
 tated. The courage of the Sauk was within him; 
 but he paused. 
 
 His hand was upon the mat of rushes that hung 
 in the doorway. He raised it. He entered. His 
 light glowed within the lodge of the Black Hawk; 
 the lodge of Feather Heart.
 
 Lovelight 47 
 
 He passed among the sleepers. No eyelid was 
 raised. That had been their pretense, from the time 
 their fathers had dwelt by the frozen banks of the 
 Northern river. 
 
 Past the sleeping form of the chief he went. 
 Past the members of his household, stopping and 
 stooping to search among them as he went. Past 
 them all to where Feather Heart lay. 
 
 Her head was pillowed upon her arm; her soft 
 and slender arm. Her black hair fell across it, and 
 across her throat ; her throat like the leaf of a wild 
 rose, new blown. Her long lashes lay along her 
 cheeks; her cheeks with a glow of warmth beneath 
 the dusk. She breathed rapidly for one who slept! 
 Perchance she dreamed! 
 
 He reached toward her. He set the light close 
 to her face. Never before had the hand of the Eagle 
 trembled in deed that he did. 
 
 " Lovelight hath lighted me to thy side," he 
 whispered. "I bring you the flame of love on the 
 end of a torch, daughter of a chief. Open thy lips 
 and breath it into thy heart!" 
 
 She opened her eyes. The Light of Love was dim 
 beside the light within them. She rested them upon 
 the countenance of the White Eagle. Slowly, with 
 glances clinging to him, she closed her lids. Her lips 
 parted. She breathed upon the light. It flickered 
 for a space, leaped, and went out. 
 
 With a heart that bounded within him, the White 
 Eagle made his way from the lodge of Feather 
 Heart.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 THE MAN WITH HAIR OF BRONZE 
 
 THE chant to dawn floated weird and mystic 
 across the flood of the Father of Waters from 
 the village of Saukenuk. It was the morning of the 
 Crane Dance; the morning of the day when the 
 young men and the maidens wed among the Sacs. 
 With the first pink of sunlight the lovers were 
 already astir. They gathered on the green between 
 the lodges, chanting their love songs soft and low 
 to their beloved, still asleep in the lodges of their 
 fathers. 
 
 Smoke came from the houses of the village, curl 
 ing faintly blue against the still fainter blue of the 
 early June sky. The birds awoke in the trees; the 
 thrush made melody upon the hill; the cat-bird, 
 ceasing her mournful plaint, rejoiced in the thicket. 
 The river in its rocky bed made them accompani 
 ment. The sun rose singing over the northern spur 
 of the Watchtower. The day of the Dance of the 
 Crane was at hand. 
 
 Swiftly, with flute in hand, the young braves 
 sped whither their hearts leaped before them. Each 
 at the door of his beloved made soft music on his 
 flute; the music of the love song of the Sacs. The 
 
 48
 
 The Man With Hair of Bronze 49 
 
 mingled strain from a hundred lodges lifted through 
 the soft morning air into the blue sky. 
 
 Pretty was it to see how the father of the be 
 loved, a grizzled warrior, came forth from his lodge 
 with a show of seeing who it was that made music at 
 the door, and why; pretty to see how the mother 
 came behind him, pressing close to learn. Pleasant 
 was it to hear the notes of the love song turn into 
 discord when they came to the door; pleasant to 
 hear the love song spring again from the flute when 
 the mat in the doorway had fallen behind their 
 retreating figures. 
 
 Beautiful was it to behold the maiden, coming at 
 last to the door, blushing like the morning, with eyes 
 that dared not meet her lover's-; with hand that 
 reached trembling into his to be led forth from her 
 father's lodge. Beautiful to watch them hastening 
 to the green that ran between the houses, hand in 
 hand, close, silent, glowing. 
 
 From a hundred lodges they came to join in the 
 dance. In the whole village not a face was to be seen 
 save the faces of the lovers. In the whole village 
 the doors of the lodges were closed. Those neither 
 lovers nor beloved might not fare forth this morn. 
 So had it been since the time when their fathers' 
 fathers had dwelt along the frozen river of the 
 North, before the Iroquois drove them forth. 
 
 The White Eagle, in a dress of deerskin, em 
 broidered with quill and bead, the feathers of the 
 eagle in his hair, stood at the door of the lodge of
 
 50 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 the chieftain; at the door of the lodge of Feather 
 Heart, daughter of a chief. On his flute he played 
 the love song, or sang with his lips to his beloved. 
 
 "Daughter of morning, thy lover awaits thee; 
 Child of a chieftain, come forth from the lodge ! 
 Cheeks like the wild rose that blows in the summer, 
 
 Teeth like the snowflake and throat like the swan, 
 Eyes like the stars in the stark nights of winter, 
 
 Hair like the midnight and smile like the dawn ! 
 Come ! For thy beauty shall conquer the morning ! 
 Come ! 'Tis the day of the Dance of the Crane ! 
 
 "Daughter of morning, thy lover awaits thee ! 
 Son of a chieftain, come forth to his lodge! 
 Mighty in hunting and swift in the war-path, 
 
 Keen is his hatchet and stalwart his bow; 
 Flesh of the deer and the quail will he bring thee, 
 
 Skin of the young of the beaver and doe. 
 Come ! For his lodge and his right arm will shelter ! 
 Come! 'Tis the day of the Dance of the Crane!" 
 
 A stirring of the mat that hung in the door of 
 her father's lodge, and it was lifted aside! With 
 downcast eyes, all alight with love; with lips that 
 trembled into a smile, like the new leaves of the rose 
 when the breezes of June kiss them, she stood before 
 him. Without a word, they passed hand in hand to 
 the green in the center of the village ; to the Dance 
 of the Crane, with no eye upon them ; for that was 
 the sacred custom of the Sacs from the first time 
 whence their legends sprung.
 
 The Man With Hair of Bronze 51 
 
 One eye there was that saw them; the glinting, 
 bloodshot eye of Half Ear. He was returning to the 
 village from his friends the whites, drunken and 
 shattered. He stood in the eastern gate as they 
 passed through the village. He looked upon them 
 with evil in his face as they went hand in hand. 
 Without entering the gate, he turned and went back 
 the way he had corne, as swiftly as he could, for the 
 liquor gripped his legs. 
 
 It was night before he returned again to the 
 lodge of his mother, where Light Foot sat alone in 
 the darkness, repining for the honor that had passed 
 over the head of her beloved son to rest upon him 
 of the hollow heart, the teller of lies. The White 
 Eagle had gone to another lodge with his bride, the 
 daughter of a chieftain. 
 
 From that day forth Half Ear slunk among his 
 people, more and more like a cur that was whipped. 
 He went no more among the whites, but clung to the 
 door of his mother's lodge, save when he wandered 
 through the village behind the houses to the gate 
 that led to the river, and so out to the last point 
 of land, to sit between the two rivers with gaze 
 fixed upon the sweeping expanse of waters swinging 
 between their banks below. 
 
 It was mid-June. The women had gone to the 
 planting, hoeing their corn in the fields about the 
 village. The young men were hunting in the forests ; 
 the old men sat about on the grass beneath the trees, 
 smoking their pipes, telling of deeds that had been
 
 52 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 done in the days that were past. The Eagle had 
 gone forth with the young men to the hunt. Feather 
 Heart awaited his return on the top of the Watch- 
 tower; for the daughter of the chief went not into 
 the fields to hoe. 
 
 Half Ear, sitting on the last point of land with 
 eyes fixed down the river, arose hastily and stole 
 toward the village with averted look, like one who 
 had done murder. At the gate he paused to look 
 behind him. A thin trace of yellow smoke, ascend 
 ing from beyond the last point of land where it 
 could be seen, arose across the fair blue of the sky. 
 Peering cautiously into the village to make sure he 
 had not been seen, he turned from the gate and crept 
 close behind the palisade of brush to the point near 
 est the trail to the Tower. From thence he made 
 haste until he vanished within the arch of foliage 
 that marked the foot of the trail. 
 
 Scarcely had he disappeared from sight before a 
 sound came over the swinging current of the Father 
 of Waters that was a sound of terror to the ears of 
 those in the village. It was the sound of something 
 coughing and sputtering through the water beyond 
 the bend, like a great monster that swam, choking as 
 it swam. The breath of the monster lay yellow and 
 thick across the sky. 
 
 Warriors flocked to the lodge of Black Hawk, 
 their chief. With gun and spear in hand, with 
 hatchet and knife in belt, with horn and pouch slung 
 on their shoulders they came, awaiting his command.
 
 The Man With Hair of Bronze 53 
 
 The women, working in the fields, arose and hurried 
 into the village, hearing the sound and seeing the 
 yellow breath across the sky ; children in their play 
 hushed and drew near the lodges of their mothers. 
 A call went forth to the young men who had gone to 
 the hunting. Dread was in the heart of all; of all 
 save the Black Hawk. 
 
 With his warriors pressing about, he went to the 
 gate that led to the water, with eyes fixed upon the 
 whirling expanse of river below. Something huge 
 and black; something that breathed yellow flames 
 with a horrid hissing noise, something that groaned 
 and moaned, came into view about the bend in the 
 river. A low cry of terror went up from the lodges 
 where the women- cowered. The men drew nearer 
 their chief, wide-eyed, waiting. 
 
 1 ' 'Tis the smoke canoe of the whites, ' ' quoth the 
 Hawk. * ' See ! It bears the warriors of the Great 
 Father ! The sun flashes from their guns. They go 
 to the White Beaver in his fort above. ' ' 
 
 As it drew nearer, slowly urging through the 
 pressing waters, those who watched could see the 
 soldiers crowding about the rail of the steamer. 
 Their eyes were fixed on the shore, where the braves 
 of the Sacs and the Foxes stood grouped. The sun 
 sparkled among their guns. 
 
 Slowly the smoke canoe came closer. The braves 
 gathered about their chief looked into his face for 
 sign of command, with their hands stiffening about 
 their guns and their spears. The steamer drew
 
 54 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 abreast the point, laying its course in shore. The 
 hissing and the groaning ceased. The vessel stopped. 
 Black Hawk answered the nmrnmrings of his braves 
 with a look of stern command. 
 
 A flag of truce fluttered from the gaff of the 
 steamboat. Black Hawk made answer with a sign 
 of peace. The water about the craft swarmed with 
 small boats, hastily put over. They were filled with 
 soldiers. They came to the point of land. The sol 
 diers debarked, and marched toward the gate where 
 the chief stood among his warriors. "With firm eye 
 he bade his braves withhold. 
 
 At the head marched one splendid in blue coat 
 with yellow buttons, and with crusted yellow upon 
 his shoulders. At the side of him marched Keokuk, 
 a chief of the Sacs, who, for the sake of peace to his 
 people, had led them across the Father of Waters at 
 the word of the Great Father. 
 
 "General Gaines, a chief of the Great Father, 
 has come to the Black Hawk, to tell him that the 
 Great Father bids him depart to the land beyond the 
 Father of Waters," said the Indian, in the Sauk 
 tongue, acting as interpreter; for the Hawk was 
 ignorant of English. "It were wise for the Hawk 
 to obey the wish of the Great Father." 
 
 Black Hawk listened, a look of scorn on his sharp 
 features. When the other was done, he made a sign 
 that they should follow, and entered his lodge. Keo 
 kuk, General Gaines, officers who were with him ; 
 braves high in the councils of the Sacs, made solemn
 
 The Man With Hair of Bronze 55 
 
 and silent procession behind him. Their voices 
 sounded through the length and breadth of the 
 village. 
 
 The soldiers, left without the building, loitered 
 about the village whither their curiosity and courage 
 led them, staring at the Indians and poking and pry 
 ing into the lodges. They were regulars and militia, 
 hastily gathered on a sudden alarm. They were ill- 
 equipped, the militia were undisciplined and inex 
 perienced ; but they were in sufficient force to enable 
 their commander to do the will of the Great Father 
 with the Indians. 
 
 Among them was a young man of fair skin which 
 the winds and sun could not darken. His eyes were 
 brown, soft and warm ; his hair, straying across his 
 pale brow, was the color of bronze ; his lips were full, 
 his chin firm, his jaws well set. Silent, watchful, he 
 looked with a pity in his eye upon the women and 
 children huddled in dumb terror; upon the groups 
 of warriors, sullen and stolid. 
 
 Near him was a short, round man with a short, 
 round head fitting close to his body ; with prominent 
 blue eyes set at a distance apart in a face of fiery 
 red; short, round, red hands on short, round arms. 
 He passed about among the Indians restlessly; his 
 glances searched their faces with impatient eager 
 ness. He peered into the distant parts of the village, 
 cursing with disappointment when he failed to see 
 what he sought. 
 
 As he looked, there came a low cry from among
 
 56 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 the women crouching close by. One of them, a 
 comely young squaw with a frank face and gentle 
 eye, came to him. In her arms was a babe of less 
 than a year. The skin of the infant was dark, but 
 not so dark as the skin of the woman, its mother. 
 She held it forth to the white man. Her gentle eyes 
 appealed wistfully to him. She spoke to him, softly, 
 in the Sauk tongue. The man, startled to see her, 
 answered her harshly in her own language. It was 
 not she whom he sought ! 
 
 She spoke again. There was hungry pleading in 
 her tone. The man replied savagely, in a burst of 
 anger. He raised his arm to strike her. 
 
 In the instant that he did, with the swift grace 
 of a panther, he of the bronze hair laid hand on the 
 upraised arm. 
 
 "Frake, what are you doing!" he said. His 
 voice was calm and contained. 
 
 The other turned upon him. 
 
 "I don't know that it is any of your business!" 
 he growled. 
 
 "We can discuss that afterward, if you like," 
 returned the one of the brown eyes and well set 
 jaws. "For the present, I'll make it my affair. 
 Don't strike that woman!" 
 
 The softness went out of the brown eyes as he 
 said it; his voice, still calm and contained, was 
 raised a shade. The one whom he had called Frake 
 glared at him, his blue eyes standing farther from 
 his head.
 
 The Man With Hair of Bronze 57 
 
 "Yes! You're the feller that's been preachin' 
 all the way about givin' the Indian his rights!" he 
 sneered. "You're the feller that tried to block the 
 expedition in the first place, ain't you? You seem 
 to care a pile for these dirty redskins, you do ! How 
 long have you been protector of the Indians ? Hey?' ' 
 
 A knot of militia had gathered about the center 
 of disturbance; for the querulous voice of Frake 
 sounded through the village. 
 
 "Yes; you're right," returned the other, answer 
 ing the asseverations of Frake. "I am sorry for the 
 Indians. I am sorry we came here. But that has 
 nothing to do with her." He inclined his head to 
 where the squaw stood, shrinking and apprehensive. 
 She seemed to fear lest harm should come to the 
 white man who would have struck her which is the 
 way of woman the world over. "She was a woman 
 before she was an Indian!" 
 
 Frake 's face curled into a low leer. He looked 
 about at the soldiers who had gathered, winking at 
 them. 
 
 "Oh, that's it, is it?" he sneered, with obvious 
 significance, and walked away, leaving the soldiers 
 chuckling and grinning at his repartee. 
 
 The other paid no heed to the implied insult, 
 beyond a contemptuous glance at the snickering 
 yokels surrounding him. His attention was fixed on 
 the man who had sought to quarrel with him. He 
 watched him closely, with shrewd eye. Watching 
 him, he saw him stop abruptly in the search he was
 
 58 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 surreptitiously making among the Indians, and 
 fasten his gaze upon the eastern gate of the village. 
 Standing in the gate he saw an Indian; a sinister, 
 forbidding Indian, with thin, sharp, crooked face; 
 with eyes close together, which seemed to look at 
 divergent objects ; with little ears, of which one was 
 half cut away. 
 
 He saw Frake hasten toward this Indian stand 
 ing in the gate, stealing behind intervening houses 
 to make his progress as inconspicuous as possible. 
 He saw him come to the side of the Indian and speak 
 with him; their heads close together, their eyes 
 avoiding each other's face. Watching still, he saw 
 them pass from the gate across an intervening open 
 space toward a high hill to the eastward. In the 
 foliage at the base of the hill was an archway of 
 limbs and leaves. Beneath it was the trail. The 
 man, watching, saw them disappear in the trail 
 through the archway. 
 
 As he was about to withdraw his gaze, wonder 
 ing whether it might not be best to follow, he saw 
 another figure creep swiftly across the open space 
 toward the hill, and disappear within the archway; 
 the figure of the woman with the babe. Perplexed, 
 he was consulting with himself to determine what 
 he ought to do, when a man at his elbow spoke 
 to him. 
 
 "Who's your friend?" asked the man. He 
 turned. It was William Hall, one of the militia men. 
 His face was twisted into a facetious grin.
 
 The Man With Hair of Bronze 59 
 
 "That is Isaac Frake, Hall," returned the one 
 addressed, still revolving in his mind the problem 
 that had presented itself. "I thought you knew him. 
 I have seen you talking with him. He is a settler 
 hereabouts. It was he who brought in the alarm and 
 prevailed upon General Gaines to come here. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, I don't mean him!" chortled the militia 
 man. * * I mean your friend, the squaw ! ' ' 
 
 The man with the bronze hair ignored him. "Wil 
 liam Hall, not used to finesse in his communica 
 tions with his fellows, mistook the dignified rebuke 
 for an indication of embarrassment and a confused 
 conscience. 
 
 * * You seem to be mighty fond of the Indians I ' ' 
 he ventured, slyly grinning behind his hand. 
 
 * * I am sorry for them, ' ' returned the other, pre 
 occupied. 
 
 "Yes ; especially for the women!" 
 
 The man of the bronze hair, thinking of what he 
 had seen, made no response. Hall, chuckling com 
 placently over his supposed success, essayed again. 
 
 "Seen a good deal of 'em, hain't yer!" he asked. 
 
 "Enough to have charity for them." He paid 
 little heed to the bumpkin ; he was not aware of the 
 point of the other's badgering. 
 
 " 'Specially for the women?" Hall was making 
 the most of it. 
 
 There was no response. 
 
 "Been here long?" went on Hall, with an elabo-
 
 60 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 rate project of bringing the other to ultimate con 
 fusion. 
 
 "I have been connected with the Indian agency 
 headquarters at Jefferson Barracks for some 
 months, Hall, ' ' returned his unconscious victim. 
 
 What barbed point William Hall sought to im 
 pale the man upon, and what his success would have 
 been, can never be determined, for before he could 
 frame the next question in the projected series the 
 object of his pungent designs departed from his side 
 with startling abruptness, and was speeding toward 
 the arched trail, where he presently disappeared. 
 
 The man of the bronze hair had made up his 
 mind. Whatever lay behind the journey of Frake to 
 the hill, no harm could come from his following, and 
 he might do much in the way of good. He grew 
 anxious at the thought of what might befall the 
 Indian if she encountered the brute along in the hill ; 
 with the army behind him he would hesitate at little. 
 He was convinced that the woman had gone to seek 
 out the man. 
 
 Thinking these things, he hurried up the trail. 
 Hastening, he heard someone coming swiftly toward 
 him with soft step. He turned a corner of the hill. 
 In the trail before him was the Indian woman. Her 
 face was eager and apprehensive. At sight of the 
 man, she gave a little cry of relief. 
 
 "Raven Hair came to seek you," she said, in 
 broken English. "The pale face is the friend of 
 Eaven Hair. Will he come? There is need for him.
 
 The Man With Hair of Bronze 61 
 
 The heart of the woman who loves is wise; she 
 knows there is need for him!" 
 
 Impressed by the earnestness of the woman's 
 manner and already wrought upon by his own 
 thoughts, the man bade her proceed. She made no 
 delay. Turning in the trail, she hastened upward. 
 He followed, impatient of its windings, striving to 
 peer through the foliage to penetrate the future. 
 
 In their ascent they approached a level place on 
 a shoulder of the hill where the thicket receded from 
 the trail, leaving an opening between the oaks. As 
 they came close to it the woman, making a sign for 
 silence, went forward and peered through the edge 
 of the thicket along the trail. Making another sign, 
 she glided into the open space. 
 
 In the center of it, sitting on the ground, leaning 
 against a tree, was an Indian ; a pitiful, craven sav 
 age. In his lap was a bottle. The Indian was croon 
 ing to the bottle drunkenly. Half of his right ear 
 was gone. It was the Indian whom the white man 
 had seen go with Frake. Eaven Hair, the squaw 
 with the papoose, came behind him like a shadow 
 and placed a hand upon his drooping shoulder. 
 
 "Half Ear will stay with Eaven Hair," she said, 
 as he struggled to rise to his feet, surprised and 
 confounded. "The pale face would walk upon the 
 hill." 
 
 She directed the white man with a nod to the 
 point where the trail left the opening. Making sure 
 that the woman would be able to detain the wretched
 
 62 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 savage by sheer moral strength, he hastened up 
 the trail. 
 
 He was not long in coming to where the crest of 
 the hill broke rough against the sky. As he came 
 near the top, he heard voices; a man's voice, harsh 
 and angry, and another, that of a woman, clear as a 
 bugle, defiant, thrilling. The one he recognized as 
 that of Frake. The other he had never heard. 
 
 The sound of them sent him running up the trail, 
 which was now more gradual. The thicket opened 
 again, at the very summit. In the center of the 
 space, his back toward him, was Frake. Confront 
 ing him, with flashing eye and quivering nostril; 
 slight, beautiful, sinuous, bristling; a panther at 
 bay; an incensed goddess of the woods, was an 
 Indian maiden of a loveliness which he had never 
 before seen in maiden save only once. 
 
 They spoke in the Sauk tongue. He could not 
 understand. From their tone and their manner he 
 knew that the man threatened; that the maiden 
 defied him. He kept closer, looking the while to the 
 knife in his belt. The Indian saw him. She under 
 stood, and made no sign. The voice of the man rose 
 louder. The eyes of the maiden were pits of fire. 
 
 "Curse your pretty hide, Feather Heart!" cried 
 the man, in English, which she could not understand. 
 "If you won't come one way you will another!" 
 
 He had lost all restraint. His voice was a hoarse 
 roar. He grasped the girl by the waist. He placed
 
 The Man With Hair of Bronze 63 
 
 one thick hand over her mouth to prevent an outcry. 
 She struggled to no purpose. 
 
 The man with hair of bronze leaped upon the 
 broad back of the other. With one motion he tore 
 the hand of Frake from the waist of the maiden; 
 with another he flung him to the ground; with 
 another was upon him, pinioning him, face in the 
 dust. 
 
 " Frake,'* he said, deliberately, "in Virginia, 
 where I came from, they would hang a man for this. 
 Things seem to be different out this way. ' ' 
 
 The man on the ground, wriggling and cursing, 
 tried to release himself. 
 
 "Now, don't squirm, Frake; I don't want to be 
 severe with you," counseled the one who held him. 
 At the words he pressed the point of his knife per 
 suasively against the red neck of the man. Cursing 
 still and muttering threats, Frake subsided, and was 
 permitted to arise. 
 
 Gaming his feet, he looked toward the Indian 
 girl, abashed and discomfited. Glancing at her, 
 the prominent eyes swelled in his head, his face 
 blanched, his jaw dropped into its creases of fat, his 
 knees shook. He groaned as though he saw a ghost. 
 The other, whose eyes had not left him for fear of 
 treachery, glanced to see what was the cause of 
 his terror. 
 
 Standing at the side of the girl, his arm about 
 her, was a young Indian brave, tall, lithe, alert, 
 enraged, physically beautiful. His eyes were
 
 64 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 alternately upon one pale face and the other. The 
 Indian girl, clinging to him, whispered in his ear. 
 In an instant the Indian leaped upon Frake with a 
 yell of rage. One hand gripped the great red throat. 
 The other brandished a knife. 
 
 Before he could strike, he of the bronze hair was 
 between them. One hand he raised high in the air, 
 fingers extended, palm forward, making a sign of 
 peace. With the other he grasped the brawny wrist 
 of the savage with a grip that partially loosened his 
 hold upon the knife. Fixing the Indian with earnest 
 eyes, he shook his head. Frake, abandoning himself 
 to fate and fear, made no sound or sign. 
 
 The Indian, with flashing eye and dilating nostril, 
 gazed savagely at the one who interfered. The 
 brown eyes of the white man, calm, intense, com 
 manding, returned the look. The slight hand of 
 Feather Heart, stealing along the naked arm of the 
 warrior to the hand that held the knife, restrained 
 him. Without relinquishing his hold upon the neck 
 of Frake, he lowered his hand and sheathed his 
 knife. 
 
 The white, by signs, led him to the hill over 
 looking the town of Saukenuk, still holding Frake by 
 the throat, and showed him the soldiers there. Look 
 ing at Frake and shaking his head once more with 
 the gesture and expression of one who gives advice, 
 he left the three at the top of the hill. It was no 
 longer his affair. The hand of the Indian was still 
 upon the throat of the pale face.
 
 The Man With Hair of Bronze 65 
 
 William Hall, idling among the Indians in the 
 village of Saukenuk while the chiefs of the whites 
 and the Sacs held council, in the course of time saw 
 two figures emerge from the arch of foliage that 
 marked the trail to the high hill on the eastern side 
 of the village. One of them was the Indian woman 
 with the baby whose skin was paler than the skin of 
 its mother. The other was the man from Virginia. 
 Seeing them, and being a man of circumscribed dis 
 cernment, William Hall turned on his heel with a 
 sagacious chuckle and continued to idle among the 
 Indians while the council went forward. 
 
 On the morning of the next day Black Hawk took 
 his people with him and departed in many canoes 
 across the waters of the Father of Waters. On the 
 evening of the next day the sun, sinking red into the 
 west, looked aslant upon red, smouldering heaps of 
 ruins where had stood the city of the Sacs ; the grey 
 moon, arising, looked down upon grey ashes over 
 which smoke ghosts flitted mournfully through the 
 deserted night. 
 
 The Great Father had had his will with the 
 Indian !
 
 CHAPTER V 
 THE FRONTIER CLERK 
 
 DENTON OFFUTT was as good as his word. 
 He set up a store in New Salem, as he said he 
 would on the morning when his tall and angular 
 boatman worked his flat-boat over Cameron's dam, 
 and placed the same tall and angular boatman in the 
 store as clerk. 
 
 It was not long until Abraham Lincoln was one 
 of the community. It was not long until he was 
 much more than the least one of the little 'settlement 
 whither he had drifted. Genial, mild, even tem 
 pered, huge of hand and great of heart, with a brain 
 that had as many droll angles as his frame and fea 
 tures, he grew apace into the affections and esteem 
 of the good people of New Salem. 
 
 They were glad when he was with them. They 
 liked to go to Offutt's store to hear him discuss the 
 events of the day with the wiseacres of the town. 
 They enjoyed his pungent comments. They appre 
 ciated his hard sense. They delighted in his whim 
 sical humor. They rehearsed and repeated the 
 stories he told from behind the counter or over the 
 supper table at Eutledge's Inn, where he boarded, 
 until his fame had gone abroad through the country. 
 
 If Abe Lincoln knew the popularity that was 
 
 66
 
 The Frontier Clerk 67 
 
 come upon him, he gave no indication of it. Modest, 
 pleasant to all, he held his head straight and his 
 heart clear through the little attentions frankly and 
 ingenuously thrust upon him by his new friends. All 
 who came shared in his sentiment toward his fel 
 lows, which was large and comprehensive. Always 
 was he kind and generous, without favor or preju 
 dice. And always there was about him the intangi 
 ble, elusive sadness which had baffled them when 
 they had seen him that first morning in the boat on 
 Cameron's dam. 
 
 It was a day in July. The little village on the 
 top of the hill by the river lay asleep in the noon 
 sun. Not a stir of life was abroad in the heat. All 
 was hushed, save the plashing of the stream where 
 it trickled over Cameron's dam, having shrunk from 
 the torrent of April. Offutt's store was deserted of 
 all excepting Abe Lincoln, who sat on the counter, 
 legs dangling like strings, reading a book. Presently 
 he closed it with a bang and put it upon the shelf. 
 Exclaiming against the heat and mopping his brow, 
 he went to the door of the tavern in search of a 
 breath of air. 
 
 A man on horseback was in front of the store. 
 The horse was drinking at the trough. The long 
 clerk glanced at the man and the horse casually. 
 The animal was a beautiful roan creature, fine of 
 limb, deep of chest, with classic head and neck ; such 
 a horse as he had seen but once. He looked at the 
 rider more attentively. The man raised his head
 
 68 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 from watching his animal drink, and looked full 
 upon the clerk. It was he who had brought the 
 auger to the stranded boat on Cameron's dam. 
 
 "Why, howdy, stranger," said Lincoln, cor 
 dially. "Traveling!" 
 
 "Hello, mariner," returned the other, recogniz 
 ing the angular clerk at once. "Ashore at last, are 
 you?" 
 
 There was a good-natured raillery in the tone, 
 which Lincoln caught at once. 
 
 "Now, see here, stranger," he returned, with 
 mock severity, "I can't allow any allusions to my 
 seamanship. It wasn't my fault in the least that 
 we got aground on that dam. The trouble was with 
 the dam. It stuck too far up into the water." 
 
 The man on the horse, laughing, inquired if he 
 could bait his animal there; "Powhatan," he called 
 him. He was told that he could. He dismounted, 
 led the horse into the shade of a tree, removed the 
 saddle, rubbed the wet back, felt of its withers to 
 make sure it was not too warm to be fed, gave it 
 grain, and passed into the store. Lincoln, watch 
 ing his care of the animal with an approving eye, 
 passed in behind him. 
 
 "I am going to eat some bread and cheese 
 myself, if you can furnish me with it," said the 
 young man. 
 
 The clerk could, and did, and the man sat down 
 to eat by the door, where any breath of air that 
 was stirring might be expected to reach him.
 
 The Frontier Clerk 69 
 
 "What news, stranger?" inquired the elongated 
 clerk, at length, contemplating him as he ate the 
 cheese and bread. 
 
 "My name is Mortimer Randolph, " suggested 
 the stranger, with unaffected courtesy. Lincoln 
 made himself known, and they nodded on the new 
 basis. 
 
 "I suppose you have heard accounts of the 
 expulsion of Black Hawk from his village on the 
 Rock River?" ventured the traveler. 
 
 "Some," assented the clerk, laconically. 
 
 "I have recently come from Jefferson Bar 
 racks," continued Randolph. "I was informed 
 there that the squatters, for whose benefit the Indi 
 ans were expelled, were able to buy only one sec 
 tion of land between them when it was put on sale." 
 
 Lincoln, in sudden agitation, came close to the 
 stranger. 
 
 "I don't know how you feel about it," he said, 
 with some emotion, "but I think they used the old 
 man badly. The time will come when Illinois will 
 be ashamed of her dealings with Black Hawk!" 
 
 "The time cannot come too soon for the fair 
 name of your State," observed the other, in reply. 
 
 Lincoln, still wrought up, paced the puncheon 
 floor of the store, among the barrels and boxes. 
 As he walked his feet struck flat and firm, heel and 
 toe at the same time. 
 
 "The oppression of a weak people by a strong 
 is a thing abhorrent to my soul," he went on, half
 
 70 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 forgetting the presence of the stranger in an obses 
 sion of feeling. "I was in New Orleans this spring. 
 I saw negroes in chains there, beaten and scourged. 
 I saw a girl sold on the block. The bidders pinched 
 her flesh between their fingers ; the auctioneer made 
 her run up and down the room before the men who 
 were buying her! By God!" he raised his face 
 upward ; he lifted his clenched fist above him ; it was 
 more a prayer than a curse "by God! If ever I 
 get a chance to hit that thing, I '11 hit it hard ! ' ' 
 
 The man who was eating looked fixedly upon 
 him. Over Lincoln's homely, grotesque features, 
 into the eyes of sadness had come a radiance that 
 was sublime, that made him beautiful. For a space 
 he continued to pace the floor. Presently he con 
 fronted the traveler. He smiled consciously down 
 at him. 
 
 " Perhaps you don't agree with me?" he sub 
 mitted. 
 
 The other arose from his seat. He looked fully 
 into the face of the towering pioneer for a moment 
 in silence. 
 
 "I am from Virginia," he said at last. "My 
 father owned slaves." He paused. "That is why 
 I came here," he added. With that he passed from 
 the room, to attend to his horse. 
 
 As he left, some one stood aside in the doorway 
 to let him by. Absorbed, he only saw that it was 
 a woman. Without heeding who it was, he raised 
 his hat and made way, craving her pardon with a
 
 The Frontier Clerk 71 
 
 display of manners rare in those parts. The 
 woman murmured acknowledgment as he was mov 
 ing away. The sound of the voice soft, rich, melo 
 dious arrested him. He turned in some surprise 
 to hear such a one there. Turning, his eyes looked 
 into the eyes of blue that he had seen on the morn 
 ing in April when he had come that way; the eyes 
 that had followed him over the hill as he rode 
 away; the eyes that had looked at him out of his 
 dreams since that morning in spring, that had 
 peeped at him through the clouds in the sky. As 
 he gazed she passed into the store. 
 
 A group of young men stood about his horse as 
 he approached it, his mind awhirl with what he had 
 seen. They were teasing the animal; poking it in 
 the ribs, tweaking its tail, pulling its ears; seeking 
 in a variety of ways to arouse it to a demonstra 
 tion of temper. As Eandolph came among them, 
 Powhatan, whinnying softly, rubbed his nose against 
 his master's sleeve. It brought him to his first 
 realization of the presence of the others. 
 
 11 Howdy, stranger!" 
 
 One of the men, apparently the leader of them, 
 a big, rough, burly man, saluted him. "Fine ani 
 mal you 've got there; is his tail on good and 
 tight ? " he added, giving the horse 's tail a vigorous 
 pull. 
 
 The crowd of young fellows roared at the wit 
 of their leader. The man with hair of bronze made 
 no sign of anger.
 
 72 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 "I '11 have to ask you not to abuse the horse," 
 he said to the bully, in even tone. 
 
 "You '11 have to do more than ask me, I reckon, 
 stranger," retorted the man, in a tone of rough 
 insult, and an accompanying epithet. 
 
 "Very well," rejoined the other, peacefully. 
 
 A white fist flashed across the astonished vision 
 of the spectators. A dull sound of flesh on flesh 
 came to their ears. Their leader, with a grunt, 
 sank to the ground. He gained his feet before he 
 was entirely prostrate, with a mighty oath. Another 
 fist whipped through the air. The man fell heavily 
 between the feet of the horse. The animal, nicker 
 ing nervously, laid its velvet nose on his master's 
 shoulders. 
 
 The man, extricating himself, arose once more. 
 His comrades, cursing and shouting, rushed upon 
 the Virginian, where he stood with his back toward 
 his steed. One, two, three, they fell before his fists. 
 But they were too many. By force of numbers, they 
 came inside the range of his blows. They grappled 
 him. Their hands clung to his arms ; their fists beat 
 him upon his face and body. Without a sound he 
 fought back as best he could against the hopeless 
 odds. 
 
 A low, anxious cry from the door of the store, 
 the cry of a woman, reached his ears. Making shift 
 to look through a shower of blows, where he was 
 the center of a swirling mass of men, Randolph 
 saw her in the doorway; saw the look of distress,
 
 The Frontier Clerk 73 
 
 of anxiety, in the eyes, heard the cry again from 
 the parted lips. With a burst of strength and 
 agility he wrenched from their grasps, obstructed 
 as they were in their fighting by the very numbers 
 that gave them advantage. Before they had time 
 to renew the onslaught Abe Lincoln was among 
 them, his sweeping arms flinging them back, his 
 voice raised bidding them hold off. 
 
 "Never mind these boys," he said, between 
 times, to their victim. "They are only the Clary 
 Grove boys. They are not bad fellows, stranger. 
 It's just their notion of fun. Now, boys," he con 
 tinued, addressing the others, "what 's up? What 
 has this stranger done, that you all had to pitch 
 into him like this ! ' ' 
 
 "He punched me in the face!" bellowed the 
 leader, using the vile epithet again. 
 
 "What did he do that for!" asked Lincoln, in 
 the interests of peace. 
 
 The other did not offer any explanation. 
 
 "Did you call him what you called him just 
 now?" pursued Lincoln. 
 
 The member of the gang acknowledged that he 
 had. 
 
 * ' Now, see here, Jack Armstrong, ' ' Lincoln went 
 on, taking him by the lapels of his coat good- 
 naturedly, "if you were a stranger in a place and 
 somebody called you that, what would you do?" 
 
 "Lick him, by God!" thundered Jack Arm 
 strong.
 
 74 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 "Of course you would," rejoined Lincoln; "and 
 you ought to. That 's just what he was going to 
 do when you all pitched onto him. Now let up. 
 You Ve had your fun, and the stranger has had his. 
 It 's time to quit ! ' ' 
 
 Jack Armstrong, crestfallen, muttered some 
 thing under his breath, but did not see how he could 
 escape from the logic of the tall and angular clerk. 
 The rest of the gang, growling and cursing, exhib 
 ited a lively desire to renew the battle. 
 
 "If these gentlemen can restrain their impa 
 tience and present themselves one at a time, your 
 interposition may not be necessary," observed 
 Mortimer, seeing the frame of mind in which the 
 rowdies were. 
 
 "I am sorry to say, Mr. Kandolph, that these 
 boys are not in the habit of fighting that way," 
 said Lincoln, frankly and without hesitation. ' ' Now, 
 see here, boys," he went on, turning to them, 
 "you Ve no call to make any more disturbance with 
 this stranger." 
 
 He proceeded to coax and wheedle them into a 
 disposition toward peace, with many flashes of 
 humor and fragments of quaint logic. He had suc 
 ceeded in restoring a fair degree of stability to 
 their equilibrium, and the outlook was pacific, when 
 Denton Offutt bustled up busily, with mincing 
 steps. 
 
 "What 's the matter? What 's the matter? 
 What's the matter? What's the matter?" he
 
 The Frontier Clerk 75 
 
 piped, firing off a question with each step as he 
 came. 
 
 It did not take long to make it clear to Denton 
 Offutt what was the matter. 
 
 "Abe! Abe! Abe! Abe! Lick 'em. Lick 
 'em!" cried Offutt, in explosive excitement. "It 's 
 time this tomfoolery was stopped! Boys!" He 
 shook his thin, little fists beneath the nose of the 
 biggest one of them all. "Boys! There isn 7 't a 
 man of you can wrastle Abe Lincoln, my clerk. 
 He 's the best wrastler in all Illinois, and he knows 
 more than any man in the United States ! ' ' 
 
 "I notice nobody never does nothin' but talk 
 about it," grunted the one who had started the 
 trouble. 
 
 Denton Offutt turned upon him like a hen with 
 a brood. 
 
 "You! You! You! You! Jack Armstrong!" 
 he cried, in shrill tremolo. "Why, he could wring 
 your neck for you!" 
 
 It had gone past the peacemaker. There was 
 no retreat left to honor. Armstrong was already 
 preparing for the encounter, stripping his coat, 
 rolling his sleeves, drawing in his leather belt, 
 vociferating taunts and threats the while. 
 
 "I don't like these woolings and pullings," 
 observed Abe Lincoln, making ready, "but I sup 
 pose I must make the most of it." 
 
 The gang from Clary's Grove withdrew a step, 
 leaving a space for the wrestlers. The man from
 
 76 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 Virginia, leading his horse to another tree, joined 
 Offutt at the door of the store. The young woman 
 stood within. Eandolph saw her there, pale and 
 intense. 
 
 "You will pardon me, madam," he said. "Shall 
 I ask these men to wait until you can withdraw?" 
 
 "No," replied the girl, with forced composure; 
 "if men must fight, the least women can do is to 
 stand by them." 
 
 Before there was time for other words a roar 
 went up from the circle of Clary's Grove boys, and 
 the two were at each other. It was soon apparent 
 that Lincoln tried to do no more than prevent the 
 other from throwing him. He broke hold after 
 hold, now eluding Armstrong, now standing stiff 
 and immovable before him, without making any 
 effort to throw him. 
 
 For a long space they struggled. The man from 
 Clary's Grove could do nothing. His comrades, 
 seeing him fail, began to mutter. Armstrong, 
 incensed, lost all restraint, and fell upon his antago 
 nist with blows and kicks, wholly unfair in the 
 sport. 
 
 In the instant that he did so, a wild light came 
 into the blue eyes of Lincoln. His huge hands 
 reached forth. They closed about the thick neck 
 of the other. The long arms stiffened. They lifted 
 Armstrong from the ground till his feet swung 
 struggling through the air. They shook him till the 
 breath rattled out of him. They flung him down
 
 Lincoln shook him till the breath rattled out of him.
 
 The Frontier Clerk 77 
 
 upon the ground, purple and gasping. In the soul 
 of Lincoln there was no charity for what was 
 unfair. 
 
 The boys from Clary's Grove, cursing and 
 threatening, crowded about Lincoln, ready to leap 
 upon him. Randolph hurried to his side. Denton 
 Offutt, sputtering, scurried into his store and laid 
 hold of the arm of Sylvia Hall in impotent alarm. 
 She, with heaving chest and kindled eye, suffered 
 his hands to remain there. Her eyes hung upon the 
 two who confronted the many. 
 
 Armstrong, struggling to his feet, elbowed his 
 comrades aside. He made his way until he stood 
 before Lincoln. He held out his hand to him, open, 
 palm upward. 
 
 " Shake!" he said. " You 're right! And, God, 
 but you 're strong!" 
 
 ' ' Are you badly hurt 1 There is blood upon your 
 face!" 
 
 Sylvia Hall, standing in the doorway of the 
 store, found some embarrassment in expressing her 
 solicitude when the handsome young man with hair 
 like bronze entered a moment later. 
 
 "I thank you, ma'am," he replied; "it is kind 
 of you. It is nothing that will not wash off." 
 
 "It perhaps a woman should not see these 
 things," she said, in some confusion, impelled to 
 make apology to this man. "I abhor such sights;
 
 78 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 they distress me. But it must be glorious to be 
 brave ! ' ' 
 
 "If it were not for such as you, men would not 
 be brave," made answer Eandolph, with a look at 
 her before which her blue eyes fell. 
 
 Without further word, she went from the store 
 through the street of the settlement to the house 
 where she was staying. Not once in all the way 
 did she dare look back; for she knew, in the man 
 ner in which women know many things, that a pair 
 of warm brown eyes followed her as she went. And 
 she knew that to look into them again, now, was to 
 have a heart utterly and forever lost.
 
 CHAPTEB VI 
 THE MILLHAND 
 
 4fTT rHY, I tell you, he 's a wonder! He 's a 
 VV wonder ! He 's a big man, Abe Lincoln is ! 
 I 'm with him most of the time. I can see it. I 
 know it. You can't fool me. You can't fool Denton 
 Offutt when it comes to men ! Why, I tell you what 
 I '11 do! I '11 give him thirty years he's twenty- 
 two now I '11 give him thirty years to be President 
 of the United States; that 's what I '11 do!" 
 
 Denton Offutt, giving his saucer of tea a final 
 cooling puff it was characteristic of Denton Offutt 
 not to be able to await the psychological moment in 
 anything he did gulped it down with a strangling 
 noise, and looked about upon his audience to 
 observe the effect of his prophetic assertion. His 
 audience consisted of the boarders gathered about 
 the supper table in Kutledge's tavern on the even 
 ing after the bout between Lincoln and Armstrong. 
 The effect of his impulsive and unreasoned 
 claims for Lincoln's future was not all that the 
 vanity of the speaker might have desired. It was 
 not because those who heard were inclined to dis 
 pute anything praiseful which might be said of 
 Lincoln. He had been a hero among them from the 
 beginning, and the adventure of that afternoon had 
 
 79
 
 80 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 rendered his position in the community unassail 
 able. It was rather because the remarks came from 
 Denton Offutt that they did not receive the 
 expressed endorsement of the other boarders. For 
 Denton Offutt had been discovered to possess the 
 trait of talking too much, and his vociferations were 
 frankly accepted by the people of New Salem on 
 that basis. On this occasion, however, Denton 
 Offutt was convinced that he had not talked enough, 
 and immediately set about making up the deficit. 
 
 "Honest? Honest?" he cried, as though some 
 one had disputed the integrity of his clerk! "Why, 
 he 's the honestest man that ever lived anywhere. 
 Why, I call him Honest Abe ! Why, last week, Mrs. 
 Wiley paid sixpence too much for something she 
 bought, and when Abe found it out he shut up shop 
 and walked 'way out to her farm, seven miles in the 
 country, with the balance. And week before that 
 he found a little weight on the wrong side of the 
 scales after he had weighed out some tea for Mrs. 
 Poindexter, and he hunted around town for three 
 hours until he found her and gave her the tea that 
 was coming to her. Don't you call that honest!" 
 
 A mumbled acquiescence went about the supper 
 table, coming to audible articulation when it reached 
 Mortimer Eandolph, who had decided to remain in 
 New Salem for the night, after many elaborate argu 
 ments with himself on the point, none of which in 
 any way involved a pair of blue eyes of lingering 
 memory. The volcanic Mr. Offutt was exhibiting
 
 The Millhand 81 
 
 alarming symptoms of another eruption, when Lin 
 coln himself appeared, averting the phenomenon. 
 
 ' ' Where yon been, Abe ? You 're late ! ' ' cried 
 Offutt, in the midst of the clamorous welcome which 
 greeted Lincoln. 
 
 "Down the road a piece," replied Lincoln, wip 
 ing his forehead on a large red handkerchief, drawn 
 from the front of his shirt. In his free hand he held 
 a small, dingy, dilapidated book, which he carefully 
 deposited on the table at his elbow when he sat 
 down. 
 
 "My, but you look blowed!" piped Offutt, with 
 an air of proprietorship. "What you got?" he 
 added, without a pause, catching sight of the book. 
 
 "Kirkman's Grammar," replied Lincoln. "Just 
 been out to Vaner's to get it. Mentor Graham told 
 me he had one. It 's the only one in the county. 
 Beckon I '11 know a heap one of these days, eh, Mr. 
 Randolph ?" addressing himself to Mortimer, who 
 sat at the farther end of the table from him. 
 
 "Well, you know, you 're the smartest man in 
 the United States now, Lincoln, ' ' returned that one, 
 winking at Lincoln and glancing slyly at Offutt. 
 
 Lincoln laughed, and the tableful laughed, not 
 entirely knowing why. Offutt himself laughed, 
 feebly, as he applied himself to an apple turnover 
 that Ann Eutledge brought him, with a vague sus 
 picion that he was being made a butt. His oblitera 
 tion for the moment was complete, for Lincoln fell 
 to discussing matters of import with Eandolph, and
 
 82 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 the others at table followed the conversation with 
 an attention that approached reverent awe. Without 
 knowing why, without consciousness that it was so, 
 these rude, rough men already felt subordinated in 
 the presence of the tall grocer's clerk when he chose 
 to be in earnest. 
 
 Mortimer Randolph was glad of the attention 
 paid him by the hero of the settlement for other 
 reasons than the pleasure he got from talking with 
 such a man. He had sufficient discernment to real 
 ize that his position in the community was delicate. 
 He knew there was a prejudice among these shaggy 
 people against him in spite of the account he had 
 given of himself that afternoon; that they resented 
 his deportment and manners; that they held his 
 correct speech against him ; that the softness of his 
 hands, the smoothness of his skin, the texture of 
 his clothes, affronted them. He fully appreciated 
 what the open friendship of Lincoln would do for 
 him in establishing him in favor with these men 
 of the frontier, and gratefully made the most of it. 
 Not that he particularly cared what they thought 
 of him; but a vision of the blue eyes of one who 
 dwelt among them floated through his mind 
 bewilderingly. 
 
 Denton Offutt was not to be suppressed for long, 
 however, by any discussion, of whatsoever weight 
 and consequence. Having reduced his turnover to 
 a series of shining spirals on his plate; having 
 cooled in his saucer and drunk another cup of tea;
 
 The Millhand 83 
 
 having picked his teeth of the last shred of supper, 
 he seized upon a brief lull in the conversation, and 
 broke forth into piping voice. 
 
 "Where 's McNeill? Where 's John McNeill 
 to-night?" he cried. "He has n't been here to-night. 
 Where is he? Where is he? Does anybody know 
 where he is ? Ann, do you know where he is ? " 
 
 The hand of Ann Kutledge, reaching to give 
 Mortimer Eandolph a dish of food, trembled. The 
 voice of Ann Butledge shook as she made answer. 
 The trembling of the hand, the shaking of the voice, 
 were scarcely perceptible. Probably no one at the 
 table discerned the trembling and the shaking as 
 she made answer, save Mortimer, and one other. 
 Observing them himself, and glancing about the 
 table to see if others did, the eyes of Mortimer 
 rested upon the face of Lincoln. Lincoln was look 
 ing at the girl. In his face was a compassion, a pro 
 tecting tenderness, that made it beautiful, sublime. 
 Other than that one look cast upon Ann Eutledge, 
 there was no sign among them all. 
 
 "He is gone East," said the girl, simply. 
 
 "What?" said Denton Offutt, in a voice that 
 was half a scream. "Left his store and gone 
 East?" 
 
 Lincoln's glance went from the face of the girl 
 to the face of Offutt. In his countenance was the 
 look of one who watched, waiting to rescue when 
 the moment of need should come. The mind of 
 Mortimer flew swiftly with events.
 
 84 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 "He had word from his family in the East," 
 went on the girl. There was no shake in the voice 
 now. There was level composure. She was at the 
 back of Offutt 's chair, taking his empty dishes. The 
 entire board was listening closely, the matter being 
 one of common interest. * ' He had to leave hastily, ' ' 
 she went on, indifferently. 
 
 Denton Offutt gazed wide-eyed upon the others, 
 groping for something to which to tie thought. He 
 would have done better had he noted the face of 
 Lincoln, his clerk, or Mortimer; but his eyes were 
 too wide. 
 
 "Well is n't he coming back? Is n't he going 
 to marry you ? ' ' blurted Denton Offutt. 
 
 "Why, what a question, Mr. Offutt," laughed 
 the girl, passing into the kitchen with a tray of 
 dishes. 
 
 Mortimer Eandolph, having divined the situa 
 tion, thought of a score of things to say to Denton 
 Offutt; none which he might give voice to, out of 
 consideration for the young woman. He was forced 
 to content himself for the present with a look of 
 indignant contempt, which lighted his brown eyes 
 with a red, flaring glow. A laugh went around the 
 table ; it was intended to be at the expense of Offutt. 
 The sound of it aroused Mortimer again. He was 
 on the point of rebuking them all, when Ann entered 
 the room. Every eye, save his own, was upon her. 
 There was no sign on her face. She smiled briefly,
 
 The Millhand 85 
 
 in apparent amusement at Offutt, and went about 
 her work in her customary circumspect manner. 
 
 "That makes me think of a little dog that a 
 friend of mine had down in Kentucky when I was 
 a boy," drawled Lincoln, as Ann busied herself 
 about the table. "He was a cute little dog; he 
 always had his ears pricked up and his eyes wide 
 open, and gave other indications of a budding intel 
 ligence. He never bit anybody; he never killed the 
 chickens or chased the pigs. He was a very good 
 little dog, as dogs go. But he had two faults. He 
 barked a whole lot more than was necessary, and 
 he chewed things up. Anything from a plow handle 
 to a toothpick, from a bed quilt to a handkerchief, 
 that he could get a hold of, he gnawed and towsled 
 as long as there was anything left of it. 
 
 "Now, down at the bottom of the forty acres 
 that my friend's people had, was an old rail fence. 
 The yellow jackets had made a nest on one of the 
 bottom rails. One day, when my friend and I and 
 his dog were out tramping, we came across the nest. 
 Before we could say anything, the puppy made a 
 leap and grabbed it with his mouth. Now, the 
 yellow jackets didn't know the dog, and by the time 
 he could let go, his head was twice the size it should 
 have been. He came howling and whining up to us 
 with his eyes shut and his lips puffed out, the worst 
 looking dog I ever saw. My friend looked at him, 
 and looked at me. 'Abe,' he said; 'Abe! That con-
 
 86 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 sarned purp never did know just what his mouth 
 was for I' 
 
 If the application of the anecdote was obscure to 
 the mind of Denton Offutt, he was alone in his fail 
 ure to appreciate it. The others, listening through 
 out with their breath held and their faces poised 
 ready for a laugh, burst forth into a bellow when 
 the tale was done that could have been heard as far 
 as Offutt 's store. Offutt joined in in a lost manner, 
 half wondering why they all looked at him. Morti 
 mer alone did not laugh. He saw far below the 
 humor of the story. His eyes were fixed upon the 
 narrator in admiration and affection. As for Ann, 
 she cast one grateful glance at Lincoln, which he 
 saw, and went about her work unnoticed. 
 
 Considering many things none of which was a 
 pair of blue eyes Mortimer Randolph decided on 
 the morning of the next day that it was not entirely 
 necessary for him to continue his journey until the 
 following day. After breakfast he wandered across 
 to Offutt 's store to explain why to Abraham Lin 
 coln. He felt a moral responsibility in making his 
 excuses for loitering to certain of the citizens of 
 New Salem. He had already imparted them to Ann 
 when she brought him his breakfast, with a formal 
 smile and a bright countenance, that bore no trace 
 of her emotions of the previous evening. 
 
 He found Lincoln stretched at full length on the 
 counter of the store, deep in the pages of the gram 
 mar. Lincoln did not observe his approach, for he
 
 The Millhand 87 
 
 was at the moment conjugating a verb of many 
 irregularities, in an annoyed and audible voice. 
 Randolph, undiscovered still, stood beside him for 
 a moment, running his eye from head to foot and 
 back again, marveling at the tremendous stature of 
 the man. He had never before been so impressed 
 with it. 
 
 1 'About how long are you, anyway, Lincoln?" 
 he asked, presently, with a sociable laugh. There 
 was no immediate hurry to tell him why he was n't 
 going on that day. 
 
 Lincoln, finishing his conjugation without so 
 much as a glance at his visitor, placed his long 
 finger between the leaves of the book and swung 
 into a sitting posture, his drooping toes straggling 
 to the floor. 
 
 "I 'm six feet four, Randolph," he replied. 
 "Pretty good for twenty-two years, ehl" There 
 was pride in his look and his tone. 
 
 "I should say so," returned Randolph. "Think 
 you 've got your growth I ' ' 
 
 "Well, I think so. I think I Ve got mine, and 
 half of somebody else's." 
 
 In the course of time Mortimer found it oppor 
 tune to mention his change of plan. Hearing that 
 he intended staying through another day, Lincoln 
 passed over to where he stood. They were alone in 
 the store. The tall clerk laid his arm across the 
 shoulders of his new friend. 
 
 "I 'm glad of it," he said. There was a sadness
 
 88 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 in his eyes as he spoke. "I 'd like to see more of 
 you. Somehow, you seem to bring a touch to life 
 that is missing here. You are different from these 
 people. I like these people. They are good; they 
 are honest; you can count on them. Whether they 
 are friends or enemies, you can tell what they are 
 going to do. I like them all; even Clary's Grove 
 boys, rough as they are. But something seems to 
 be lacking in 'em, and you have got just that some 
 thing. I do n't know what it is. I do n't know any 
 body else that 's got it, excepting Sylvia Hall, the 
 girl you saw here yesterday, and Ann Butledge." 
 He spoke the name hesitatingly, in lower voice. 
 "But they 're girls," he went on, "and I ain't great 
 shakes with the girls. Besides, the Hall girl will be 
 going back to Indian Creek pretty soon, and Ann 
 Eutledge " He paused. Sadness and sorrow 
 deepened in his eyes. "Well, Ann is promised to 
 McNeill, you know. ' ' 
 
 Mortimer forebore to speak of that in any way. 
 He made no reply of any kind, save to thank Lin 
 coln briefly for what he had said. There was a feel 
 ing in his thanks beyond the simple words he made 
 use of, there was a feeling in the tone and the look 
 which accompanied them which could not readily 
 have found expression in any words ; for the young 
 Virginian was drawn to this great, gaunt man by 
 a quick, living, understanding sympathy. The other 
 sensed the feeling, and returned it through a pres 
 sure of the hand that clasped Mortimer's shoulder.
 
 The Millhand 89 
 
 There was silence between them, until a customer 
 entered the store. Mortimer departed without 
 further word. 
 
 Leaving the store, he wandered down the road 
 to the river. He loitered along its banks, among 
 the trees of a little grove that grew there, turning 
 away from the direction which the road took toward 
 Springfield. There were matters which he wished 
 to revolve in his mind. He wished to contemplate 
 the new friendship he had found, he told himself, as 
 he loitered, and he wished 
 
 Some one sat at the foot of a tree, in among 
 soft mosses, by the side of the little path he fol 
 lowed ; some one in a dress of dainty blue ; some one 
 with small, dainty hands that clasped a book in her 
 lap ; some one with a figure of exquisite contour and 
 harmonious grace; some one with hair of twisted 
 gold and eyes of blue that he had first seen looking 
 at him from the banks of that river, that he had 
 last seen looking at him on the afternoon before; 
 some one who glanced at him in confusion, half 
 smiling, uncertain whether she would speak to him. 
 
 With a naturalness which freed his action of 
 impudence, he sat beside her on the moss. They 
 fell to talking of many things as they sat there 
 looking out upon the river, listening to the river, 
 listening to the birds and the bees and the mill- 
 wheel. 
 
 The next day, and the next, and the fourth day, 
 Mortimer Randolph loitered in New Salem. "It
 
 90 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 does not matter if I do not reach Vandalia for a 
 week," he told Lincoln, having a guilty conscience. 
 
 When on the fifth day he did start, some one 
 walked at his side as he led Powhatan down the 
 road past the mill ; soft hands put a sprig of golden 
 rod in his coat lapel before he mounted ; white hands 
 stroked the velvet nose of the roan ere he rode 
 away ; blue eyes followed him through the dust until 
 he disappeared down the road. 
 
 In a week he was back again. He rode up to 
 Offutt's store on that afternoon with a song on his 
 lips and a light in his eye, to tell Lincoln that he 
 meant to remain in New Salem. That his being 
 there might embarrass no one, he sought work to 
 do. He found it in Cameron's mill, now owned by 
 Denton OfFutt, frenzied financier. His immediate 
 superior, and the man from whom he took his 
 orders, was Abraham Lincoln, boatman, clerk, and 
 mill superintendent. 
 
 What times the eyes of the millhand wandered 
 through the window and down among the trees 
 beside the river, leaving the stones of the mill to 
 grind nothing; what times the millhand himself fol 
 lowed his wandering eyes when they found what 
 they sought among the trees was of no consequence 
 or effect upon his tenure of office. For Lincoln was 
 his immediate superior, and the heart of Lincoln 
 could not suffer the hand of Lincoln to be laid 
 heavily upon a lover.
 
 The Millhand 91 
 
 At last the summer drew to a close. The time 
 of parting came. Their father, passing through the 
 settlement on a journey to Jefferson Barracks, had 
 told Eachel and Sylvia to be ready to return home 
 with him on a certain day. The eve of the day was 
 at hand. 
 
 Mortimer Randolph, millhand, walked with 
 Sylvia Hall through the moonlight down by the dam 
 and to the grove where he had first sat by her side 
 on a morning in July. It was late in September. 
 It was cool. They did not sit on the bank of moss 
 which had been their retreat during the hot months 
 of summer, but walked to and fro near the spot in 
 the little path, in among the elms and oaks. 
 
 Their talk was of many things, as it had always 
 been. Not once had there been word of love between 
 them. As they strolled this night, he came to tell 
 her of his home in Virginia ; of his mother and sis 
 ters; of his father and brother; of his nephew and 
 niece, children of his brother. He spoke of his love 
 for them, of his longing at times to go back among 
 them. In the telling, he paused. A silence fell upon 
 his lips. A trembling came over Sylvia as she stood 
 beside him. In all he had said there had been no 
 hint of her, yet she felt that he had paused to speak 
 of love. 
 
 "Sylvia" his voice was low and earnest 
 "Sylvia, we have not known each other long. It is 
 scarcely two months. But in that time we have seen
 
 92 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 much of each other. And in that time " He 
 paused once more. She feared that he would hear 
 the beating of her heart in the hush of the evening. 
 He began again. 
 
 ' ' My mother taught me that a woman is sacred, ' ' 
 he said. ''She taught me that no man should con 
 sider her lightly ; that no man might trifle with even 
 so slight a thing as her time ; that he might not seek 
 her companionship above all others unless there 
 were honest love in the seeking." Another pause. 
 "I would not have you think that I have forgotten 
 the teachings of my mother," he resumed; "and 
 yet, to-night, on the eve of your departure, I cannot 
 tell you that I love you!" His words were slow, 
 full of emotion, full of regret. For a moment her 
 heart ceased to beat. In another it sent the pulses 
 surging through her until she would have reeled, 
 if she had not put out a hand against a tree. 
 
 "I do not mean that I think you would have me 
 tell you," he went on, in perfect sincerity. "I do 
 not mean that I think you would be glad if I should. 
 I cannot but think it would grieve you, in the kind 
 ness of your heart ; I cannot doubt that you would 
 tell me in all gentleness that you would rather there 
 were no word of love between us." 
 
 If he had looked at her pale face, where the 
 moon shone upon it through the leaves of the trees 
 beneath which they stood ; if he had seen her parted, 
 quivering lips, the tears half formed in her eyes,
 
 The Millhand 93 
 
 the frightened, wistful look, he would have known 
 how far from the truth he had gone. But he did 
 not look. 
 
 "I have wronged you, Sylvia," he resumed. 
 "Not because I may have led you to expect that I 
 would tell you of my love before you left; not 
 because I have sought you out diligently above all 
 others in the earth without an honest love in the 
 seeking, but because I have sought you out at all." 
 He paused; a fervor was creeping into his words 
 which he seemed to struggle against. When he went 
 on it had gone; there was feeling in his tones, but 
 they were calm. 
 
 "I am not permitted to make you understand; 
 there is much that I shall have to leave to your 
 inference, and your charity," he said. "Sylvia, I 
 am a stranger to you. I am a stranger to all who 
 know you and protect you. You do not know what 
 I am. You cannot be sure that I am what I may 
 seem to you to be. I am a millhand only that I may 
 be near you. Cannot you see how it is possible that 
 I may have wronged you ? ' ' 
 
 Her voice was faint and afar off when she sought 
 to answer, but grew stronger as she proceeded. 
 
 "You are not a stranger to me," she said. "I 
 have learned what you are. There is that in a 
 woman which tells her. I do not need to be told 
 what you are. ' ' 
 
 For a space there was silence between them. It 
 was his voice, slow and solemn, which broke it.
 
 94 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 "If I should tell you that when I left that home 
 of which I have spoken to-night, I left it under a 
 shadow ; that I left it reviled, despised, condemned ; 
 that a darkness lingers over my name among my 
 own people even as I speak to you, would you under 
 stand how I have wronged you, and how bitterly I 
 accuse myself?" 
 
 "If your own lips should tell me evil things 
 about yourself, I should not believe them ; but in all 
 else I should believe you utterly, ' ' she made answer. 
 She turned her face toward him, reverently, long 
 ingly. He gazed across the flowing river that 
 muttered through the shadows of the trees. 
 
 "But it is true, Sylvia," he said. His voice had 
 sunk almost to a whisper. "It is even as I said. I 
 may tell you more than that. I may not even tell 
 you so much as to say that it should not be as it is. 
 Some day, perhaps, the way may be made clear for 
 me. Some day, perhaps, I may come seeking you 
 in perfect honor. If the day never comes, I should 
 like to feel in my last hours that I had lingered in 
 your memory as the man I may have seemed to be ; 
 as the millhand with whom you once walked and 
 talked beside the river and beneath the trees. ' ' 
 
 He had finished. She laid her hand upon his 
 arm. 
 
 "May I tell you that I should believe in you 
 though the whole world cried evil against you?" 
 she said. "May I tell you that I shall have faith 
 in you to the last day?"
 
 The Millhand 95 
 
 For an instant he pressed her hand, cold and 
 trembling, on his arm. 
 
 "You make me brave," he said. "Come; you 
 are cold. Your hand trembles. We must return."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 SHADOWS 
 
 IN the morning they left. All New Salem turned 
 out to see them off, and to banter Eachel and 
 William Munson; for William Munson had pro 
 gressed so far in the affections of Eachel that it 
 was necessary to banter them. William repaid them 
 for their trouble by kissing Kachel full on the 
 mouth in the presence of all, and having his ears 
 soundly boxed for his pains ; all of which, and much 
 else, delighted the people of New Salem beyond 
 measure, so that the cavalcade moved off at last 
 before a gale of laughter. 
 
 Between Mortimer and Sylvia there were only 
 the most casual words of parting, to the disappoint 
 ment and confusion of the people of the settlement, 
 who had not been ignorant of the principal occupa 
 tion of the millhand through the summer. None 
 ventured upon any witticisms at their expense. 
 There was that about each of them, quite uninten 
 tional on his or her part, which debarred the rough 
 settlers from any close approach to such familiarity. 
 
 With a last wave of farewell, as the party disap 
 peared down the road, Mortimer returned to his 
 work at the mill, whence his eyes wandered through 
 a grove of trees by the river side, over a scene of 
 
 96
 
 Shadows 97 
 
 utter and blighting desolation. From that hour he 
 found his only comfort in the company of Abraham 
 Lincoln in that, and in the hope that he would not 
 relinquish. 
 
 The company of Lincoln was not so easily 
 obtained as it had been. From the night when Den- 
 ton Offutt had blundered in remarking the absence 
 of McNeill, Lincoln was found, or was missed, more 
 and more frequently in the company of Ann But- 
 ledge. In the beginning of her trouble he had been 
 her champion. The story he had told that night 
 had saved her much. As time passed, and evil 
 things came to be whispered about McNeill and his 
 sudden departure, it was Lincoln who laughed them 
 to scorn in her own ears, and silenced them upon 
 the lips of those who spoke them. As time passed, 
 and the faith of her friends in the man who had 
 gone began to wane, it was Lincoln alone who made 
 her brave to believe in him. As time passed, and 
 her own confidence grew faint, it was this gaunt 
 and homely man whose charity brought a shame to 
 her cheeks. And as time passed, she sought his 
 comfort and courage more and more, until there 
 was rarely a day when he did not spend his spare 
 time with her. 
 
 Together they read books that he borrowed. He 
 taught her the contents of the grammar he had had 
 of Vaner, going again the six miles to get it for her. 
 They read such volumes as they could find, and dis 
 cussed them together. He went with her to the little
 
 98 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 social gatherings of the community, shielding her 
 from glances and whispers. If need had been, he 
 would have fought with his fists for her. That he 
 did not have to do. His estate had risen among his 
 people. He had arrived, according to the lights of 
 New Salem. He was deferred to. 
 
 Winter came. The mill was closed. Mortimer 
 found such other employment as he was able. He 
 had no lack of money, but for the sake of his con 
 tentment and his reputation among the neighbors, 
 he kept himself at odd tasks whenever he could. 
 Thus he worked through the cold months, living in 
 the tavern, rejoicing in the moments when he could 
 have his friend alone, delighting in the hours when 
 Lincoln told stories to the men in the tavern 's public 
 room, or among the boxes in Offutt's store. The 
 sadness seemed less frequent in the other's eyes as 
 time wore on. Only, when it came, it was more sad 
 than it had been. 
 
 One day a letter came to Mortimer from Vir 
 ginia. The postmaster made a special trip to the 
 farm where Mortimer was employed that day to 
 deliver it. He felt that it must be important, as it 
 came from a law firm in Bichmond. He made many 
 overtures of his services when Mortimer was read 
 ing it, and lingered long and hopefully about the 
 spot. However, he had nothing to report when he 
 returned to Offutt's store, where a volunteer com 
 mittee of townspeople awaited him. 
 
 That night Mortimer sought out Abraham Lin-
 
 Shadows 99 
 
 coin, under the human necessity of telling his happi 
 ness to some one. He had already confided to him 
 his love for Sylvia. For a long time they conversed 
 in low tones in Mortimer's room. When Lincoln 
 came out, he was full of thought, and glad. 
 
 On the next morning, Mortimer, mounting 
 "Powhatan," set out from the village of New 
 Salem, turning his face to the northeast. One hun 
 dred and fifty miles ahead of him, by the road he 
 traveled, was the town of Ottawa. Twelve miles 
 north of Ottawa was the little settlement of Indian 
 Creek, the home of Sylvia Hall. 
 
 It was a weary way. The roads were little bet 
 ter than trails for the most part; in places they 
 were worse. The mud was interminable and bot 
 tomless. During the daytime the rain was almost 
 incessant. In the mornings and the evenings the 
 mud was partly frozen, making travel painful. Yet 
 ever as he rode a song was on his lips ; and ever as 
 he rode he took from his pocket, from time to time, 
 the letter he had received the day before he left, and 
 read it with a radiant face. 
 
 It was four days before he reached Ottawa. He 
 arrived in a heavy rain, and so late at night that he 
 could go no farther until morning. 
 
 On the night he stopped at Ottawa, another trav 
 eler, sputtering through the rain and the mud, 
 sought refuge in the cabin of William Hall at Indian 
 Creek. He was a short, round man with a short, 
 round head, fitting close to his body; with a round,
 
 100 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 red face in which were set a pair of widely sep 
 arated blue eyes that stuck out like lobsters' eyes. 
 Their moisture when the door was opened to his 
 knock further increased the similarity. 
 
 "WJiy, Ike Frake! For the land's sake!" cried 
 Eachel Hall. It was she who had opened the door. 
 "Why, you're wet as sop! Come right in; My, 
 how it blows ! ' ' 
 
 Isaac Frake, by virtue of having traveled from 
 Ohio in migration with the Hall family, and of hav 
 ing been a frequent visitor at their home in subse 
 quent journeys back and forth, was heartily wel 
 comed by the other members of the family. Young 
 William Hall, slapping him on the back three or 
 four times on the strength of having been a com 
 rade in arms with him, ran to fetch a dry coat. The 
 elder Hall produced a flask of whisky and poured 
 out half a glassful from it, which Frake swallowed 
 with unction. Mother Hall hastened about in search 
 of food for the traveler. Eachel tittered and giggled 
 at him, keeping up a continuous chatter the while. 
 Only Sylvia took no part in the various activities 
 of greeting. It appeared from the sour look of dis 
 appointment on his face that her welcome was the 
 one of them all about which he had the greatest 
 concern. 
 
 If there were any trace of the fingers of the 
 Indian on the neck or the soul of Isaac Frake, they 
 were not discernible as he presently sat by the fire 
 in a coat belonging to the elder Hall much too
 
 Shadows 101 
 
 small for him with a glass of toddy in his hand; 
 which also seemed somewhat too small as he tossed 
 it into his round face without a flicker of his round 
 eyes. He was abundantly healthful, with a rough 
 vigor of body and a blunt good humor. There was 
 something in his good humor, however, which sug 
 gested that it was ephemeral, and sat lightly upon 
 the round surface of the man. 
 
 "For the land's sake, where you been? We 
 ain't seen you for nigh on two years!" cried Rachel 
 for the twentieth time, pausing for the first time to 
 let him answer. 
 
 "Why, I 've been staying home tending my own 
 affairs," returned Frake, with an attempt at levity 
 in his tone and a look at Sylvia meant to be gently 
 satirical, but which passed into an expression of 
 dogged resentment. "I was afraid you wouldn't 
 know who I was when you got back. Some of you 
 don't seem to." His look became almost surly, in 
 spite of himself, as he concluded. 
 
 Eachel snickered, with immoderate relish. There 
 was a tradition in the Hall family involving the 
 futures of Sylvia and Frake. It had no more sub 
 stantial foundation than the propitiatory attitude 
 toward the young woman which the man had always 
 displayed, and a matter of fact acceptance of such 
 an eventuality on the part of the family in general 
 as being a satisfactory solution of the vexing and 
 vital problem, always serious to the early settlers, 
 of marrying off their daughter. Sylvia had always
 
 102 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 given her parents keen anxiety because of her fail 
 ure to appreciate the importance of acquiring a hus 
 band and of a certain lofty indifference to the 
 swains who had had the temerity to court her. 
 Wherefore the attentions of Frake had been the 
 more welcome ; especially as it was generally under 
 stood that he was a leading man in the new Bock 
 River country and a patriot who had done much to 
 open the district for settlement. 
 
 Sylvia herself was so far out of harmony with 
 the plan that on all occasions she treated the man 
 with an indifference more crushing than scorn. 
 To-night she arose from her seat on the bench oppo 
 site to him in the midst of the look which he fastened 
 upon her after his ill-natured remark, and left the 
 room, completely ignoring the very existence of 
 such a man as Isaac Frake as her swishing skirts 
 swept his knees. 
 
 "You won't find it so easy with Sylvia now, Mr. 
 Frake," simpered Rachel, as the man watched her 
 sister passing into the little room partitioned off 
 from the large apartment for the use of the sisters. 
 "You've got a rival, you know!" 
 
 "Is that so?" returned Frake, with an appear 
 ance of unconcern and amiability which obtained 
 credit with Rachel. There were strains of wisdom 
 in Frake. 
 
 "She don't never say anything to me about it, 
 but the way she went on at New Salem with Morti-
 
 Shadows 103 
 
 mer Randolph was something to take your breath ! ' ' 
 went on the girl. 
 
 "With who?" demanded Frake, abruptly. 
 
 "With Mortimer Randolph, " pursued the girl, 
 oblivious of his emphatic interest in the name. ' * Oh, 
 he 's an awful dandy ! One of them eastern fellers, 
 I reckon. Land sakes, Mr. Frake, afore I 'd take 
 up with one of them eastern dandies ! ' ' 
 
 "Uhuh!" grunted Mr. Frake, with profound 
 meaning in the sound, and a distortion of his round 
 features that fairly squeezed significance from their 
 creases. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Frake, what makes you look so?" 
 queried the girl, perceiving. 
 
 "Oh, nothing," returned Frake, with an owlish 
 rolling of his protuberant blue eyes. 
 
 "Oh, get along, Mr. Frake!" cried the girl, 
 giggling. * ' What do you mean ? ' ' 
 
 Frake turned to young William Hall, who sat 
 by the chimney cleaning his musket, but half heeding 
 their conversation. 
 
 "Bill," he said, addressing the young man, 
 "you remember the morning last year when we got 
 to Saukenuk? Remember the man that made the fine 
 speech about the Indian woman with the papoose 
 that came to me begging money for whisky!" 
 
 Frake was perfectly aware that young Hall could 
 not know what the woman had begged of him, she 
 having spoken in the Sauk tongue. 
 
 "Which one was that?" returned William Hall,
 
 104 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 Jr., intent for the moment on his gun, in which his 
 ramrod had become jammed. 
 
 4 'Oh, the one with the red hair that was so 
 damned anxious excuse me, Miss Hall so very 
 anxious about what was going to happen to the 
 Indians all the way up the river ! ' ' continued Frake. 
 
 Eachel, laying down the shirt which she was 
 making for her brother, stared from one to the 
 other. 
 
 "Sure, I remember!" ejaculated young Hall, 
 setting his gun down and scratching his head reflec 
 tively. "He was a smart aleck! Say, do you know 
 what?" he added, with a flood of recollection, "I 
 saw him go sneaking off into the hill after that 
 woman with the papoose, and after a while I saw 
 them come sneaking back together, mighty friendly- 
 like!" 
 
 William Hall, the son, impressed with the start 
 ling character of this information, looked at his 
 sister and the guest to observe its effect, with many 
 nods of the head. Kachel's mouth grew wider and 
 wider as she stared at the two. Frake, not feeling 
 called upon to enter into a detailed account of the 
 sequence of the events of the morning under discus 
 sion, half closed his eyes and glanced casually into 
 the fire. 
 
 1 ' Of course, you didn 't happen to notice whether 
 the papoose was a full-blooded Indian, or a half- 
 breed, did you?" he observed unconcernedly. 
 
 Young Hall, scratching his head again to stir his
 
 Shadows 105 
 
 memory, allowed that it was powerful pale for a 
 full-blooded Indian. Frake grunted significantly, 
 and said nothing. 
 
 1 'But what's all that got to do with Mr. Ran 
 dolph?" cried Rachel, bursting with suspense and 
 curiosity. 
 
 "Oh, I don't like to say," returned Frake, gaz 
 ing into the fire still, in evident embarrassment. 
 
 "Isaac Frake, tell us! What do you mean!" 
 insisted Rachel. 
 
 "Oh, well," said Frake, reluctantly, "all I know 
 is that the name of this fellow I've been telling you 
 about was Randolph." 
 
 * ' The dirty skunk ! ' ' cried William Hall, glower 
 ing. "If he comes around my sister, I'll make a 
 sieve of him." 
 
 "Well, now, of course, maybe his first name 
 wasn't Mortimer," interceded Frake. "I don't 
 know what his first name was. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, it was, I know it was," gasped Rachel, re 
 covering her breath. "I knew he was no good when 
 I first set eyes on him. Nobody with such airs ever 
 was any good. And nobody in New Salem never 
 knew anything about him ; he jest wandered in there. 
 Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! I knew it ! I knew it ! I knew it I" 
 
 In vain did Frake essay to stem the flood of 
 angry suspicion which he had loosed. To no avail 
 did he endeavor to explain and extenuate on 
 hypotheses that would leave the reputation and 
 character of Mortimer Randolph not utterly black.
 
 106 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 His attempted suggestions were futile. All he could 
 say only strengthened suspicion into conviction. 
 
 1 'But for heaven's sake don't say a word about 
 it to Sylvia," he pleaded with Rachel, relinquishing 
 his efforts to save the man. ''What's the good of 
 her knowing?" he argued. "He may never show 
 up again, and she '11 get over it. If he does show 
 up, there '11 be time enough to let her know. Now, 
 you won't tell her, will you, Rachel?" 
 
 Rachel, posting off to her room immediately 
 without replying to his anxious petition, Frake sat 
 down to the supper which Mother Hall had mean 
 while been preparing for him, sufficiently satisfied 
 in his mind that Sylvia would know everything, and 
 much more, before he should have finished the 
 victuals. 
 
 What passed between Sylvia and her sister over 
 night was in no wise to be inferred from the appear 
 ance of the elder when the family gathered at their 
 breakfast of pork and hominy in the morning; but 
 the sullen face of Rachel made it obvious to Frake 
 that she had not carried conviction with her tale. 
 
 The remotest reference to Randolph was avoided. 
 Throughout the meal Frake was the embodiment of 
 innocence and frankness. He dilated upon the state 
 of the country. He described the melancholy con 
 ditions in Chicago, whence he had come, character 
 izing the settlement as a hopeless mud hole. He dis 
 cussed politics and other matters of passing interest 
 for the benefit of the elder Hall. He ingenuously
 
 Shadows 107 
 
 pointed out from time to time the great promises 
 held in the new Rock River country, where he held 
 some sections, now that Black Hawk had been 
 driven out, and pictured a rosy future for that part 
 of the State. On the whole, he conducted himself 
 like a perfectly guileless man of healthful interests 
 and wholesome enthusiasm, to the eminent satisfac 
 tion of father and mother, son and the dark-eyed 
 sister. This, in the circumstances, was wisely diplo 
 matic on the part of Isaac Frake. 
 
 They were at the end of the meal. Eachel and 
 Sylvia were clearing away the dishes; the men, 
 pushing back their chairs, were filling their pipes; 
 the talk had guttered down into the dim vapidities 
 of well-fed complacency; when a tremendous com 
 motion among the fowl in the yard, the furious bark 
 ing of the settlement dogs, and the clatter of hurry 
 ing hoofs, arrested all that they did and brought 
 William Hall, the son, to the door of the house in 
 sudden excitement. 
 
 Opening the door and glancing out, he turned a 
 black look upon those in the room. 
 
 "Here comes the dirty skunk now!" he growled. 
 
 If it had been physiologically possible for the 
 face of Isaac Frake to exhibit pallor, he would have 
 been pale when he learned that Mortimer Randolph 
 had come there ; for he was as certain that it was he 
 as though his name had been used instead of the 
 epithet. By a struggle he repressed all signs, 
 merely looking from one to another of those present
 
 108 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 with an open and questioning countenance, as 
 though inquiring the meaning of the unaccountable 
 behavior of the young man. 
 
 In a moment Mortimer Eandolph was in the 
 doorway. At sight of him Rachel, with a little 
 scream, grasped Sylvia by the arm. "William Hall 
 stared dumbly at him, understanding nothing. His 
 wife wiped her arms nervously on her apron. 
 Young William Hall stood aside, glowering. Frake 
 grinned and nodded with an expression of pleased 
 surprise. As for Sylvia, she looked at him as she 
 had always looked at him when in the presence of 
 others ; save that her face was pale. 
 
 His clothing was draggled and spattered with 
 mud. Flecks of it were on his face ; it plastered his 
 hands ; it encased and hid his boots. Clearly he had 
 ridden fast ; how fast they might have known if they 
 had seen Powhatan gasping for breath in the yard 
 without. 
 
 The expression on Mortimer's face was intense. 
 He was alert, vivid with life and action. His 
 smouldering eyes, his bronze hair straggling across 
 his pale forehead as he stood with hat in hand, his 
 disheveled condition enhanced his handsome and 
 impressive appearance. 
 
 His eyes passed swiftly from one to another of 
 those who were in the room. A glance of passing 
 recognition for the younger Hall, slight as the unim 
 portance of that young man merited ; a look at Frake 
 in which was a momentary trace of surprise at see-
 
 Shadows 109 
 
 ing him there, and at seeing him with the breath of 
 life still in his body ; a nod at the elder Hall ; a bow 
 to his wife; a glimpse at Eachel; a clinging of his 
 eyes for an instant upon Sylvia. 
 
 "I have news for you," he said, full voiced, but 
 calm. ' ' I do not wish to alarm you ; I only desire to 
 put you on guard against the possibilities which you 
 may be called upon to confront. There are many 
 rumors flying about the Indians. Shaubena was at 
 Ottawa last night with many tales. Black Hawk has 
 crossed the Mississippi with a thousand braves, he 
 says, and marches inland. Shaubena is our friend. 
 He tells what he believes." 
 
 Eachel, with a shriek of terror, threw herself into 
 her sister's arms. The son forgot his look of dislike. 
 The father came closer, eager to hear more. The 
 mother wound and unwound her apron about her 
 hands. Frake sat dumb and transfixed, his eyes 
 starting from his head. As for Sylvia, she stroked 
 the dark hair of her sister, whispering to her. Her 
 eyes rested upon the face of Mortimer Randolph, as 
 they always rested when others were about. 
 
 He told them many of the wild stories that had 
 come to Ottawa, discounting them as he told them. 
 He answered such questions as he could. For a 
 space it was forgotten, in the excitement of the 
 threatened danger, that he was more than any other 
 man. Between them all was the spell of common 
 danger. It was he who broke it by intruding the 
 personal element.
 
 110 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 "Frake," he said, "the men who care to go to 
 protect the frontier are gathering at Nixon's. Mr. 
 Hall, I should not wish to presume to make sugges 
 tions, but I hope you will consider well before either 
 yourself or your son leaves your family here with 
 out all the protection that is available. I myself 
 must go immediately to the mouth of the Eock Eiver 
 to see if anything can be done with the Indians. It 
 may be that Black Hawk can be diverted. I came 
 this way to let you know. I must hurry on. Do not 
 alarm yourselves. At the worst, you will only need 
 to exercise precaution. Good day!" 
 
 With a swift, wistful look at Sylvia he turned 
 from the door and passed to Powhatan. Sylvia, 
 gently laying aside her sister's arms, glided after 
 him. Her brother would have detained her. She 
 passed him and went to the side of Mortimer. 
 
 "You are going at once?" she murmured, with 
 downcast eyes. 
 
 "Sylvia, I must!" he answered, with emotion. 
 ' * I have much to tell you. I left New Salem to come 
 to tell you. But this news I must go at once, 
 Sylvia. I have had dealings with the Indians. For 
 a time I was with the Indian agency headquarters at 
 Jefferson Barracks. Perhaps I have some influence. 
 Perhaps I can avert the danger. Perhaps I can at 
 least reduce it." He paused. "It was good of you 
 to give me these few words with you. ' ' He took her 
 hand for an instant. "I have much to tell you; I
 
 Shadows 111 
 
 shall come when I can to tell it to you. Good-bye, 
 Sylvia!" 
 
 Their eyes met. She bade him no farewell with 
 her voice. She could not. He rode away, dragging 
 her heart after him over the rough road through the 
 cold grey April morning. Would to Heaven he 
 might have said what he had come to say to her 
 before he had ridden away to the Indians ! 
 
 1 'It's him all right," said William Hall the son, 
 exchanging glances with Frake when Sylvia left the 
 room. 
 
 "It sure is, I am sorry to say," returned Frake. 
 
 "Sunning right off to the Indians, the first 
 thing ! ' ' cried Rachel. ' ' Now I wonder if Miss Obsti 
 nacy will believe what I tell her ! ' ' There was a ring 
 of malicious exultation in her voice, distinctly 
 feminine. 
 
 "The dirty skunk!" growled the junior Hall; 
 "it's goldarned funny how much he seems to think 
 of them Indians. Tears like he didn't want some of 
 'em to git killed ! ' ' 
 
 "Shame on you, Bill Hall!" expostulated Frake. 
 "Hush," he added with solicitude; "here's your 
 sister. She mustn't know." 
 
 Sylvia Hall, her face like the grey morning into 
 which her lover had ridden away, passed across the 
 room to where the dishes stood ready to be cleaned.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 LOVE AND FEAR 
 
 village of New Salem was all astir again ; to 
 JL the last citizen it had turned out and was down 
 by Cameron's dam once more on another April 
 morning, tingling with excitement. New Salem had 
 had many blessings to be thankful for since it had 
 gathered by the dam on that April morning the year 
 before to watch a long and angular boatman get a 
 flat-boat over the dam ; many of which were directly 
 or indirectly traceable to this same long and angu 
 lar boatman, their present fellow-citizen, Abraham 
 Lincoln. 
 
 There had been the vanquishing of Clary 's Grove 
 boys and their subsequent allegiance to New Salem ; 
 there had been the sojourn of the somewhat inscrut 
 able stranger with bronze hair, an anomalous com 
 posite of dandy and millhand; there had been the 
 love affair of the stranger and Sylvia Hall, with its 
 baffling issue. More interesting than these things 
 was the disappearance of John McNeill, lover of 
 Ann Rutledge, affording opportunity for intermina 
 ble speculations about the cause of his departure 
 his reasons had long since been rejected the proba 
 bilities of his return and the exact present and 
 prospective status of Abraham Lincoln if he should 
 
 112
 
 Love and Fear 113 
 
 or should not return; problems that were pecu 
 liarly compensating and satisfying to the soul as 
 being utterly beyond the possibility of conjectural 
 solution. 
 
 Within the week the community had been enter 
 tained by the vanishing of Denton Offutt, hopelessly 
 bankrupt and a fugitive from his creditors ; an exit 
 beautifully in harmony with the career of that ver 
 satile and voluble financier. This had led to further 
 excitement. Abraham Lincoln, the clerk, having 
 demonstrated to himself and his employer that his 
 greatest opportunities in life did not lie in merchan 
 dising, and being stirred to ambition by the popu 
 larity which was forced upon him by the neighbor 
 hood, had come out, in a neat circular, for the 
 legislature. 
 
 The startling feature of his candidacy was that 
 he stoutly proclaimed himself a Clay man and a 
 Whig, in a district that was violently Jackson and 
 Democratic. His stand for the principles of the 
 "American System" doomed him, declared the wise 
 ones of the settlement. Perhaps he thought so him 
 self, for he wrote in the conclusion of his circular: 
 "If the good people, in their wisdom, shall see fit to 
 keep me in the background, I have been too familiar 
 with disappointments to be very much chagrined." 
 
 One source of strength there was, however, in 
 the "American System." The American System, 
 standing for internal improvements among other 
 things, implied making the Sangamon River naviga-
 
 114 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 ble. This principle Lincoln promulgated and empha 
 sized ; and in this he was f atefully opportune, for it 
 was this very thing that was the cause of the agita 
 tion that brought all New Salem tingling to the banks 
 of the river by Cameron's dam on this morning in 
 April. 
 
 For there, chugging and chooting back and forth 
 in the back-water pond above the dam, was a steam 
 boat, constructed of wood and iron, as a steamboat 
 should be, with clanking, clanging, groaning, wheez 
 ing inward parts that propelled it through the virgin 
 waters of the Sangamon Eiver in a manner fitting 
 and appropriate to such a craft. 
 
 It was the steamer Talisman, brought all the way 
 from the Ohio Kiver by a zealous advocate of 
 internal improvements to demonstrate that the river 
 could afford passage to steam vessels as high as 
 Springfield. It had gone up to that place on the 
 flood waters in triumph. Keturning, it had been 
 brought low in its pride by the little dam at New 
 Salem, and was scolding and fuming about it as 
 befitted the occasion, having no more honor left than 
 a flat-boat. All the town was down to see it. 
 
 There were the merchants and farmers, the smith 
 and the carpenters New Salem had two joiners 
 now the tinner and the hatter, other increments to 
 the community; the housewives and the swarms of 
 children, many of them also increments; the young 
 men and the maids, just as there had been the year 
 before; excepting, specifically, that the sisters Hall
 
 Love and Fear 115 
 
 were not there; that no stranger with brown eyes 
 came riding on a roan charger to raise their hair 
 with his cool daring, and that the lover who stood by 
 the side of Ann Eutledge was not John McNeill, but 
 an exceedingly tall and angular young man with 
 deep set, sad blue eyes and a face that would have 
 been ugly had it not been for a benign light that 
 shone through it. 
 
 But New Salem was disappointed on this morn 
 ing. The novelty of the sight of the steamer had 
 worn off early in its sojourn in the mill pond. There 
 was nothing picturesque or exhilarating in the peril 
 in which she was placed. There was no tall and 
 angular boatman in her crew to entertain them with 
 stories and repartee. And the manner of her even 
 tual escape did not fire the imagination and stir 
 the soul. 
 
 For those who had the Talisman in charge re 
 sorted to the purely physical and prosaic device of 
 tearing a hole in the dam to permit her passage 
 down stream, first settling roundly with old John 
 Cameron for the prospective damage. A principle 
 was at stake ; and a principle must not be deterred 
 or impeded in its progress by facts or the laws of 
 man, nature, or God. 
 
 Long before the demolition was completed and 
 the boat safe below the dam, interest in the proceed 
 ings began to w T ane, and the people of New Salem 
 set back toward their village in a slowly drifting cur 
 rent, disappointed and unsatisfied, to gather in
 
 116 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 knots in the street, hungry for something with which 
 to appease the appetites whetted by the promise of 
 adventure held out when the Talisman was first 
 heard chooting and chugging in the mill pond. 
 
 Abraham Lincoln, shambling flat-footed up the 
 hill with Ann Rutledge, left her at the tavern and 
 wandered to the groups standing about the streets. 
 Joining them, he read the signs of the hour. He 
 knew the psychological moment was at hand for a 
 bit of politics. He passed a group of his closest 
 friends. He began to talk. He talked about the 
 navigability of the river; about the American Sys 
 tem in general; about Clay, about Jackson; he re 
 verted to local matters and diverged upon State 
 politics; he* gather about him a larger group; he 
 talked in a voice louder and louder as the group 
 grew. 
 
 "Speech!" shouted William Munson. 
 
 ' ' Speech ! Speech ! ' ' shouted ' ' Slicky Bill ' ' Green. 
 
 "Speech! Speech! Speech!" shouted everybody. 
 
 Somebody brought a keg for him to stand upon. 
 Haft a dozen shoved him toward it, and upon it. 
 "Speech! Speech!" they shouted. "Abe Lincoln! 
 Abe Lincoln ! Speech ! Speech ! Speech ! ' ' 
 
 "Gentlemen and fellow citizens," he began; "I 
 presume you know who I am. I am humble Abra 
 ham Lincoln" "Humble hell!" shouted a Jackson 
 man. The sad grey eyes wandered toward him. 
 "My politics are short and sweet, like the old 
 woman's dance," proceeded the candidate. "I am
 
 Love and Fear 117 
 
 in favor of the internal improvement system and a 
 high protective tariff " " High way robbery," bel 
 lowed the Jackson man. The quiet grey eyes were 
 fixed for a moment on him. The quiet grey eyes saw 
 William Munson edging toward the interloper in 
 belligerent attitude. 
 
 "My fellow citizens," he proceeded; "I may not 
 live to see it, but give us a protective tariff and we 
 will have the greatest country on the face of the 
 earth!" 
 
 ' * Give you a rope to hang yourself ! ' ' roared the 
 Jackson man. 
 
 There was terrific commotion in the vicinity of 
 the Democratic partisan. William Munson had ar 
 rived at his side, and laid hands upon him at the 
 latest interruption. The air was filled with swinging 
 fists, grunts, curses, the sound of blows. Munson 
 went down. The other, astride of him, pounded his 
 head with clenched fists. 
 
 The grey eyes saw. Lincoln left the keg. He 
 churned his way through the delighted spectators. 
 He laid one hand upon the neck of the Jackson man 
 and the other upon the back of his clothing where he 
 knelt over his fallen foe. Swinging him like a sack 
 in his pendulous arms, he flung him spraddling over 
 the heads of the crowd, a dozen feet away, where he 
 fell in a heap and was swiftly possessed, still in a 
 heap, by Munson and Slicky Bill. 
 
 "Fellow citizens," said Lincoln, resuming his 
 keg and his speech, "I have spoken as I thought. I
 
 118 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 may be wrong in regard to any or all of the matters 
 I advocate; but I hold it a sound maxim that it is 
 better only sometimes to be right than at all times 
 wrong. My case is thrown exclusively on the inde 
 pendent voters of the country. If elected, I shall be 
 thankful ; if not, it will be all the same ! ' ' 
 
 Mighty cheers arose from the throats of his 
 audience. He was a despised Whig ; but first of all 
 he was Abe Lincoln, and they cheered wildly and 
 long. 
 
 "Cheer, you condemned Democrat!" shouted 
 Slicky Bill Green to the Jackson man, still in a heap 
 on the edge of the crowd, grinding his face into the 
 soil of New Salem with his elbow. Munson, sitting 
 on the man's legs, jounced up and down vigorously 
 by way of persuading him. 
 
 * ' Hurrah ! ' ' growled the man. 
 
 * ' Cheer for Honest Abe Lincoln ! And be happy 
 about it ! " persisted Slicky Bill. 
 
 "Hurrah for Honest Abe Lincoln," repeated the 
 man, with a lack of spontaneity and enthusiasm 
 highly unsatisfactory to Slicky Bill. 
 
 To what further devices Green would have re 
 sorted for the purpose of restoring the man's spirits 
 and obtaining the proper ring of acclaiming joy in 
 his cheering voice will forever remain unknown, for 
 before he had set about putting them into execution 
 he was diverted by an excited uproar in the skirts of 
 the howling gathering, followed by a tense hush. He
 
 Love and Fear 119 
 
 arose to his feet, William Munson with him, and per 
 mitted the Democrat to assume a natural position. 
 
 A man on a horse that puffed and foamed from 
 hard riding was waving a large sheet of paper in his 
 hand. The man was ferociously accoutred with a 
 sword and a brace of pistols sticking through his 
 belt, and was struggling with an oppressive sense of 
 importance. 
 
 "Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye!" he shouted, 
 waving the paper frantically. "Citizens of New 
 Salem, I bring you a message from your Governor, 
 John C. Eeynolds; listen to his warning!" 
 
 There was not a sound among them. Surely, 
 New Salem had much to be grateful for ! 
 
 "To the militia of the southwest section of the 
 State, ' ' read the man, rolling his eyes from his docu 
 ment to his audience and back again at every pause. 
 ' ' Fellow citizens : Your country requires your serv 
 ices. The Indians have assumed a hostile attitude 
 and have invaded the state in violation of the 
 treaty of last summer. The British band of Sacs and 
 other hostile Indians, headed by Black Hawk, are in 
 possession of the Rock Eiver country, to the great 
 terror of the frontier inhabitants. I consider the 
 settlers on the frontier to be in imminent danger. 
 In possession of the above facts and information, I 
 have not hesitated as to the course I should pursue. 
 No citizen ought to remain inactive when his country 
 is invaded and the helpless part of the community in 
 danger. I have called out a strong detachment of
 
 120 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 militia to rendezvous at Beardstown on the 22d 
 instant. Provisions for the men and food for the 
 horses will be furnished in abundance. I hope my 
 countrymen will realize my expectations and offer 
 their services as heretofore, with promptitude and 
 cheerfulness, in defense of their country. (Signed) 
 John C. Eeynolds, Governor of the State of 
 Illinois." 
 
 Wheeling his horse, the courier disappeared at 
 dramatic speed before his fellow citizens could col 
 lect themselves for one word. The men of New Salem 
 stared at each other blankly, with wide eyes. One 
 by one, with a common instinct, they looked at 
 Abraham Lincoln. 
 
 Slicky Bill made his way to Lincoln's side. 
 "What shall we do about it, Abe?" he asked, 
 helplessly. 
 
 "Well, I can't answer for the rest of you," 
 returned Lincoln, looking down into the faces turned 
 toward him, "but I'll tell you what I'm going to do. 
 I'm going to leave for Beardstown to-morrow morn 
 ing, if I can get a nag. If I can 't, I '11 go anyway. ' ' 
 
 "By cracky, Abe, I'll go with you!" exclaimed 
 Green, suddenly inspired. 
 
 So would they all go with him ! They proclaimed 
 as much in a babel of voices ! The excitement broke 
 forth in a buzzing confusion! They talked, they 
 laughed, they shouted, they swore. Presently they 
 dispersed and ran frantically to their several homes 
 to break the news and prepare for the expedition.
 
 Love and Fear 121 
 
 The utmost that New Salem had been through in 
 its short history was as an old woman's tale to the 
 excitement and turmoil that agitated the settlement 
 that night. The wildest rumors of the Indian upris 
 ing flew from house to house. The women ran bare 
 headed to tell that Black Hawk was at the head of a 
 conspiracy belittling Pontiac's; that he came with 
 thousands of Indians from the Western plains ; that 
 an English army was marching from Green Bay to 
 cooperate with him, and many other stories of like 
 import. "Wives wept on the shoulders of husbands 
 going forth to danger ; young men made it the occa 
 sion for intimate and personal confessions long con 
 templated, and the entire community conducted 
 itself as a community should that believes itself to 
 be on the threshold of a long and bloody war. 
 
 Abraham Lincoln was not oppressed by a sense 
 of the momentous solemnity of the hour. He looked 
 upon it as serious ; he was sober in his discussion of 
 it ; but he had heard much of Black Hawk from his 
 friend Randolph, and believed that he was not the 
 bloodthirsty and abandoned savage that rumor 
 made him out to be. He even felt that actual con 
 flict might have been averted, and might still be. 
 Ann Butledge shared his view of the situation; she 
 shared most of his views now. As they sat together 
 in the deserted dining room of the tavern after the 
 supper had been cleared away, which was the only 
 place where they could be alone, they talked of 
 other things.
 
 122 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 They talked of the time when he should return 
 from the war. They planned for the years to come, 
 without one thought that he might not come back. 
 He had his way to make before they could carry out 
 their plans together. Together they planned the 
 making of the way. If he should be elected in the 
 summer, their plans would be hastened. They did 
 not delude themselves with the high hope of that, 
 however. If he should not be elected, he would go 
 to Springfield and study law. In the course of three 
 or four or five years, they could be married if 
 McNeill should not return meanwhile. 
 
 Always there was that between the two. Deserted 
 as she had apparently been by him, and loving her 
 brave and generous sweetheart as she did, she never 
 theless could not rid her mind of a sense of obliga 
 tion toward her former lover. She had given her 
 word to him. If he came to claim the forfeit, she 
 would fulfill it, for the good of her soul. Such was 
 her supersensitive conscientiousness. In her heart 
 she prayed he would not; in her heart she dreaded 
 lest he should. 
 
 Understanding this with an insight keener than 
 a woman's ; knowing her fear and the torture of it to 
 her; patient, magnanimous, considerate, Abraham 
 Lincoln gave her what courage he could. He did not 
 speak of love as they sat there alone. He did not 
 try to dispel her doubts. It was a struggle within 
 her own soul; her own soul must prosecute it to a
 
 Love and Fear 123 
 
 conclusion. Like a tender friend, shielding her from 
 every shock he could forfend, thoughtful only of her 
 peace of mind, utterly devoted to her happiness, sac 
 rificing his own pride, laying bare his own sensitive 
 nature, he was willing to await the time and abide 
 by the outcome. He loved her, and would con 
 tinue to love her. More than that he could not do 
 for her. 
 
 And so that night they talked of their plans, 
 always predicated upon the "if," the dread possi 
 bility that gnawed into her soul. When their future 
 was before them and the other was hidden, she was 
 joyous, and the face of Lincoln glowed with a serene 
 happiness that made it a thing of beauty, rough and 
 homely as it was. When her thoughts turned back 
 to the dread present again, as they always did, joy 
 went from her, and a look of ineffable sadness came 
 into the patient blue eyes of her lover. 
 
 Thus it was between them when he arose from 
 the table at last to bid her farewell; there could be 
 no farewell between them on the morrow. Thus it 
 was between them when he bent over her and kissed 
 her full on the lips. Thus it was between them when 
 she looked up into his eyes through her tears, and 
 smiled upon him a smile over which was the shadow 
 of dread, the ghost of fear. 
 
 On the morrow he road away to the war, with 
 those others who went from New Salem. At the end 
 of the village he turned for the last time to wave
 
 124 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 farewell to her, where she stood before her father's 
 door, ere he passed from sight. As he turned his 
 face again to the West the look of sadness was deep 
 within his eyes.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 CANT-HOOKS AND CAPTAINS 
 
 IN THE beginning, it was a lark for the boys of 
 New Salem to set out on a chase after Black 
 Hawk. There was a vivifying sense of freedom and 
 irresponsibility in getting on a horse and riding 
 across a new country with a company of boon com 
 panions. There was novelty. There was adventure. 
 There was a flavor of danger about it. The recruits 
 from New Salem made merry as they rode toward 
 Richland, their first camp, on that morning in April. 
 
 As reckless and roistering as any, Abraham Lin 
 coln rode among them, joining in their rough play, 
 bandying jokes with them, telling them stories, tuss 
 ling with them from the back of his horse and other 
 wise deporting himself like an exuberant youth with 
 great animal strength in his arms, though with some 
 thing in his mind which he would forget. With 
 laughter and shouts he rode among them; but 
 through all his laughter and his shouting there was 
 a deep sadness at the bottoms of his grey eyes. The 
 dread of her dread was upon him. 
 
 ''Abe, how would you like to be captain of this 
 shebang?" cried Slicky Bill, riding alongside of him 
 early in the march. 
 
 "Well, Slicky, I should like, of course I should 
 
 125
 
 126 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 like it, if the boys want to make me captain," re 
 turned Lincoln. "Nobody could be insensible of the 
 honor. ' ' 
 
 "Good!" cried Slicky. "Old Bill Kirkpatrick 
 wants it. The boys don't like him, but they are 
 afraid of him, 'cause he's so rich. What if he is the 
 richest man in Sangamon county!" went on Green, 
 with fire. "I guess this is a free country, and we 
 don't have to knuckle down to no goldarned rich 
 fellers!" 
 
 "Now, see here, Bill," rejoined Lincoln, with 
 sudden animation. "I hadn't cared overmuch about 
 being captain until you told me that old Kirkpatrick 
 wanted it ; but now I wish you would elect me, if you 
 could. I'll tell you why. Did I ever tell you about 
 Kirkpatrick and the cant-hook?" 
 
 No, he never had. 
 
 "Well, when I first came to this country," went 
 on Lincoln, "I got work with Kirkpatrick to roll 
 some logs. He didn't have a cant-hook, so he said 
 he'd get one. Now, a cant-hook costs two dollars, 
 Bill, and I made a proposal to Kirkpatrick. I told 
 him that if he would give me the two dollars, I 
 would move the logs without a hook. He agreed, 
 and I did move them, with a bar and a piece of rope. 
 Bill, when he came to pay me off he did not give me 
 that two dollars, and he never has. If you boys 
 could elect me captain I'd be willing to call it square, 
 and to tell him so. ' '
 
 Cant-Hooks and Captains 127 
 
 "By hen, I'll fix him!" ejaculated Green, highly 
 indignant ; and immediately went about doing it. 
 
 This is how he did it: The election was on the 
 following morning. The two candidates stood apart. 
 The men were told to fall in line behind their favor 
 ite. A howling, tumbling mob broke in Lincoln's 
 direction. When the ballots had subsided sufficiently 
 for inspection, the line behind Honest Abe was thrice 
 the length of the one behind Kirkpatrick. 
 
 "Cant-hook! Cant-hook!" shouted the Lincoln 
 supporters, while the towering militia captain looked 
 blandly upon Kirkpatrick, sputtering in his wrath. 
 
 "I swear, Bill," said Lincoln, confidentially to 
 Slicky, when they were on the march. "It's a fine 
 thing to be captain, but how under Heaven do you 
 do it?" 
 
 Bill didn't know, but suggested for the comfort 
 of his friend that probably nobody else did, and 
 that therefore he could not make any palpable blun 
 ders in the manual. Lincoln took courage there 
 from, and marched at the head of his command with 
 a serene confidence in fate. 
 
 Fate presently presented itself in the form of a 
 narrow gate in a fence, through which the files of 
 the company could not possibly pass abreast. Lin 
 coln, seeing it at a distance, pulled Slicky Bill by the 
 sleeve and pointed to it. 
 
 "What '11 I tell 'em? What '11 I tell 'em, Bill?" 
 he asked, under his breath. "What's the proper 
 command to get 'em to go endwise?"
 
 128 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 ' * Hanged if I know ! ' ' replied Bill, perplexed. 
 
 "Men!" shouted Lincoln, for they were at the 
 fence; "this company is dismissed for two minutes, 
 when it will fall in on the other side of the gate ! ' ' 
 
 Narrow gates in fences were not the only em 
 barrassments of his new office. He found it difficult 
 to obtain from the men the necessary respect for his 
 military authority without forfeiting their personal 
 regard for himself. They were a wild, irreverent lot 
 of fellows at best, on whom all restraint sat lightly. 
 To be under the absolute direction of one of their 
 own number; to receive orders from an old chum 
 and to obey them with a straight face ; to look upon 
 his office as anything more than an amusing for 
 mality and a joke on Kirkpatrick, was incompatible 
 with their principles of liberty and their sense of 
 the fitness of things. 
 
 It became necessary for Lincoln to make them 
 realize that he was commander and to preserve his 
 dignity without arousing their dislike. In this task 
 the strength of his arms, which he was always able 
 to exert with a smile on his face and mildness in his 
 eye, did much. His patience, tact, good humor and 
 presence of mind did more. Only once was he openly 
 defied. Early in his command a private suggested 
 that he go to the devil when he issued a command. 
 It brought up a point of military etiquette and disci 
 pline which was settled immediately and perma 
 nently. 
 
 Another time indirect disobedience brought trou-
 
 Cant-Hooks and Captains 129 
 
 ble upon him. Some of his men found where the 
 whisky of the expedition was kept, and stole some 
 of it. In the morning part of his command could 
 not march. He was blamed, and suffered punish 
 ment vicariously for his men. All day he was obliged 
 to carry a wooden sword in his hand. The time was 
 to come when he was to carry a much more griev 
 ous burden through the faults of his countrymen, 
 and with the same forbearance and good-tempered 
 patience that he exhibited on that day. 
 
 He himself was not entirely schooled in the strict 
 requirements of military discipline. He himself 
 transgressed on one occasion, and suffered for it. 
 An order was issued that there should be no firing of 
 arms within a hundred yards of the camp, for obvi 
 ous reasons involving the public safety. One night 
 he discharged his pistol in camp, that being the only 
 method of unloading it. For this he was rebuked 
 and deprived of his sword for a day. It was his 
 last offense. 
 
 The militia marched from the rendezvous at 
 Beardstown toward the Yellow Banks, on the Mis 
 sissippi, where they were to receive supplies to be 
 forwarded from Jefferson Barracks by water. The 
 holiday spirit of the expedition continued on the 
 march. Even the crossing of the swollen and turbu 
 lent Henderson River, effected by means of a raft 
 and an old leaky boat, was a lark, accompanied by 
 much unnecessary splashing and wetting of clothes. 
 
 The enthusiasm lasted until they reached Yellow
 
 130 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 Banks. It was so high that when the New Salem 
 company and another company both desired the 
 same spot for a camp, a contest was arranged to 
 determine which should have it. The New Salem 
 boys, having Lincoln's prowess in mind, suggested 
 that a champion from each company wrestle for 
 choice. The other company, having in mind a giant 
 among them, by name Dow Thompson, accepted the 
 challenge. 
 
 The entire army came to see the fun. All the 
 money and detachable property of the soldiers was 
 wagered on the result. The champions were pro 
 duced. They grappled. In a moment Lincoln looked 
 over his antagonist's shoulder at his friends. 
 
 "This is the most powerful man I ever had hold 
 of," he said. "He will throw me and you will lose 
 your all unless I act on the defensive. ' ' 
 
 In another moment Lincoln went down, bringing 
 the other with him. 
 
 "Dog-fall! Dog-fall!" screamed Slicky Bill 
 Green, jumping into the air and waving his hat. 
 "That don't count. Try it again, Abe! You can 
 throw him ! ' ' 
 
 "Fair fall! Fair fall!" shouted Thompson's 
 supporters. 
 
 Instantly the two factions charged each other. 
 
 * * Hold on, boys ! ' ' cried Lincoln, running between 
 them. * ' Give up your bets ! ' ' to his friends * ' if he 
 has not thrown me fairly, he could ! ' ' 
 
 Peace was restored. It was the first and the last
 
 Cant-Hooks and Captains 131 
 
 time that Lincoln was ever vanquished in wrestling. 
 It was not the first or the last time that he sacrificed 
 his personal pride by surrendering non-essentials 
 for the sake of peace. It was not the first or the last 
 time that his sense of proportion, his gift of perspec 
 tive, his grasp of the relative importance of things, 
 made compromise with his own interests for the 
 general welfare. 
 
 The spirit of the militia underwent rapid trans 
 formation at Yellow Banks. The provisions did not 
 arrive from Jefferson Barracks. The men grew 
 hungry. There was nothing for them to do but drill. 
 They became restless, refused to obey their officers, 
 grumbled, fell to talking about going home, and they 
 grew mutinous. 
 
 It was Lincoln who saved them. Lincoln, with his 
 droll stories ; Lincoln, with his farcical pranks ; Lin 
 coln, with his sympathetic good nature, his humor 
 ous point of view, his optimism. He submerged the 
 officer in the man. He relinquished the man for the 
 buffoon. He turned clown. He made them laugh. 
 Those who laugh cannot mutiny. They forgot their 
 grievances. They plucked up their spirits. The pro 
 visions arrived, and they set off for Fort Armstrong 
 at the mouth of the Eock River in picnic mood again. 
 
 There they joined the forces under General 
 Atkinson, the "White Beaver. " With General 
 Atkinson was a colonel of the regular army, com 
 manding four hundred men from Forts Leaven- 
 worth and Crawford; a bluff, rugged colonel. His
 
 132 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 name was Zachary Taylor. Under Colonel Taylor 
 was a certain second lieutenant. He was not then 
 present. He had been away on furlough; he was 
 hastening to rejoin his command, voluntarily. His 
 name was Jefferson Davis. 
 
 The army set out on Black Hawk's trail, which 
 led up the right bank of the Eock River. The 
 mounted volunteers, under General Whiteside and 
 Governor Reynolds, marched along the banks of the 
 river, through the mud, over prairies, among dark, 
 damp woods. General Atkinson was with them. 
 Colonel Taylor with his regulars and three hundred 
 unmounted militia followed in boats. 
 
 They came to Prophetstown. The Indians had 
 burned it, and gone on. They reached Dixon's ferry, 
 kept by John Dixon, an old resident, who had always 
 maintained friendly relations with the Indians. 
 Isaiah Stillman and David Bailey were there with 
 militia from the northern part of the State, im 
 patient to strike the Hawk. 
 
 Lincoln, sauntering to Dixon's tavern, where his 
 company was mustering, encountered a handsome 
 young man with hair of bronze and brown eyes. 
 
 1 ' Well, howdy, Randolph ! " he said. * ' You here ? ' ' 
 
 1 'Hello, Abraham! I'm glad to see you!" re 
 turned Randolph. 
 
 ''How about this, Randolph?" Lincoln asked, 
 when they had exchanged further words of greeting. 
 "Is there going to be a fight? Where is Black 
 Hawk?"
 
 Cant-Hooks and Captains 133 
 
 " There need not have been a fight,'' returned 
 Randolph. "The Hawk did not come to make trou 
 ble. I have talked with him. He only wants to make 
 corn among the Winnebagos. He came to plant on 
 his old territory. He brought all the women and 
 children with him. The poor old fellow believes that 
 he is right. He thinks he has been badly treated. 
 He does not want war. ' ' 
 
 "You say you have seen him?" 
 
 ' * Yes ; I went to Prophetstown. He received me 
 well. He was friendly. He may have erred; he is 
 stubborn; but he is honest, and does not want to 
 fight. He has passed on into Wisconsin, I expect, to 
 join the Winnebagos." 
 
 "Will they help him if it comes to war?" 
 
 "I presume they do not know that themselves," 
 Randolph made answer. 
 
 Lincoln was silent. The sadness came into his 
 eyes. 
 
 "Randolph," he said at length, "we may be tech 
 nically right in this matter, but we are morally 
 wrong. Our government has the treaty duly signed, 
 but Black Hawk knows that it has not been fulfilled 
 by the whites. Furthermore, the old chief cannot 
 forget the indignities heaped upon his band by the 
 lawless squatters, who were thieves, cut-throats, 
 outlaws from the civilized communities of our land. 
 They fringed their cabins around the Indian's reser 
 vation and appropriated the Indian's gardens. They
 
 134 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 burned their lodges. They beat their women and 
 children. ' ' 
 
 1 'They did worse that that," remarked Kan- 
 dolph. 
 
 "A darky may stand such treatment without 
 turning tail," Lincoln went on, "but an Indian, 
 never ! He'll fight until he dies when his blood is up. 
 The Hawk has a right to insist on the fulfillment by 
 the government of the treaty. He cannot forget the 
 violations of his sacred dead, the destruction of his 
 ancient home, and the cruelty to his women and chil 
 dren. The fact is, the whites are so bitter that they 
 cannot regard an Indian as human as possessing 
 any more rights than so many stones. I see a 
 bloody fight ahead of us, and we shall have enough 
 to answer for if we survive this war. ' ' 
 
 "I am as unwilling to pursue the war to its obvi 
 ous conclusion as anyone," said Eandolph, "but it 
 would seem that there is no alternative now. The 
 Black Hawk is stubborn; the white are fanatic!" 
 
 "Affairs need never have reached this point," 
 responded Lincoln. "I think this is a case where 
 discretion would have been the better part of valor. 
 Better to have let the old chief die in his ancestral 
 home. The case reminds me of one of our pioneer 
 farmers who had a big log lying in the middle of his 
 field. It was too big to haul away; too knotty to 
 split; too wet and soggy to burn. One Sunday he 
 told his neighbors that he had got rid of the log. 
 'How did you do it?' they asked. '"Well, now, boys>
 
 Cant-Hooks and Captains 135 
 
 if you won't tell the secret, I'll tell you,' answered 
 the farmer. 'I just plowed around it!' " 
 
 Another silence was between them. Presently 
 Lincoln turned toward his friend. The shadow of 
 sadness had gone from his eyes. They were filled 
 with gentle sympathy. He laid his hand on Ran- 
 dolph's arm. 
 
 "And Sylvia? How about Sylvia?" he said with 
 a smile. 
 
 Randolph told him briefly of his hasty visit at 
 Indian Creek. "I had barely a word with her," he 
 concluded. 
 
 "You did not show her the letter?" pursued 
 Lincoln. 
 
 Randolph shook his head. 
 
 "My haste was too great," he said. "I felt called 
 upon to reach Rock River without delay. I felt the 
 time was not fitting. Perhaps it would have been 
 better if I had; I accomplished nothing by coming 
 here. And Ann Rutledge I " he went on, finding Lin 
 coln made no response. "Is she well, and happy?" 
 
 A shadow came over the face of the other, a 
 heavy shadow of grief and sadness. 
 
 "Mortimer, Mortimer, she is not happy!" cried 
 Lincoln. In his emotion his voice was almost a 
 moan. "I love her; I love her with a love that con 
 sumes ! I think she loves me. She thinks she does. 
 She is certain she does. But there is a horrible 
 ghost in her soul; the ghost of her promise to that 
 other man. In the honesty and sincerity of her
 
 136 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 nature, she cannot think that she is absolved from 
 that by his leaving. It is as though she were mar 
 ried to him. She fears he will return. It haunts her 
 love for me. It haunts the happiness which that love 
 would bring her. It lies cold and contaminating 
 within her heart. 
 
 ' * I do not know ! I do not know ! ' * Tears were in 
 his eyes as he went on. His voice was low and 
 mournful. ' 'I think she is wrong. The man deceived 
 her. His name is not McNeill. It is McNamar. He 
 told her he had to hide from his people while he 
 made his beginning, lest they follow him and drag 
 him from the ladder he sought to climb before his 
 feet were firm upon it. Perhaps he did. He told her 
 he would come back. Perhaps he will. I do not 
 know ! He writes to her, but his letters are formal 
 and distant. I believe she would be justified in for 
 saking him, but the ghost is in her soul, and she 
 cannot cast it out!" 
 
 There was silence for a moment. The unhappy 
 man raised his two huge clenched fists high above 
 his head. His eyes closed. His great gaunt frame 
 quivered with emotion. 
 
 " My God! My God!" he moaned. " It is killing 
 her ! It is killing her ! And it is I who have done 
 it ! She could bear it if I had not brought my love 
 to her." 
 
 His upstretched hands unclasped. He lowered 
 them, burying his face in them. "I would far rather 
 he returned; I would far rather see them wedded,
 
 Cant-Hooks and Captains 137 
 
 than that this ghost should so devour her soul," 
 he said. 
 
 A silence fell upon them. The hand of Kandolph 
 crept to the shoulder of his friend and rested there. 
 For a moment they stood so. With a shudder through 
 his whole body, Lincoln struggled into self-control. 
 
 * ' I must muster in, ' ' he said, and the two walked 
 silently toward the tavern, where Major Eobert An 
 derson was swearing in the militia for service in the 
 United States Army.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 THE FLAG OF TKUCE 
 
 ISAAC FRAKE, having by virtue of swaggering 
 self-assurance become captain of soldiery in 
 Major Isaiah Stillman's command, rode in the midst 
 of his men with many brave oaths, vociferously ex 
 pounding the purpose and art of warfare as it was 
 at that time conducted by himself and Stillman. 
 Isaac Frake, captain of militia, was in high spirits. 
 His counsel had prevailed. Major Stillman, with his 
 own and Major Bailey's militia, was on the way 
 from Dixon's up the Rock River to chastise Black 
 Hawk and disperse his band. 
 
 It mattered little to Captain Isaac Frake that his 
 counsel had prevailed, because the soldiers, on the 
 point of open mutiny, had demanded to set out on a 
 punitive expedition without more delay after the 
 arrival of Whiteside at Dixon's. It mattered still 
 less that the mutiny was fostered and fomented by 
 himself for the specific purpose which it had 
 attained. If it mattered at all to him, it was a 
 matter of pride. 
 
 Isaac Frake, discussing the objects of war as he 
 rode, had nothing to say about personal revenge as 
 a worthy motive, or hatred for those whom one has 
 injured and fears, or the expediency in removing 
 
 138
 
 The Flag of Truce 139 
 
 from the scene of one's future home Indians to 
 whom one has been a neighbor, and who might 
 remember incidents and circumstances of his neigh- 
 borliness that would be embarrassing in a new order 
 of things. Neither did he have anything to say con 
 cerning the use of whiskey in strategy and tactics, 
 and the opportunities it offered for subverting the 
 natural instincts of the red men. Nor had he any 
 thing to say concerning treachery and guile in any 
 form. 
 
 * * We '11 show the old fraud what it is to defy the 
 United States Government!" quoth Frake, vehe 
 mently, speaking for the Government, as an officer 
 in the army. "We '11 show him that' when an Indian 
 makes a treaty, an Indian has got to keep the 
 treaty!" Speaking for the Government, Frake was 
 silent about the keeping of treaties with the Indians 
 by the United States. "I know the old' cuss," Frake 
 went on. "I didn't live next him for two years for 
 nothing. Coming to make corn, is he? Why don't 
 he make corn in Iowa, where he belongs ? What does 
 he come over here for? Isn't the soil good enough 
 for him there? If he wants to plant, why does he 
 make tracks for the Winnebago country with a band 
 of warriors I Oh, I know him ! ' ' 
 
 Thus said Frake, captain of militia, as he rode 
 forth to slay. This, and much more of like purport, 
 he reiterated, bouncing along with his men. They 
 echoed him approvingly. As an officer and a man 
 of sense, they believed him. Also, they were in
 
 140 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 complacent temper. They were gay. They were out 
 upon a picnic. They laughed and joked roughly such 
 times as they were not called upon to listen to the 
 dissertations of their captain. 
 
 One among them was silent, one who was not 
 made jubilant at the prospect of killing the red 
 skins. Concerning him Frake whispered to his men 
 as they rode: "You fellows watch that man Ran- 
 dolph! He 's a friend of the Indians. He '11 play 
 us into their hands if he gets a chance, or I miss 
 my guess ! I happen to know something about him. 
 And I happen to know of a squaw of the Sacs who 
 has got a papoose with a skin altogether too white 
 to look good on an Indian ! ' ' 
 
 Mortimer Randolph, riding apart, saw the angry 
 looks his comrades cast upon him. Riding alone, 
 he gave them no heed. 
 
 All day they went on through the unbroken 
 woods, three hundred and fifty white men, laugh 
 ing, singing, joking, cursing, awakening the silence 
 of the waste places to a myriad startled echoes, seal 
 ing the throats of birds with terror, making the 
 squirrels cling quivering and afraid to the limbs of 
 the high oaks, peeping wide-eyed upon a sight they 
 had never seen all day, until the rays of the after 
 noon sun slanted among the boles of the trees that 
 clustered along the fringe of Old Man's Creek. 
 
 There they stopped in jubilant mood ; built their 
 camp fires, laughing and frolicking with one 
 another; fried their bacon and boiled their coffee
 
 The Flag of Truce 141 
 
 with many rude jests; they smoked their pipes, 
 lying on the ground beneath the trees in the first 
 twilight of the May evening; and there, insolently 
 defying such of their officers as tried to restrain 
 them, they drank deeply out of many black bottles, 
 roistering and carousing. 
 
 Mortimer Randolph sat apart from the men of 
 Frake's company, of which chance had made him 
 one. He was disturbed and anxious concerning the 
 spirit of the troops. He was made fearful by the 
 black bottles. He knew they would soon be in a 
 temper beyond restraining, and that Indians were 
 close at hand. He was certain in his own mind that 
 Black Hawk would not fight unless forced to defend 
 himself. There was nothing reassuring in the atti 
 tude of the militia, as they sang and cursed and 
 joked, reviling the Indians and filling the end of 
 the day with threats. Deep in a mood of abstrac 
 tion, he arose from the log on which he sat and 
 wandered through the little grove, casting over in 
 his mind what might be done to avert the clash 
 between the militia and the Sacs. 
 
 Frake, whose eyes had not been long absent 
 from Randolph at any time of the carousal, in which 
 he indulged with his men, saw him go. 
 
 "D'you see that?" he muttered to his compan 
 ions. "See him sneaking off like that? Some- 
 tliin's up! He'll bear watching, that man 
 Randolph!"
 
 142 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 Half a dozen of his followers staggered to their 
 feet. 
 
 ' * By God ! we '11 watch him, ' ' they growled, tak 
 ing their guns in hand and stumbling over the 
 uneven ground with uncertain steps. 
 
 Frake arose among them, expostulating. He 
 pleaded with them to do nothing rash in much the 
 same manner that he had lately pleaded with 
 Eachel Hall to spare the man's reputation whose 
 life he had now brought in jeopardy. 
 
 "Don't be in a hurry, men!" he cried, clinging 
 to a pair of them with his fat hands. "I am not 
 sure about him; I only say to watch him. If he 
 tries anything, there will be time enough ! ' ' 
 
 The men were not in a temper to weigh evidence. 
 They pushed Frake aside, protesting loudly that 
 they would have no traitors in camp. Their indig 
 nation grew to anger, their anger swelled into rage. 
 A score of others leaped to their feet. The excite 
 ment of the chase and the liquor was working on 
 the hatred of the redmen that was in each. They 
 became frenzied. Frake no longer held control. 
 
 Major Stillman, hastening thither at the sound 
 of the turmoil, was helpless. Major Bailey pleaded 
 with them in vain. They were a mob. They cried 
 out for the blood of this man Randolph, traitor and 
 spy. With a hoarse roar they turned whither he 
 had disappeared fivescore men, maddened by 
 liquor and brute passion. Frake, appalled by the 
 violence of the storm he had brewed, stood speech-
 
 The Flag of Truce 143 
 
 less, watching them with staring eyes, his jaws 
 hanging in the folds of fat beneath his chin. His 
 device had worked too well. The explosion was 
 taking place too soon for the one who had lighted 
 the fuse. 
 
 Those who followed Randolph, seeking his blood 
 as that of a traitor, had gone scarcely a rod, when 
 the one who led them gave a mighty yell, and stood 
 in his tracks. Twenty feet ahead of them, approach 
 ing through the grove, were three Indians. One of 
 them carried a flag of truce. With them was the 
 man Randolph, whom they sought. 
 
 "Indians!" shouted the leader. 
 
 "Shoot 'em! Hang 'em. Kill the dirty red 
 skins ! ' ' 
 
 Some one in the mob shouted it. Some one fired 
 a shot. The bullet struck the stick to which the flag 
 of truce was fastened. It was shattered in the hand 
 of the one who held it. The flag fell into the dirt. 
 The Indians, astonished at their reception, stared 
 blankly at the soldiers, appreciating their danger, 
 but undaunted. A hoarse roar arose from many 
 throats. 
 
 "What is this for?" cried Mortimer, leaping 
 before the Indians and confronting the men, his 
 eyes flaring, his nostrils dilated with wrath. "Why 
 do you fire on a flag of truce?" 
 
 Drunken and raging though they were, there 
 was something about the appearance and behavior 
 of the man that withheld the hands of the soldiers
 
 144 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 from their guns. They could not shoot him down 
 in cold blood without a word. His single soul was 
 stronger than their many. 
 
 "Where M you find them Indians?" demanded 
 one of the men, less drunk than his fellows. "Who 
 are they? What do they want!" 
 
 "I met them coming through the woods with a 
 flag of truce," Mortimer replied, "and conducted 
 them into camp. "They have come from the Hawk 
 to parley. They are asking for peace, I infer." 
 
 "What were you doing in the woods?" asked the 
 one who had spoken first, the suspicions which 
 Frake had aroused strong within him. 
 
 "I was endeavoring to get away from the 
 drunken and shameless behavior of the men who 
 should be soldiers!" Mortimer answered back. 
 
 Frake, impelled by a curiosity that overcame 
 the fear endangered by his responsibility for the 
 outburst, came to the front of the mob. At sight 
 of the Indian in whose hand was the broken stick 
 that had carried the flag, he swelled with rage ; the 
 rage of a bully who sees his enemy; when he feels 
 himself at an advantage in the presence of his 
 enemy. The Indian was White Eagle! 
 
 "I know this Indian and I know this white man," 
 he bellowed, starting forward with a courage 
 inspired by the temper of the men behind him. 
 "Come on!" He grasped a gun from the hand of 
 a soldier. He could not shoot, for men from other 
 parts of the camp, drawn by the noise, had sur-
 
 The Flag of Truce 145 
 
 rounded the group of Indians and were in the line 
 of fire. 
 
 The half -crazed men, who had hesitated for lack 
 of a leader, pressed forward with a roar of anger. 
 They were a mob once more. The Indians could 
 not understand what was said. They only knew 
 their danger was great. They stood behind the one 
 who championed them, erect and defiant. 
 
 The mob surged forward, paying no heed to the 
 frantic shouts of Stillman and Bailey, who would 
 have held them back. With a rush, they closed 
 about the Indians, who stood motionless and unre 
 sisting, true to the flag of truce, which lay in the 
 dirt at their feet. 
 
 As they came, Mortimer Eandolph fought them 
 back. Without a weapon of any kind, he struggled 
 against the mass with body and limb. His white 
 fist, flashing through the air, fell upon the soft flesh 
 of Frake's face, bowling him over heavily. Twice, 
 twenty times, he struck about him. One of the 
 Indians was felled with the butt of a gun, and lay 
 motionless on the ground. Bailey, tears in his eyes, 
 tore at the fringe of the mob in vain efforts to stop 
 the work that went on. Stillman, struggling where 
 the turmoil was highest, gave what protection he 
 could to the savages, who were now beginning to 
 fight back, seeing no hope of help left in the whites. 
 
 Frake, clambering to his feet, his face suffused 
 with blood from Kandolph's blow, fought his way 
 toward the Southerner, his knife in hand and a
 
 146 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 horrid snarl upon his lips. Great was the bravery 
 of Frake, one of an hundred against one who 
 resisted alone! He came to the side of Mortimer, 
 whose face was turned away in the exigencies of 
 the struggle. Frake 's knife was raised. His wrist 
 stiffened for the blow. He set his teeth. In the 
 instant, while the impulse was traveling from his 
 brain to the nerves of his arm, Mortimer turned. 
 And in the instant his hand grasped the wrist of 
 Frake, twisted it, and sent the man to the ground, 
 crumpled with pain. 
 
 * * Indians ! Indians ! ' ' 
 
 Someone came crying the alarm through the 
 woods. At the cry, the fury subsided from the 
 tempestuous mob as boiling ceases when a kettle is 
 removed from the stove. There were no grada 
 tions in the going down of the ebullition. It stopped 
 at once. Those who had been frantic with rage 
 paused to listen to the one who came through the 
 woods, crying as he ran. 
 
 "Indians! Indians!" he said, coming up to the 
 panting group. "A swarm of them, over there!" 
 
 He pointed across the prairie. There, in the 
 gathering dusk, they saw five savages, mounted on 
 horses, riding slowly across the skyline beyond the 
 camp. At the sight their cries arose again, and 
 fury broke upon them once more, directed this time 
 against the five men they saw. With one accord, 
 oblivious of the authority of their officers, each for 
 himself, they rushed to their horses, saddled them
 
 The Flag of Truce 147 
 
 as swiftly as they could, and started in complete 
 disorder for the five whom they had seen. In the 
 diversion, the two of the peace party who had sur 
 vived the fanaticism of these American militiamen 
 vanished into the grove. 
 
 Major Bailey, seeing the stampede of his sol 
 diers, mounted and followed. Major Stillman 
 endeavored to form such men as had not already 
 taken the field on their own initiative. Frake, 
 purple with wrath, dashed after a knot of his own 
 command. Eandolph, leisurely saddling, kept wary 
 eye on all that went forward. His heart was heavy 
 w r ithin him, for he knew that now the struggle had 
 been precipitated. One comfort he found. The one 
 of the three truce bearers who now lay dead in the 
 camp was not the tall young brave whom he had 
 seen on the hill at Saukenuk the year before, and 
 whom he had recognized in the one who carried the 
 flag of truce. 
 
 The five Indians, seeing the rush of men toward 
 them, put spurs to their horses, and were soon out 
 of sight. Shouting and cursing, the militiamen 
 dashed across the prairie on their trail. In vain 
 did Stillman, riding hard behind them, shout his 
 commands in an effort to bring them in hand. They 
 laughed at him. 
 
 A cry went up from those who led the van of the 
 straggling pursuers. Ahead of them, riding forth 
 from a fringe of thicket, was a small band of Indi-
 
 148 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 ans. At their front, vengeful and magnificent, rode 
 the one who had borne the flag of truce. 
 
 The Americans pressed on, exultant, to brush 
 away this handful. The Indians, pretending fright, 
 withdrew to the thicket. Their pursuers, believing 
 themselves already victors, spurred their horses 
 more keenly, that not one of the savages might 
 escape. A long, ragged line of horsemen drew near 
 the thicket where the Indians had vanished. Like 
 conquerors they rode, shouting ribaldry to each 
 other through the pale shadows of the evening. 
 
 A shot from the thicket ! Another ; and another ! 
 A dozen! A score! A cry that was half a scream 
 tore along the thin, ragged line. One man, shriek 
 ing, tottered and fell from his saddle to the ground. 
 His horse, in panic, wheeled and stampeded back 
 across the prairie. Eeins were drawn. Steeds 
 plowed through the soft ground on their haunches, 
 suddenly held up by their riders. 
 
 A wild yell arose from the thicket; a cluster of 
 mounted Indians broke cover, and ran fiercely 
 toward the line of whites, brandishing spears and 
 hatchets, guns and knives. 
 
 "Bun, men. Eun for your lives!" 
 
 It was Major Bailey gave the order; the only 
 order which his command had ever obeyed with the 
 alacrity which marks good soldiery. As fast as 
 they could bring their horses to a stop and turn 
 them, the men wheeled and fled back toward their 
 camp. Major Stillman, arriving with the handful
 
 The Flag of Truce 149 
 
 that he had gathered into formation, faced them 
 about and bade them fly for their lives, as his junior 
 had done, giving them at the same time an eloquent 
 object lesson in retreating. 
 
 Of the whole force of three hundred and fifty 
 men, but one rode toward the enemy. That one, 
 mounted on a beautiful roan that quivered with the 
 excitement of the firing, went steadily forward to 
 a clump of woods where his quick eye told him a 
 stand could best be made. Fugitives, crazed with 
 fear, passed him, shouting that Black Hawk with 
 his thousands was after them. 
 
 The Indians, breaking into four squads of ten 
 or a dozen each, struck off in different directions 
 of pursuit. One squad, larger than the other, made 
 for the clump of trees in the prairie toward which 
 Mortimer rode. It was led by the brave who had 
 carried the flag of truce. As he came on, Mortimer 
 marveled at the speed which had enabled him to get 
 back from the American camp to his friends in time 
 to join in the fight. 
 
 Entering the clump of trees at one side before 
 the Indians had reached the other, Mortimer 
 glanced hastily about to see if there were any 
 nucleus of a force to which he might attach himself. 
 Of all the three hundred and fifty he alone deplored 
 the struggle with Black Hawk, and desired that 
 there might have been no quarrel. Of all the three 
 hundred and fifty, he was the only one who seemed 
 ready to fight, now that the unhappy time had come
 
 150 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 the only one save a small knot of men whom he 
 saw at last standing in the woods on the edge of a 
 little stream, prepared to meet the oncoming sav 
 ages Major Perkins, Captain Adams, men whom 
 he had known in the march, with a handful of men 
 about them. Putting spurs to his horse, he leaped 
 the creek and galloped toward them. 
 
 As he rode, the Indian yell was heard in the 
 fringe of the clump of trees. Some of the men with 
 the two officers, firing once, broke and fled on their 
 horses. Some of them stayed. Among those who 
 fled was Frake his fury made impotent by his 
 terror. He came in his flight toward Mortimer. 
 His face was distorted by passion and fear. His 
 eyes protruded from his head. 
 
 Close behind him pursued the Indian who had 
 borne the flag of truce; whose strong fingers had 
 once been about the neck of the man he pursued. 
 Now they would not give over their hold, if once 
 they made it fast, until the carcass of the man went 
 limp in their grasp. Frake, turning, saw the Indian 
 .and groaned. Mortimer felt the whiff of his flight 
 as he sped past. He saw the Indian raise himself 
 from his horse's back, poising his spear. He saw 
 the dun arm whip through the air. He saw the 
 streak of the spear against a bit of sky that peeped 
 among the trees, as it flew toward the retreating 
 man. 
 
 As it flew, he struck through the air with his gun, 
 as quick as a cat might have done with its paw, and
 
 The Flag of Truce 151 
 
 struck the javelin from its course. The Indian, in 
 mad career, was abreast of him. Until then, the 
 savage had not seen him, so intent was he upon the 
 other. Gripping his horse mightily with his knees, 
 Randolph flung his arm about the waist of the 
 brave, swept him from his seat and threw him to 
 the ground, where he lay for the moment gasping 
 and breathless. Spurring his own horse, Randolph 
 rode toward the few who stood now the center of a 
 whirling group of screaming savages. 
 
 Not for long did the struggle last. Charging 
 through the Indians from the outside with yells and 
 blows of his clubbed gun, he scattered them for a 
 breath, and in another breath they were gone, in 
 search of a prey that did not fight. Bodies lay upon 
 the ground, writhing in the dark shadows of the 
 trees. Randolph dismounted, hoping there might 
 be some whom he could succor. As he passed 
 among them, leaning over to feel for their pulse, to 
 listen to their breathing, the last of them gasped 
 and lay still. 
 
 With a heavy heart he remounted "Powhatan," 
 and made his way to camp, cautious and watchful.
 
 CHAPTEE XI 
 MASSACRE 
 
 MORTIMER RANDOLPH rode through the 
 woods lying between Dixon's Ferry and 
 Ottawa in the heart of a May morning. The sun 
 shone softly upon him through the tender leaves of 
 the new fledged trees. The flowers smiled up at him 
 from the mold. Birds twittered among the branches 
 overhead, busy with their nests. The heart of Mor 
 timer was light within him; he rode whistling a 
 tune; for on his return his way would lie through 
 Indian Creek. 
 
 He was bearing expresses from Governor Rey 
 nolds to Ottawa, to be forwarded thence to Van- 
 dalia, the capital. The militia, alarmed by the 
 reports brought in by Stillman's stampeded men, 
 cowered in their camp at Dixon's, refusing in 
 their present numbers to go forth and fight. They 
 were growing mutinous, and threatened to return 
 to their homes. Governor Reynolds, in despair, 
 was sending to his capital for more help. It was 
 these messages which Mortimer carried on their 
 first relay. 
 
 Forgetting the sorrow and bitterness of the war 
 as he rode, thinking only of Sylvia, and what it was 
 he had to say to her, he passed beneath the trees, 
 
 152
 
 Massacre 153 
 
 flecked with the sunlight that fluttered through the 
 leaves, eager and joyous. At intervals as he rode 
 he took from the breast of his coat a large envelope, 
 looked into it with an expression of the highest sat 
 isfaction, and replaced it tenderly. It was the letter 
 he had received at New Salem the day before he 
 had first set out for Indian Creek. 
 
 He was in the midst of one of these inspections, 
 after he had been riding upward of an hour, when 
 he heard a horse coming along the trail ahead of 
 him. Powhatan first called his attention to the 
 sound of the animal's steps by a series of soft 
 snorts. The times being uncertain, Mortimer reined 
 his horse to the side of the path, behind a bush 
 which concealed them both, drew his pistol, cocked 
 it, and waited. 
 
 The one who approached was in no haste. He 
 came at a pace distractingly slow. Powhatan, 
 losing patience, pawed the turf entirely without 
 noise, however and looked petulantly at his mas 
 ter. Presently Mortimer saw the man coming 
 toward him. He was white. He rode with head 
 down, deep in meditation. His horse, taking advan 
 tage of his preoccupation, walked. 
 
 There was something familiar to Mortimer about 
 the appearance of the man. He eyed him more 
 attentively. It was Frake. He recalled then some 
 thing that had passed out of his mind that Frake 
 had left Dixon's without announcing his errand 
 early on that morning, when he himself was waiting
 
 154 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 for the despatches to be prepared. Without any 
 assigned reason, he conceived a suspicion from the 
 circumstance of his having come this way. 
 
 Frake 's horse, getting a sniff of Powhatan, 
 brought up short with a snort of surprise. Frake 
 snorted, too, at sight of a man drawn up beside the 
 trail behind a bush with a cocked pistol in his hand. 
 Observing on a second glance who it was that way 
 laid him, his first fright gave way to heavier fear 
 and keen distress. His face indicated confusion 
 and embarrassment, as well. He stammered, with 
 out forming any articulated syllables. Mortimer 
 smiled grimly at him. 
 
 ' ' Well, Frake, it 's you, is it ? Pleasant morning 
 for a ride, isn't it?" he said. "You see," he went 
 on, his brown eyes closing to slits and the smile 
 vanishing from his face, "I am here a little sooner 
 than one might have expected. Now, I do n 't want 
 to be rude, Frake, but I '11 have to ask you to ride 
 on down the trail for a piece; and you need not 
 trouble yourself to look back." 
 
 "What if I won't do it?" growled Frake, per 
 ceiving that the other exhibited no signs of imme 
 diate hostility. 
 
 "Well, I hadn't thought what I might do under 
 those circumstances, because I think that you will," 
 returned Mortimer, calmly, fingering his pistol in a 
 persuasive manner. 
 
 "What business you got ordering me?" snarled
 
 Massacre 155 
 
 the other, his eyes gleaming with hatred. "You 
 bullying coward!" 
 
 " ; We shan't stop to discuss it, Frake at the 
 present time." Mortimer added the qualifying 
 clause with distinct significance. "I am willing to 
 take my chances with the Indians, Frake, but I 
 do n 't want to be traveling with you too close 
 behind. Come, now ! I am somewhat in haste." 
 
 "What you going to do? Shoot me in the 
 back!" Frake intended insulting irony in his tone, 
 and in the leer which accompanied it. 
 
 "If I should, I apprehend that I should only be 
 saving someone else the trouble," returned Morti 
 mer, serenely. He swung his pistol impressively in 
 the direction of the trail toward Dixon's, without 
 further word. Frake, cursing beneath his breath, 
 started his horse and passed by him. 
 
 "You 've got the drop on me this time, you 
 blackguard," he muttered, "but I '11 get you yet! 
 I '11 get you yet ! ' ' 
 
 Mortimer watched until he disappeared. Dis 
 mounting, he stole softly after him for a distance, 
 to make sure that he continued on his course. 
 Mounting again, he took up his way toward Ottawa. 
 
 "Frake is a bad customer, I am afraid, 
 Powhatan," he said, as he rode. "We are likely 
 to have trouble with him before we are through; 
 though I can't entirely understand why we should 
 have aroused his enmity." 
 
 Powhatan seemed to share in the premoni-
 
 156 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 tion and the perplexity of his master, for he flicked 
 his ears a number of times, and whinnied softly as 
 he fell into his lope. 
 
 They had traveled for an hour or two from the 
 time of the meeting with Frake. Mortimer, think 
 ing of many things, had forgotten it. His wary eyes 
 no longer studied the thickets and covers as he rode. 
 Suddenly Powhatan, snorting, stood still in the 
 trail, his ears erect, his limbs trembling with excite 
 ment. Mortimer, recalled to the present, followed 
 the stare of the animal, fixed upon a clump of bushes 
 at a short distance to the left of the trail. 
 
 "Well, boy, what it is? Indians?" he said, 
 addressing the horse, as he was accustomed to do 
 when they traveled alone. 
 
 The horse nickered. Penetrating the bush with 
 his gaze, Mortimer saw a pair of eyes and an Indi 
 an's face, nearly hidden by the leaves a sinister, 
 hangdog face. Half of one of the Indian's ears 
 the right one was lopped off. As he looked, with 
 a faint remembrance of the face and the half ear in 
 his mind, there was a flash from the bush, a puff of 
 smoke, the crack of a musket. A bullet whistled 
 past his head. The face vanished. 
 
 Driving his spurs into the quivering withers of 
 Powhatan, he rushed toward the bushes. The 
 horse could not penetrate. He threw himself from 
 its back and struggled through the tangled boughs, 
 his pistol cocked, his eyes peering among the leaves. 
 He found no trace of the ambuscade, and returned
 
 Massacre 157 
 
 to Powhatan. Mounting, he rode cautiously for 
 ward, looking on all sides as he went. 
 
 "By George, Powhatan!" he exclaimed, when 
 he had ridden a few paces. "That is the Indian 
 Frake met at Saukenuk! I recall him now. He is 
 the one whom the Indian woman called Half Ear, 
 when we found him on the hill that day. 
 Powhatan, my boy, there's something behind 
 this ! If we only knew what it was, old fellow, we 
 should probably know what Frake was doing out 
 this way so early this morning. Well, Half Ear," 
 he added, apostrophizing the Indian, "by your looks 
 I should judge you were in fit company ! ' ' 
 
 The mystery was not enough to hold his mind 
 from what it had been dwelling upon as he rode, and 
 by the time he had reached Ottawa the incident of 
 the ambush was submerged beneath the flood of 
 fancies that buoyed up his heart. He did not tarry 
 long there. He waited only to bait his horse after 
 he had delivered his messages. As for himself, it 
 did not occur to him to eat, though he had ridden 
 nearly fifty miles since the morning. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon before he was on his 
 way to Indian Creek. It was so late that in ordi 
 nary circumstances he would not have started again 
 that day. But there was that in his heart which 
 would not wait. 
 
 Powhatan felt it, too. He swung off down 
 the road that led along the edge of the prairie to the 
 little settlement, a dozen miles away, as though he
 
 158 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 had that moment come fresh from his stall. His 
 ears played as his master talked to him ; with every 
 bound he gave a little confidential snort in response. 
 His master laid no hand on him, letting him take 
 his own pace. The miles reeled away behind his 
 heels. An hour passed at the same swinging lope. 
 Scarcely two miles of the way was left. 
 
 "Good fellow, Powhatan!" exclaimed Mortimer 
 Randolph, in great spirits, looking over his shoul 
 der at the sun, which hung low in the west. "We '11 
 make it before sundown. ' ' 
 
 The horse tossed his head, as though he had 
 intended to do so from the first, and stuck to his gait 
 with even breath. Overhead the blue sky was pal 
 ing into grey. Larks, springing from the ground 
 as he passed, fluttered away with song in their 
 throats. A soft wind made sheen over the lush 
 grass. The odor of spring was in the air. The feel 
 of it was abroad. The lips of Mortimer sang a song 
 as he went, with eyes searching the landscape for 
 the first view of the settlement in among the trees 
 near the creek. 
 
 "There is the place, Powhatan!" he cried, fixing 
 his eyes on the woods. "Eight behind that thick 
 point in the grove." 
 
 Powhatan, making answer with a series of low 
 snorts, quickened his pace. The sun, red in the 
 western sky, cast a crimson glow over the prairie. 
 Shadows thickened in the woods. Behind the woods 
 as they approached lifted a thick head of smoke.
 
 Massacre 159 
 
 " Strange how these people out here go to the 
 labor of clearing the forests for a place for their 
 fields, when they have all these wide and fertile 
 prairies to hand," he remarked, habituated to 
 express his thoughts aloud when he was alone with 
 his horse. He had observed the smoke and supposed 
 the settlers were burning brush. 
 
 Half a mile ! The smoke rose higher. 
 
 "That 's a pretty big bonfire they 're burning, 
 old fellow," said Mortimer, looking at it earnestly, 
 some wonder in his gaze. 
 
 A quarter of a mile! The black billows swelled 
 above the trees. 
 
 ' ' Powhatan ! Did you hear that I ' ' 
 
 Mortimer, leaning forward in his saddle, listened 
 intently, his hand behind his ear. He had heard a 
 cry. Powhatan pricked his ears and snorted once, 
 softly. He had heard it, too. His feet fell more 
 lightly on the ground. He slackened his pace for 
 an instant. 
 
 Across the glow of sunset that was upon the 
 prairie, from the direction of the headland of woods, 
 it came again a sound that checked the currents 
 of Mortimer's blood the cry of a man in the last 
 extremity! Powhatan, hearing it, snorted loudly 
 and broke into a gallop. Mortimer, pale, distraught 
 with dread and suspense, compressed his lips, and 
 said no word. 
 
 Another sound reached his ear; sharp, weird, 
 frightful.
 
 160 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 1 'Great God, Powhatan! Indians!" cried the 
 rider. 
 
 Powhatan, snorting loudly, laid back his ears 
 and quickened into a run. The face of Mortimer, 
 paler still, grew intense. His eyes stared before. 
 His breath came quickly. 
 
 ' ' Powhatan ! Powhatan ! " he whispered hoarsely, 
 encouraging him to greater exertion. "Powhatan! 
 Powhatan!" as the horse flew across the even 
 prairie road. 
 
 Gaining speed with every bound, lengthening his 
 stride, his body close and closer to the ground as 
 he leaped, the horse ran such a race as he had never 
 run. The grass streaked past, green and red 
 beneath the glow of the sunset heavens. 
 
 The eager eyes of Mortimer, fixed on the spot 
 where the settlement was, saw the smoke arising 
 higher above the trees; the column filling swiftly 
 into a dark, whirling volume, tumbling upward. 
 The lower surfaces of it glowed ruddy as it rolled 
 and bellied. The top of it glinted with the setting 
 sun. The glare of flames shone between the trunks 
 of the trees. With it all was a horrible stillness. 
 
 "Now, Powhatan, let your breeding tell! Let 
 the pride of your long line reach greater renown! 
 There is none to watch you save only one ; but never 
 was race run for greater stakes !" 
 
 Three hundred yards lay between them and the 
 point of trees, behind which was the place where
 
 Massacre 161 
 
 the houses were, or had been. Two hundred! A 
 hundred yards ! Faster, faster, he sped ! 
 
 His master no longer whispered his name into 
 the leveled ears. Another name was upon the man's 
 lips, spoken fervently, in the voice of one who prays. 
 
 "Sylvia! Sylvia!" 
 
 Now he could catch glimpses between the boles 
 of the trees that formed the point; glimpses of 
 seething masses of fire, from which dense columns 
 of smoke rushed into the air. The sound of flames 
 came to his ears ; a muttering, growling, heavy roar, 
 sprinkled with faint, crackling noises. There was 
 no other sound, save that of Powhatan's hoofs 
 echoed from the wall of trees. 
 
 The point was gained. Powhatan, trembling 
 from the strain of his exertions and excitement, 
 wheeled close about the last tree. He sped toward 
 that which had been the settlement of Indian Creek. 
 As he turned, a groan came from the lips of his 
 master. 
 
 The few houses that had comprised the settle 
 ment were now pyramids of leaping fire. Flames 
 struck through the windows of the cabin where 
 Sylvia had lived. They licked hungrily about the 
 red lips of the logs. They lapped at the outer sur 
 faces. Tiny blazes sprang up behind them as they 
 swung. 
 
 In the whole view there was no man or woman, 
 unless a hideous heap that lay some paces from the 
 houses near the creek might still be called a man
 
 162 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 or a woman. Over all was the silence of mystery; 
 nothing but the flames to tell him what had become 
 of his beloved. 
 
 " Sylvia! Sylvia!'* he cried, throwing himself 
 from his horse, which stood gasping so close to the 
 burning houses that the heat was pungent upon the 
 man's face and hands. 
 
 "Sylvia!" 
 
 He ran toward the house. Only the tongues of 
 flame made answer to his cry of agony. 
 
 "Sylvia!" 
 
 His hurrying feet struck against something soft 
 and heavy. It was the body of William Hall, her 
 father. The lips were mute. The eyes gave back 
 no look. 
 
 He rushed to the house. The flames beat him 
 back. He ran to the edge of the little ridge over 
 looking the creek bottom to stare across the ground 
 with a dread upon him that dulled his soul. He was 
 calling her name, now softly, now with a shriek of 
 despair. Only the flames, roaring and chuckling, 
 made mocking answer. A sense of utter, desolate 
 solitude possessed him. 
 
 He ran whither Powhatan gasped for breath and 
 threw his arms around the animal's neck, to rid 
 himself of the feeling of loneliness that drove him 
 mad. His eyes were as the red windows of the 
 burning houses. 
 
 He hurried back to the cabin where she had 
 lived. He would enter there, through all the fires
 
 Massacre 163 
 
 of hell ! The flames seared his face. He threw his 
 arms before it, to protect his eyes until they should 
 see that which he sought. The fire singed his hair. 
 The heat of it in his nostrils stifled him. He gasped. 
 He threw back his head. He gathered strength to 
 rush though the flames. There would be but a 
 moment, and then 
 
 Out of the desolate solitude there came the voice 
 of some one calling him; calling him by name. 
 ''Randolph! Randolph! For the love of God, 
 do n't go in there !" cried the voice. 
 
 He turned and staggered from the fire, beating 
 out the flames that had caught in his clothing. The 
 smoke pursued him. A huge, blazing arm, leaping 
 from the house, darted after him, enveloping him 
 for an instant. So vigorously it leaped that it tore 
 itself loose, and went hurling upward, a detached 
 sheet of flame, to flutter and disperse the heated air. 
 Blinded, gagging, he dragged himself free. 
 
 * ' Sylvia ! " he called again. 
 
 "Sylvia isn't in there," answered the voice. 
 "She is all right. She isn't killed. The Indians 
 have got her." 
 
 The voice was close in front of him. Sight, 
 returning to his eyes, revealed to him William Hall, 
 the brother, white with terror, but unharmed. 
 Mortimer groped about for speech. 
 
 "I don't think they '11 hurt the girls," repeated 
 Hall, dazed. "It was Pottowatomies that got them. 
 They won't hurt them."
 
 164 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 "Which way did they go?" cried the other, 
 finding his voice. 
 
 "North," made answer William Hall, blankly. 
 
 "Have you a horse?" 
 
 "They took all the horses." 
 
 "Have you a gun?" 
 
 "The guns were in the house. Say, you can't 
 chase them!" burst forth the young man, realizing 
 what the other had in mind, and forgetting his 
 antipathy in the face of the calamity. "You 'd 
 never catch them. If you did, you could n't do any 
 thing. There are a hundred of them. Anyway, if 
 you tried it they would kill the girls, sure! They 
 would never let them get away like that ! ' ' 
 
 Mortimer made no answer. He strode toward 
 his horse. Hall followed him as he went. 
 
 "See here! "he pleaded. "Don't try that! The 
 best thing you can do for the girls is to get to 
 Dixon's as soon as you can and give the alarm." 
 
 Mortimer paid no heed to the man. He reached 
 Powhatan's side. He placed his foot in the stirrup. 
 Hall laid hold of his arm. 
 
 "Don't go, I tell you! Don't be a fool!" he 
 cried. In crises enemies forget. 
 
 Mortimer threw off his hand, and swung himself 
 from the ground. As he did so Powhatan. groan 
 ing, staggered and fell, overborne in his exhaustion 
 by the weight of his master. Mortimer was scarcely 
 able to leap out from under.
 
 Massacre 165 
 
 "What do you think you could do with that 
 horse!" ejaculated Hall, looking at the animal, 
 which made no effort to rise. 
 
 The accident brought reason back to the mind of 
 Mortimer. Gazing ruefully at Powhatan, he knelt 
 beside him and rubbed his nose. 
 
 "Are you ready to set out for Dixon's?" he 
 asked, presently. His voice was calm and contained. 
 
 Hall made answer that he was. The other urged 
 Powhatan to his feet, loosened the cinch, threw off 
 the bridle, and slung it over his arm. 
 
 "Come!" he said. "Let us be off." 
 
 They started through the gathering dusk, 
 Powhatan after them. 
 
 With much unction, as one to whom fame is 
 assured, William Hall told of the attack made that 
 afternoon upon the settlers ; how the band of Potto- 
 watomies, led by Mike Girty, whom he knew, had 
 descended upon them; how his father and mother 
 and the Davises, and all the settlers, save his sisters 
 and himself, had been killed and scalped, together 
 with minute details of the preceding and attendant 
 circumstances. 
 
 Mortimer, trudging by his side through the dark 
 ness of night, heard little of the story. His thoughts 
 could not fasten on more than one fascinating fact. 
 But this he heard, as they walked through the night : 
 
 "Three of them were Sacs. One of the Sacs 
 was the worst looking Indian I ever saw; a little,
 
 166 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 weazened fellow with a crooked face. One half of 
 his right ear had been cut off sometime!" 
 
 Whereat the thoughts of the listener passed 
 swiftly away from what he was thought to be 
 hearing.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 A MESSAGE FOE THE HAWK 
 
 ENEEAL WHITESIDE, sir, General Atkin- 
 son is right. His only mistake is that he is 
 not emphatic enough. The militia, as it is, is worth 
 less it is worse than worthless. It would be much 
 better if we could send them all home to their women 
 and let the regulars catch the old fox ; but the orders 
 we have from Washington make it necessary for us 
 to send the militia into the field. Therefore we must 
 make them effective by drill and discipline before 
 they make any advance. Your men, sir, look upon 
 this campaign as a pleasure excursion contrived for 
 their benefit and enjoyment. They must be taught 
 that it is war, sir ; war ! ' ' 
 
 Colonel Zachary Taylor, seated at the right hand 
 of General Atkinson at the dining table in John 
 Dixon's tavern, delivered himself in this fashion to 
 General Whiteside and the members of a council of 
 officers, punctuating his speech with many jerkings 
 of his round, hard head and thumpings upon the 
 table. Opposite to him, in some concern over the 
 nature of the colonel's remarks, sat Major Robert 
 Anderson, U. S. A. At his right was Second Lieu 
 tenant Jefferson Davis, his aide, a young man of 
 elegant and handsome features and an air of high 
 
 167
 
 168 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 breeding; courageous, chivalrous, haughty. Dis 
 posed about the board were General Whiteside, 
 Governor Reynolds, Major Henry, Major Stillman, 
 Major Bailey, Captain Fry and a number of the 
 officers of the militia. 
 
 Among them, at the bottom of the table, incon 
 spicuous, retiring, modestly listening to the discus 
 sion that went forward, was one who, in the fullness 
 of time, was to sit at other war councils in the land 
 with the weight of his country upon his shoulders. 
 If Abraham Lincoln had been told that day that the 
 brilliant young lieutenant sitting at the right hand 
 of the rugged colonel, whose handsome face, dis 
 tinguished bearing, high culture, and easy manner 
 he admired and half envied as he watched him, 
 should some day be opposed to him at the head of 
 the bitterest and most tragic struggle in history, he 
 would probably have expressed his opinion of the 
 prophecy in an appropriate anecdote. 
 
 Major Bailey exhibiting symptoms of resent 
 ment at the colonel's condemnation of the militia, 
 Taylor turned to him. 
 
 "Major Bailey will be able to substantiate what 
 I have said," he remarked. "He has seen the 
 militia in action under excellent opportunities for 
 observation. He knows how well they fight !" 
 
 Governor Eeynolds, under the obligation 
 imposed by his office, found it necessary to under 
 take a mild defence of the people of his State, to 
 which Colonel Taylor was about to reply with some
 
 A Message for the Hawk 169 
 
 heat when General Atkinson diplomatically inter 
 posed for the sake of peace. 
 
 ''My contention is not that the militia is totally 
 unfit for service, gentlemen," he said, "though we 
 are all agreed, I think, that they could be made more 
 effective by stricter discipline and drill. There are 
 other elements to the problem, however. The temper 
 of the men must be considered. ' ' 
 
 "They must be taught temper!" interrupted 
 Colonel Taylor. 
 
 "The process would require time, colonel," 
 returned his superior. "It is necessary to bear in 
 mind that the men are so unused to restraint that 
 it is a question whether strict military rigor might 
 not impair their value at first, rather than increase 
 it, by destroying their present enthusiasm, which 
 has revived, and arousing their resentment. They 
 would not readily relinquish their civil rights. Gen 
 eral Whiteside reports that they are now chafing to 
 take up the pursuit of Black Hawk, and that their 
 morale is rapidly disintegrating under the enervat 
 ing effects of their enforced inactivity, which is a 
 circumstance to be considered in dealing with 
 civilian soldiers. 
 
 ' ' For we are forced to deal with them in the dual 
 capacity, colonel," he added to Taylor, who gave 
 symptoms of an eruption; "added to which is the 
 fact that the situation demands that a blow be 
 struck at the Indians without further delay. If 
 Black Hawk intends to join the Winnebagos, as is
 
 170 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 reported, any time that may be afforded him is to 
 our marked disadvantage to say nothing of the 
 alarm in which the country has been thrown by his 
 continuing at large. Therefore I must beg of you, 
 gentlemen, to come to a consideration of the prob 
 lem which the council was called to solve; namely, 
 where and how to strike the blow ! ' ' 
 
 For an hour the discussion ran high. Plans of 
 campaign by the score were proposed and disposed 
 of. The debate drifted 'round and 'round, always 
 striking at last upon the snag of unwillingness, or 
 unfitness, to do the tasks involved in the several 
 schemes. The men would not consent, many of 
 them, their officers said, to go out of the State in 
 pursuit of the Hawk ; they were not equipped for a 
 long campaign ; as a force they were cumbrous and 
 unmanageable. The council grew acrimonious. 
 General Atkinson, continually rapping on the table 
 for order, found it difficult to preserve the decorum 
 of the meeting. Nothing was coming of it but 
 jealousy and friction. 
 
 A lull came. They were back where they began. 
 There was a reluctance on the part of all to precipi 
 tate the discussion again. In the lull, Abraham Lin 
 coln arose from his chair, unfolding his gaunt height 
 and looking down at the assembled men with a half 
 whimsical, half serious expression on his face. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he drawled, "I am no soldier. I 
 have no advice. I should hardly presume to offer 
 it, if I thought I was in possession of any. I have
 
 A Message for the Hawk 171 
 
 listened to all that has been said, and it reminds me 
 of two men down in Kentucky who caught a 'possum 
 in a box trap. One of them wanted to cut it up and 
 fry it, and the other thought it would be better 
 stewed. They got into a pretty warm discussion 
 over it. Finally they decided that they would cut 
 the animal in halves, and each do what he wanted 
 with his part. They shook hands on that, and went 
 to get the 'possum. When they opened the trap, it 
 was gone. They had left the box a-tilt when they 
 talked, and Mister 'Possum had squirmed out. Now, 
 not being a soldier, there are things about the situa 
 tion that I cannot hope to understand, but to the 
 mind of a civilian it would seem advisable to find 
 Black Hawk before we chastise him!" 
 
 Even Zachary Taylor laughed when Lincoln fin 
 ished and sat down, the whimsically serious expres 
 sion still on his face. The mirth subsiding, Lieu 
 tenant Davis arose to his feet. He bestowed a smile 
 of patronizing indulgence upon the one who had just 
 spoken. 
 
 " Gentlemen, " he said, "the point taken by Cap 
 tain Captain ' ' 
 
 * ' Lincoln ! ' ' prompted the owner of the name. 
 
 "By Captain Lincoln is well taken. We have 
 only the most meager information concerning Black 
 Hawk's whereabouts and intentions. Some report 
 him to be in the immediate vicinity; others say he 
 is at Koshkonong, and others that he is on the 
 Dalles of the Ouisconsin. If General Atkinson will
 
 172 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 permit me, I will go with a dozen picked men and 
 determine where he is. ' ' 
 
 He resumed his seat. There was a moment of 
 silence. In the midst of it the door of the room was 
 opened. John Dixon, visibly excited, appeared, 
 bringing with him Mortimer Randolph, haggard and 
 disheveled. He had come from Indian Creek, alter 
 nately riding his tired horse and hurrying on foot 
 with Powhatan stumbling behind him. Now, late in 
 the morning, he had reached Dixon 's with the news, 
 leaving Hall behind him to come as he could. 
 
 At sight of him, Jefferson Davis started from 
 his chair in astonishment, with an exclamation. 
 With the look of surprise in his face was mixed 
 pleasure and gladness. In a moment the gladness 
 vanished, and he sank back in his seat with a stare 
 of doubt and distrust. Mortimer, scarcely glancing 
 at him, gave his presence no acknowledgment. Pale 
 and trembling from fatigue and emotion, he drew 
 himself up into formal military position and saluted 
 General Atkinson. 
 
 "I have the honor to report, sir, that Indians 
 last evening attacked and massacred the settlers at 
 Indian Creek," he said, in the dead level of the 
 military voice. "I have the honor to report that 
 fifteen men, women, and children were killed, and 
 that the two daughters of William Hall, who was 
 killed, were taken away alive by the Indians." 
 
 As he said this he turned toward Lincoln, with 
 a look of horror and anguish on his face. It passed
 
 It reminds me of two men down in Kentucky ivho 
 cauglit a 'possum in a box trap."
 
 A Message for the Hawk 173 
 
 in a moment. Lincoln, oblivious of formality, arose 
 and went to his side, putting an arm about his shoul 
 ders. Jefferson Davis continued to stare, puzzled 
 and uncertain, with doubt still in his mind. A 
 clamor went up about the table; the militia officers 
 arose from their chairs and crowded around the 
 bearer of the news in high excitement. General 
 Atkinson, tapping loudly upon the table, with the 
 hilt of his sword, called them to order and sent them 
 to their seats, reminding them that they were at a 
 council. Motioning Eandolph to a chair, and wait 
 ing until he drank the glass of whiskey John Dixon 
 brought to him, he formally and in prescribed man 
 ner bade him make his report more fully, permitting 
 him to remain in his chair the while, out of consid 
 eration for his exhausted condition. 
 
 Before Mortimer finished a commotion was heard 
 in the camp of the militia. There was much angry 
 shouting, and cries for vengeance upon the savages. 
 William Hall, who had found a fresh horse at a 
 settlement and had followed Mortimer closely, had 
 arrived and told his story to the men. Shouting, 
 they came toward headquarters, demanding to be 
 despatched at once in pursuit. 
 
 Doubt no longer remained in the council of offi 
 cers. They must be sent to the fight when the mood 
 was on them. Governor Beynolds, springing to his 
 feet, spoke fervently for a moment, pleading for 
 immediate action. General Atkinson issued a few 
 hasty orders. The officers of militia left to prepare
 
 174 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 their troops to march at once. Lincoln, whose look 
 of tender commiseration had never left the face of 
 Mortimer, passed behind his friend on the way out 
 and pressed a hand upon his shoulder. The touch 
 was more eloquent than many words. 
 
 Mortimer remained at the table with General 
 Atkinson, Colonel Taylor, Major Robert Anderson 
 and Lieutenant Davis. The last named was still 
 looking at him with a mixture of eagerness and 
 reluctance, as though high regard for the man con 
 tended with suspicion of him. There was a period 
 of bustle ; orderlies running in and out, orders given, 
 reports made, and questions asked and answered. 
 In the first lull, Mortimer, in whose face there was 
 no trace of knowledge that Jefferson Davis was 
 present, turned toward General Atkinson with 
 another salute and addressed him. 
 
 "May I be permitted to speak, sir?" he asked, in 
 a formal and perfunctory manner. 
 
 General Atkinson gave consent with a nod 
 befitting his office. 
 
 "There is no need to say that the young women 
 who were abducted by the Indians are in precarious 
 circumstances," he said, in perfect calm. His 
 strength was reviving fast. "It is not necessary to 
 point out that, should they escape immediate harm, 
 their danger would be increased if our soldiers 
 should press Black Hawk too closely. 
 
 "Their value as hostages cannot be lost upon the 
 chief. May I be permitted to carry to the Hawk
 
 175 
 
 official assurance from General Atkinson, represent 
 ing the United States Government, that in the event 
 of the safe return of the young women he will be 
 permitted to withdraw his band of Sacs to the west 
 ern side of the Mississippi, without molestation! 
 That, as I understand it, is the purpose of this 
 campaign ? ' ' 
 
 General Atkinson drummed meditatively on the 
 table for a little, pursing his lips and cocking his 
 head. He was in two minds about submitting to the 
 effrontery of this civilian, who had the audacity to 
 interfere in military affairs. Impressed by a cer 
 tain unconscious air of assurance and importance 
 in the young man, he was finally led to do so. 
 
 "I think you are under some misapprehension 
 concerning the full purpose of this campaign, sir," 
 he returned at length, heavily. "I do not conceive 
 it to be within the intention of the Government to 
 permit the Hawk to escape just punishment so 
 easily. He has defied the Government by his return, 
 and he must be made to suffer for it." 
 
 "Even at the expense of innocent and helpless 
 women 1 ' ' suggested Mortimer, quietly. 
 
 "War, sir, war, as you should know, is a deadly 
 enterprise," rejoined General Atkinson. "It 
 entails manifold sufferings, which often fall upon 
 the innocent. While I should personally deplore 
 any misfortunes that might be visited upon these 
 young women, I nevertheless should not deem it con 
 sistent with my duty as an officer of the United
 
 176 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 States army to permit such considerations to divert 
 me from the purpose of the campaign, which is 
 being prosecuted under direct orders from the war 
 office at Washington/' 
 
 11 Which leave you no discretion?" hinted 
 Mortimer. 
 
 "None that I should care to exercise in the pres 
 ent instance," made answer General Atkinson, in 
 his mighty manner. The civilian was going too far 
 in his presumption. "I cannot feel otherwise than 
 that Black Hawk should be chastised as a beneficial 
 example for all Indians, without regard to cost. It 
 is establishing a dangerous precedent to permit him 
 to defy openly the authority of the United States, 
 and with impunity." 
 
 Mortimer arose with dignity. 
 
 "It is unfortunate that the chastisement is being 
 prosecuted in such a spirit on the part of the Govern 
 ment," he said, with complete equanimity and re 
 spect. ' ' In view of the fact that Black Hawk had no 
 intention of stirring up strife when he came across 
 the river this spring, it is deplorable. In view of the 
 fact that he would be glad to lead his tribe in peace 
 to the other side of the river if permitted to do so, 
 it is pitiful. It was these considerations, as well as 
 regard for the safety of the young women, which 
 induced me to make the suggestion to which you 
 have so kindly listened. Shall I be permitted to 
 inquire if any other method of assisting the young 
 ladies will be considered? I am going personally in
 
 A Message for the Hawk 177 
 
 search of them, whether with or without a commis 
 sion from the authorities; can I be of service in 
 furthering any plans you may make I ' ' 
 
 His calm determination, his quiet, unassuming 
 dignity, his pale, handsome face awoke the admira 
 tion of those who saw him standing before General 
 Atkinson, waiting for his reply. The look of distrust 
 and suspicion went quite out of the face of Jefferson 
 Davis for a moment. Colonel Zachary Taylor, look 
 ing at him searchingly, broke the silence which had 
 followed Mortimer's conclusion. 
 
 "The young man's idea is a good one!" he 
 exclaimed, vehemently, "if you will let me say so. 
 Let the young man go to Black Hawk. How do you 
 propose getting to Black Hawk!" 
 
 The colonel fired the question at him like a field 
 piece. 
 
 "I undertake to find him, sir," returned Mor 
 timer, quietly. 
 
 "Good!" ejaculated the other, snapping his jaws 
 and jerking his head, his approving eye the while 
 resting on Mortimer. "I have no doubt you will do 
 it if you will take the trouble to eat something 
 before you start. ' ' 
 
 The young man's haggard appearance had 
 caught his eye at the same time with the square jaw 
 and the look of resolve in the brown eyes. 
 
 "Now, let the young man go to Black Hawk," 
 continued Colonel Taylor, "with the assurance from 
 General Atkinson that if he will deliver the young
 
 178 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 women to us and surrender himself into the custody 
 of the United States authority, his people will be 
 permitted to cross west of the Mississippi without 
 being molested. If we get the old fox into custody 
 and get his followers across the river we shall have 
 done all we were sent to do; if we do it without 
 bloodshed, so much the better. If this young man is 
 going to Black Hawk, and I believe he is" looking 
 keenly at him again "he might as well bear such a 
 message. No harm can come of it.*' 
 
 "On what do you base a supposition that he 
 would consider such a proposal?" inquired General 
 Atkinson, with a trace of irony. 
 
 "On evidences which ought to be more or less 
 convincing to a military man," rejoined Colonel 
 Taylor, with some heat. "He doesn't want to fight; 
 he has all his women and children with him; he is 
 trying to get them out of trouble, while his young 
 men are covering his retreat with these raids which 
 are doing all the mischief that is being done. If we 
 can straighten this matter out in this way, we are 
 fortunate, and should do it. ' ' 
 
 "You make no account of those he has killed 
 already?" suggested General Atkinson. 
 
 "You make no account of those he has not killed, 
 but might," ventured Major Anderson, entering the 
 discussion. "And is warfare a piece of vengeance? 
 Shall we count on our fingers the number killed by 
 the enemy and keep on fighting until we have killed 
 as many, regardless of the purposes of the war ? ' '
 
 A Message for the Hawk 179 
 
 Premonitory nmtterings of a lively discussion 
 appearing about the council board, Mortimer inter 
 posed before the storm broke. 
 
 " Gentlemen, " he said, "I have no place at your 
 councils. I shall await your decision without. I 
 shall delay my departure for an hour. Within that 
 time you may find me at your pleasure. I have only 
 to ask that you will give me your personal assur 
 ances that the Government will abide by whatever 
 decision you may reach. I should not want, inad 
 vertantly, to be the instrument of more misunder 
 standings between Black Hawk and the United 
 States." 
 
 He withdrew from the room, not once glancing in 
 the direction of Jefferson Davis. 
 
 As he was seated beside a table in John Dixon's 
 kitchen half an hour later, finishing the last of the 
 dinner which the ferryman had brought him, Lieu 
 tenant Davis came to him. 
 
 "Sir, I have to report that you are requested to 
 deliver the enclosed message to the chief Black 
 Hawk, at your pleasure and discretion," he said to 
 Mortimer, standing stiffly by his side. 
 
 "Convey my thanks to your commanding offi 
 cer," returned Mortimer, looking over the contents 
 of the order that the lieutenant had brought. Davis, 
 ill at ease, watched him as he read. Mortimer 
 nodded his head approvingly as he finished. Eais- 
 ing his face, he turned it toward Lieutenant Davis. 
 
 "Was there anything further?" he asked, look-
 
 180 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 ing him fully in the eye, without the least trace of 
 recognition. 
 
 "I thought perhaps you would have something 
 to say to me," faltered the other, growing confused 
 under the steady gaze. 
 
 Mortimer was silent. 
 
 "How did you come here, Mortimer?" burs' 1 ; 
 forth the lieutenant, with a frank, friendly appeal 
 in his voice. 
 
 "I should infer from your bearing that you had 
 heard why I left West Point and Virginia," said 
 Mortimer, by way of answer. "I had to go some 
 where," he added. 
 
 "I can't believe it!" returned Lieutenant Davis, 
 fervently. "I heard, but can't believe it. In 
 Heaven's name, Mortimer, tell me that it is a 
 mistake ! ' ' 
 
 He spoke with an eager affection, holding his 
 right hand toward the other. Mortimer ignored the 
 gesture. 
 
 "If it is necessary to tell you, it is not worth 
 while," he made answer, cooly. "Kindly commend 
 me to your commander, and tell him that I have 
 read his orders and shall endeavor to execute them. ' ' 
 
 Without another word, he turned and walked to 
 his horse, still wearied from hard traveling. With 
 out casting a look to the right or the left he mounted 
 and rode to the north, leaving Lieutenant Davis to 
 stare after him in doubt and disappointment.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 SANCTUARY 
 
 MORTIMER RANDOLPH rode through the 
 night in the direction the militia had taken, 
 up the east bank of the Rock River. He did not talk 
 to Powhatan, as his custom was, but rode silently, 
 revolving many things in his mind. Powhatan, flick 
 ing his ears for a space in dutiful attention, and find 
 ing him taciturn, gave it up, rather glad upon the 
 whole that his master was not in conversational 
 mood; for he himself was sumciently tired to do 
 without discourse. 
 
 Riding through the night, he came presently to a 
 low ridge whence he could see the glow of camp- 
 fires among the trees. Approaching close enough to 
 determine that it was Whiteside's men, Mortimer 
 sounded the army cry and went toward them. 
 Beyond giving back his cry they paid little atten 
 tion to him, supposing him to be some straggler who 
 had just come up from the march. As he came 
 closer he saw the long limbs of Abraham Lincoln 
 traced black across the firelight and his shadow 
 dancing mournfully in the tree tops as he stalked 
 back and forth at a distance from the blaze. He 
 looked like a grim ghost of melancholy. 
 
 Lincoln, absorbed in his own reflections, took no 
 
 181
 
 182 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 more than passing notice of the new arrival. Indeed, 
 he was not aware of his identity until Mortimer, dis 
 mounting close beside him, placed a hand on his arm 
 and spoke to him. 
 
 "You frightened me," said Lincoln, quickly, 
 with a startled look. "I was thinking so much of you 
 that when I saw you at my side I believed you to be 
 a ghost. Why did you come? You should not have 
 come ! You are worn out. ' ' 
 
 He said nothing of what was at the top of the 
 mind of each ; yet there was more in the touch of his 
 hand on the hand of the other and in the tone of his 
 voice than he could have spoken. 
 
 Mortimer made no reply until he had unsaddled 
 and unbridled Powhatan and smoothed his back. 
 The animal sighed deeply, rubbed his head against 
 his master, whinnied affectionately, and stretched 
 himself upon the ground, wholly exhausted. Mor 
 timer, seeing him comfortable, turned again to 
 Lincoln. 
 
 "You know why I came," he said, replying to 
 Lincoln's question. "I am going to find them. I am 
 going to try to save them. ' ' 
 
 He threw himself wearily upon the grass. 
 
 "How do you mean? What are you going to 
 do?" asked Lincoln, sitting on the ground beside 
 him. 
 
 "I am going to hunt out Black Hawk," Mortimer 
 replied. "I am authorized to negotiate peace with 
 him on the terms that he gives up the young women
 
 Sanctuary 183 
 
 and surrenders himself to the United States author 
 ity. I have written orders to that effect from 
 General Atkinson." 
 
 "Man, man!" cried Lincoln, "you will destroy 
 yourself. Do you expect that you will be able to 
 reach Black Hawk alive?" 
 
 "I must." 
 
 * ' But it is foolish ! It is a wild chance you take ! 
 Look at it soberly ! We shall soon overtake him with 
 our troops, and deliver the young women from 
 him." 
 
 Mortimer paused before replying. "Do not 
 argue," he said, in a low voice. "I am not disposed 
 to argue. If I were, I could show you that it is the 
 only way; that their lives would be of slight value 
 if we gave the Hawk battle when they were in his 
 hands; that it is peculiarly my duty and my priv 
 ilege to go to their succor, and many other things. 
 Please do not compel me to the exertion; I am 
 weary of body and soul, and need rest." 
 
 "You would do your duty better if you did not 
 throw your life away on a foolish errand, ' ' retorted 
 Lincoln, not disposed to honor his request against 
 argument. 
 
 Mortimer made no immediate reply. He lay still 
 on the ground for a space. Raising himself upon 
 his elbow at last, so that the light of the distant 
 fire played in his brown eyes, he laid a hand on 
 Lincoln's knee and looked long into his face. 
 
 "If Ann Eutledge were in the hands of the
 
 184 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 Indians, what would you do ? " he said, in a low and 
 solemn voice. 
 
 "My God!" groaned Lincoln, and fell silent. 
 
 "Have you eaten?" asked Lincoln, presently. 
 
 "I have eaten," replied the other. "To-night I 
 shall rest, and to-morrow we shall be ready, 
 Powhatan and I." 
 
 "Will you come closer to the fire? It is damp 
 here." 
 
 "I I will stay here," replied Mortimer. 
 
 Lincoln understood his desire to be alone. 
 
 "I will find you a blanket," he said, and turned 
 to go to the camp. 
 
 As he approached the fire, a group of men were 
 gathering about it, in the highest excitement. One 
 of them, a short, round man with a short, round 
 head, bent over the blaze. In his hands he held a 
 paper which he was reading by the light of the 
 flames. Standing in the midst of the group was an 
 Indian, bent and withered with years. He watched 
 with an anxious face the man who read the paper. 
 
 " Where 'd you get this passport?" asked the 
 man, looking up from the paper. It was Isaac 
 Frake. 
 
 "General Cass, he give it to me," replied the 
 Indian in broken English. "He friend of red man. 
 Me friend of American. Misser Frake, you know 
 me. Me good Indian!" 
 
 "You bet I know you!" growled Frake. "This 
 is a damned forgery ! This is not his writing!"
 
 Sanctuary 185 
 
 He shook the paper at the Indian. The red man, 
 filled with apprehension, held out his hand, pointing 
 at the passport. 
 
 " Paper good! Paper good!" he said. "Paper 
 no lie ! " 
 
 "Damn your hide!" bellowed Frake. "You're 
 a spy ! ' ' 
 
 He took a step toward the savage, who raised his 
 hands helplessly. 
 
 "Kill him! Kill him!" 
 
 A dozen soldiers, raising the cry, snatched up 
 their muskets. Frake grasped the Indian by the 
 throat. 
 
 "We'll show you what we do with spies!" he 
 roared, cursing horribly. 
 
 "Shoot him! Kill him! Stand aside, Frake!" 
 
 A dozen muskets were leveled. Frake let go his 
 hold. 
 
 ' * Give me a musket ! " he stouted, stepping back 
 to the others. " I'll fix him ! " 
 
 A soldier handed him a gun. He raised it. The 
 Indian, in despair, held out his hands imploringly. 
 "Me good Indian! Me good Indian!" he pleaded. 
 "Me friend of the white man." 
 
 A tall, angular figure emerged from the shadows 
 about the fire. In a bound, it stood before the 
 Indian. Abraham Lincoln, his face wrought into 
 fury, his pupils distended and glittering, faced the 
 dozen muskets. 
 
 "Men, this must not be done! He must not be
 
 186 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 shot and killed by us!" His voice rang above the 
 hoarse shouting of the soldiers, the curses of Frake. 
 
 For a moment the men stood defiant, their mus 
 kets leveled at the two. They muttered. They 
 cursed. They threatened. Lincoln's eyes, black with 
 wrath, fixed theirs. 
 
 A fateful silence brooded over the scene. The 
 eyes of the soldiers fell beneath the steady gaze of 
 Lincoln. Angry and sullen, they lowered their 
 muskets. 
 
 * ' This is cowardly on your part, Lincoln ! ' ' cried 
 Frake. 
 
 "If any man thinks I am a coward, let him test 
 it!" Lincoln's face was frightful to look upon. 
 
 "You are larger and heavier than we!" retorted 
 the other. 
 
 "This you can guard against. Choose your 
 weapons ! ' ' 
 
 His huge hands clenched and unclenched. His 
 face worked with passion. 
 
 Mortimer Randolph, aroused by the disturbance, 
 came and stood beside him. Frake, with vile oaths, 
 glared at him hatefully for a moment, and turned 
 away muttering. The soldiers, morose and grum 
 bling, scattered about the fire, glancing balefully 
 from the corners of their eyes at the group. Lincoln 
 stood where he was for a space. 
 
 "Come," he said, presently, addressing the In 
 dian. "I will look out for you." 
 
 They went away, Mortimer following at a dis-
 
 Sanctuary 187 
 
 tance, watching the sulking men about the fire. As 
 they went, the Indian, pointing to Frake and gestic 
 ulating, spoke excitedly to his rescuer, who looked 
 at Frake several times as he walked away, listening, 
 and nodded his head. Eandolph joined them. They 
 lay upon the ground where Mortimer had lain, 
 Lincoln remaining awake to watch. 
 
 Frake, grumbling and boasting, drank deeply 
 from the black bottle he took from his shirt, and lay 
 down by the fire among the soldiers. 
 
 "Our friend Eandolph seems to love the Indians 
 as much as ever," he said to William Hall, who lay 
 next to him, rolled up in a blanket. 
 
 Isaac Frake, standing erect with the morning 
 sun red on his face, gazed at the form of William 
 Hall, still sleeping at his feet. Thrice he nudged him 
 in the ribs with his toe. Hall, not yet entirely recov 
 ered from the fatigue of his trip from Indian Creek, 
 rolled over sleepily, with a grunt and a curse. 
 
 "Hall! Hall!" called Frake, when he stirred. 
 "The dirty cur has gone!" 
 
 Hall, sitting up by degrees, rubbed his eyes and 
 yawned. "Who's gone?" he asked, blinking. 
 
 "Both of 'em." 
 
 "Both o' who?" 
 
 "The Indian and that man Eandolph." 
 
 " Where 'd they go!" asked Hall, with kindling 
 interest. 
 
 Frake answered the question with silent con-
 
 188 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 tempt. "Do you know who that Indian was?" he 
 asked, in return, preparing the way for a startling 
 revelation. 
 
 "Of course I don't," rejoined William Hall. "He 
 seemed to know you, all right." 
 
 "I know him. He's from Saukenuk, and one of 
 the worst of the breed. I'll tell you who he is. He's 
 the father of that squaw with the half breed papoose 
 that Eandolph was so sweet on. And they've gone 
 together."
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 IN THE THICKET 
 
 A BRAHAM LINCOLN, in company with half a 
 -t*- dozen horsemen, rode across the flat prairies 
 lying between Dixon's ferry and Galena. It was a 
 day in June. The sun -hung high in a brassy sky. 
 The tall grass of the prairie swooned in the quiver 
 ing heat. There was no breath in the air. It clung 
 to the ground, close and stifling. Here and there in 
 the distance little clumps of trees, dark blue islands 
 in the sea of green, floated in the shimmer of the 
 plain. The horses, drooping their heads, plodded 
 listlessly. The riders stared silently at the ground 
 before them, exchanging gruff monosyllables now 
 and again. 
 
 Abraham Lincoln was no longer captain of 
 militia. He was a private in the Bangers, under 
 Captain Elisha Fry. The militia had disbanded in 
 disgrace. They had refused to go further in pursuit 
 of Black Hawk than the Wisconsin borders, clamor 
 ing to be returned home. Marching back to Ottawa, 
 they were dismissed. New companies were formed 
 out of such as wished to continue in the service, Lin 
 coln among them. Another was "William Munson, 
 frantic over the predicament of his sweetheart, 
 Rachel Hall. A third was William Hall, who joined 
 
 189
 
 190 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 in the hope of being of service to his sisters. A 
 fourth was Isaac Frake, for reasons of his own. 
 
 They were riding on scout for troops bound to 
 Galena in answer to urgent calls for help, following 
 a report of a savage attack by Black Hawk's war 
 riors on the fort at Apple Eiver. The country was 
 in a ferment of fear. Small raiding parties of Sacs 
 were abroad, descending on isolated settlers at 
 night, killing and devastating. The army gathered 
 under General Atkinson at Ottawa, now the army 
 headquarters, was helpless, not knowing where to 
 strike like the horses the rangers were riding 
 across the shimmering prairies ; it switched its mili 
 tary tail when it felt the sting of the Hawk, but 
 never got him. 
 
 Lincoln and Isaac Frake rode side by side, the 
 latter 's face purple from the heat of the day, his 
 mouth open from sheer exhaustion. From time to 
 time as he rode he stole a wary glance at Lincoln, 
 who was lost in revery. Presently Frake pulled a 
 black bottle from his shirt. 
 
 "Have a drink, Captain?" he said, riding closer 
 and proffering the bottle. He still used the title as 
 a form of flattery. 
 
 "No, thank you, Frake; I never touch it," 
 Lincoln replied. 
 
 "I don't often," observed Frake, applying the 
 bottle to his lips. "I am so plumb worn down by this 
 heat that I need a little stimulant."
 
 In the Thicket 191 
 
 "I didn't suppose it was very good in hot 
 weather," suggested Lincoln. 
 
 "It's the best time to take it; it drives the heat 
 out," Frake explained. 
 
 1 1 Oh ! " commented the other. 
 
 "I didn't know but that you were mad about that 
 Indian incident, and that that was why you wouldn't 
 take a drink with me," ventured Frake, eyeing 
 Lincoln shrewdly. 
 
 "No," Lincoln returned; "it would be the same 
 if President Jackson should ask me to take a drink. 
 I promised my precious mother only a few days 
 before she died that I would never use anything 
 intoxicating as a beverage, and I consider that 
 promise as binding on me to-day as it was the day 
 I made it." 
 
 He was aware of the other's sly look. He sur 
 mised the man had some purpose in reverting to the 
 affair, and sought to prevent it. Frake persisted. 
 
 "I hope you don't bear any ill will on that 
 account, Captain Lincoln," he said. "I hope there 
 won't be anything personal resulting from it be 
 tween us." 
 
 "That is hardly likely," Lincoln replied. "Of 
 course, we form our opinions of men more from 
 what they do than from what they say ; but I am not 
 one who bears malice." 
 
 He said it in a tone so even and dispassionate 
 that Frake studied his face for a moment out of the 
 edges of his eyes before venturing further. "You
 
 192 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 see," he said, shortly, "I naturally hate the Indians, 
 having been near them a good deal, and this par 
 ticular Indian I happen to know altogether too 
 well." 
 
 "So I am informed," observed Lincoln, dryly. 
 
 "He's one of the worst in the whole tribe," 
 resumed Frake, eyeing Lincoln narrowly after his 
 latest remark. "I have had dealings with him, and 
 he has a grudge against me. ' ' 
 
 "Naturally," commented Lincoln, so innocently 
 that Frake, peeking at him, was satisfied that his 
 interjection was entirely perfunctory and uninten 
 tional, without the significance which it seemed to 
 bear. 
 
 "He'd cut your throat in a holy minute," Frake 
 went on, "and he's the most notorious liar in the 
 whole Sac tribe. He's a spiteful old villain." 
 
 "I'm rather glad to hear that, Frake," observed 
 Lincoln. 
 
 "Why? How so?" 
 
 "Oh, because he told me some things I would 
 not like to believe about any man, ' ' Lincoln returned 
 evenly, looking far across the prairie. 
 
 "The cuss!" growled Frake. 
 
 "I see you surmise that he was talking about 
 you," Lincoln remarked. 
 
 "Of course, I knew he would," returned Frake, 
 a little disconcerted for the moment, but neverthe 
 less pleased to have wormed this much out of the
 
 In the Thicket 193 
 
 man at his side. "What did he tell you, now, just 
 for curiosity?" 
 
 "Oh, well, Frake," returned Lincoln, laughing; 
 "I guess I won't tell you. I don't want to see you 
 get mad on a hot day like this, and now that you 
 have told me that he is an enemy of yours and that 
 he is an awful liar, I will know how to take his 
 tales." 
 
 There was a possibility of a double meaning in 
 the reply which did not rest easily on Frake 's mind, 
 but there was something final about the other's 
 laughing manner of putting him off that he was 
 shrewd enough to profit by. He pursued the subject 
 no further, contenting himself with a shrewd inspec 
 tion of his companion's face, from the ingenuous 
 expression of which he was unable to infer whether 
 he had in any measure accomplished his purpose of 
 counteracting whatever of evil report the other 
 might have heard of him. In fact, he was consider 
 ably disturbed, and drew forth the black bottle 
 again. 
 
 "I don't feel well to-day, Captain Lincoln," he 
 said, fulsomely clinging to the title. "If you don't 
 mind I think I'll take another little pull." 
 
 Lincoln did not mind, and intimated as much by 
 a slight nod of the head. They rode in silence for a 
 space, Frake conning the other's face quizzically 
 from time to time. 
 
 "Funny where Kandolph has gone to, isn't it?" 
 he submitted presently.
 
 194 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 "Why?" Lincoln's face was imperturbable, im 
 penetrable. 
 
 "Nobody seems to have heard from him since 
 that morning when he disappeared with the In 
 dian," observed Frake, a sly suggestion in his tone. 
 
 "Nobody but you seems to have expected to hear 
 from him, ' ' rejoined Lincoln, indifferently. Another 
 silence. 
 
 "Don't it seem strange to you for him to go off 
 with an Indian like that?" asked Frake, presently, 
 with crafty insinuation. 
 
 "If I considered it my affair sufficiently to ask 
 him about it, he no doubt could give me a reason 
 that would not make it seem strange, if it should 
 happen to appear so in the first place," returned 
 Lincoln. "Perhaps he was influenced by a desire 
 to protect the man's life against some of his old 
 neighbors." 
 
 "I happen to know that that old Indian was a 
 pretty good friend of his," retorted Frake, nettled 
 by the last fling. 
 
 "Was he?" asked Lincoln, lackadaisically. "I 
 should imagine they would be good friends before 
 they parted, at least," he added. 
 
 1 1 Do you know this man Randolph pretty well ? ' ' 
 Frake went on, still maintaining his tone of innu 
 endo. 
 
 ' ' Better than I know any man, ' ' Lincoln replied, 
 speaking half to himself. 
 
 "Is that so," returned Frake, with a tinge of
 
 In the Thicket 195 
 
 sarcasm in his tone. "Why, I didn't know he had 
 been in Illinois long enough for that." 
 
 He intended to convey weighty meaning in his 
 tone. He intended to impute a dark and mysterious 
 past to Randolph. Lincoln heeded only the meaning 
 of his words. 
 
 "It don't always take a long time to know a 
 man, Frake," he replied. "I haven't seen you more 
 than once or twice, and still I think I know you 
 pretty well. Don't you?" 
 
 He looked frankly at Frake in saying it. 
 
 "I hope you do! I hope you do!" Frake made 
 answer, looking straight ahead. The quickness of 
 his reply was not immodesty. It was lack of finesse. 
 He perceived the innuendo in Lincoln's question, 
 and sought to nullify it by his reply. He overdid it, 
 and knew that he had overdone it when he saw the 
 quiet mirth in the depths of the other's eyes. It was 
 necessary, however, to proceed to the end of what 
 he had so obviously set afoot. He went on, conceal 
 ing his discomfiture. 
 
 "Do you know what I think?" he said, looking 
 Lincoln freely in the eye for the first time, with the 
 steady gaze of one who hopes to deceive. 
 
 "Well, Frake, perhaps I do, in a general way," 
 drawled Lincoln. 
 
 "What do I think?" demanded the other, pounc 
 ing upon Lincoln with the question. 
 
 "You must be a little more precise, Frake," 
 Lincoln replied.
 
 196 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 Frake laughed heartily, making out that he had 
 achieved an advantage in repartee. He laughed a 
 little too heartily to produce any effect of mirth- 
 fulness. 
 
 "What do you think?" Lincoln interrupted him 
 in the midst of his laughter. 
 
 "Oh, you don't know, then? Well, I'll tell you, 
 seeing that you don't know" he was making the 
 most he could of it "I think that we are apt to run 
 across this friend of yours when we get up amongst 
 the Indians!" He said it with an air that should 
 have been overwhelming in implications. 
 
 Lincoln, looking afar off across the prairies, 
 made answer slowly. "I am rather inclined to think 
 so myself," he said. 
 
 Again there was warning conveyed to the man 
 that an end had been reached of safe discussion. 
 Again Frake, with discernment enough to perceive 
 it, fell into silence. When he broke it again it was to 
 say casually, with an air of easy familiarity : 
 
 "Do you think the reward will do any good?" 
 
 Lincoln, in a fit of abstraction, absently inquired 
 what reward he meant. He meant the reward of a 
 thousand dollars offered by Governor Eeynolds for 
 the safe return of the Hall girls, of course. He did 
 not omit to dissert upon the part he had played in 
 inducing Eeynolds to offer it. Lincoln ventured no 
 opinion. Whereupon Frake fell into an analysis of 
 the question, pointing out that if they were in the 
 hands of Mike Girty and the Pottowatomies the
 
 In the Thicket 197 
 
 chances were pretty good, but that if Black Hawk 
 had them he would keep them as hostages, and might 
 even kill them in case the whites pressed him too 
 close. To all of which Lincoln paid no heed what 
 ever, so that Frake presently passed again into 
 silence and fell to reviewing the late conversation, 
 with many doubts and misgivings concerning it. 
 
 Crossing, late in the afternoon, through a strip 
 of timber that fringed a creek, they emerged upon a 
 beautiful rolling prairie a few miles in breadth, 
 beyond which lay Kellogg 's Grove, a large clump of 
 woods that was the site of a settlement. The sun 
 was low in the west as they approached it. The 
 woods were close and dense. The shadows of the 
 afternoon thickened in their depths. It was gloomy 
 and forbidding to those who knew that there were 
 Indians about, and that they drew closer to a lurking 
 foe with every step they took northward. One by 
 one those who were with Lincoln lagged behind. He 
 rode ahead, accompanied only by Frake. They came 
 within a hundred yards; fifty yards. Frake was 
 clearly nervous. 
 
 "Captain!" he said, "I've got to stop a minute. 
 My girth is loose. Don't wait for me; you go right 
 on. I'll catch up." 
 
 "Why don't you wait until you get into the 
 shade, where it is cooler," Lincoln suggested, with 
 a grim smile. Frake made no answer. Lincoln 
 entered the edge of the grove alone. His own heart 
 beat faster as, with keen eyes and listening ears, he
 
 198 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 passed among the trees into the shadows. It is the 
 greatest courage that takes men where they fear 
 to go. 
 
 More slowly now, with cautious glances that 
 searched every tree-trunk, every thicket, he rode 
 into the midst of the forest. His companions strag 
 gled behind him, pale, with lips set. Last and palest 
 of them was Isaac Frake. Lincoln brought his horse 
 to a walk. With gun ready, he rode on. Each wav 
 ing branch, stirred by the afternoon breeze, caught 
 his eye and sent the blood coursing swiftly. 
 
 There was no sound save the soft fall of the 
 horses ' feet upon the mold ; the evening song of the 
 robin, the call of the cat-bird in the bushes. The red 
 sun streaked among the stems of the trees; the 
 leaves rustled aloft in the dying breeze. The peace 
 of nature was upon the world. 
 
 A path led through a little swale. The bushes 
 came close to it, creeping down from the rising 
 ground on either side. Midway through the swale, 
 Lincoln glanced at those behind, to make sure that 
 they were coming before he proceeded farther. His 
 eyes fell upon the face of Frake, some rods behind. 
 He was looking fixedly to the right of the path. 
 With his hand he was making signs, evidently in 
 reply or command. Lincoln, following his gaze, 
 saw a movement in the brush; he saw the form 
 of a small, slouching Indian for an instant; caught 
 sight of a weazened face in which the eyes were set 
 too close together and the thin nose was awry.
 
 In the Thicket 199 
 
 Almost in the instant of his seeing the form it 
 was gone. 
 
 Shouting to his companions, he turned his horse 
 and dashed through the brush upon the rise of 
 ground which bordered the swale. The sight that 
 met his eyes there turned him sick. Five bodies lay 
 upon the ground, motionless, about the remains of a 
 camp fire. On all hands were signs of a struggle; 
 trampled ground, broken guns, torn pieces of 
 clothing, scattered camp equipment. 
 
 Lincoln, forgetting the Indian he had seen in the 
 sudden dread possessing him at sight of the slain 
 men, leaped from his horse and ran to the body that 
 was closest. The red sun shone red upon a raw and 
 bloody spot on the top of the head, where the victim 
 had been scalped. The man lay upon his face. Shud 
 dering, Lincoln turned him until he could look upon 
 the features. It was not he whom he dreaded it was. 
 From one to the other he went, hope and apprehen 
 sion contending in his heart. There was not one 
 whom he knew. 
 
 He finished his ghastly inspection, and looked 
 up. The van of the force bustled about him, in a 
 fever of excitement and alarm. Frake, loudly 
 exclaiming, made much ado. In his face there was 
 no sign of what had taken place, observed by Lin 
 coln. Lincoln, on the point of denouncing and ex 
 posing him, reconsidered, and held his peace. His 
 suspicions of the man were keen. What he planned 
 and plotted he could hardly surmise, but he should
 
 200 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 have a better chance of discovery if the other were 
 unaware of his suspicion. Arguing thus with him 
 self, Lincoln held his tongue, even apparently per 
 mitting the soldiers to convince him that his alarm 
 had been false, and that he had seen no Indian. This 
 the men were sufficiently desirous of believing, for 
 their own peace of mind. 
 
 Anxious for the safety of the settlers, the expe 
 dition hastened to the cabins in the center of the 
 grove, stopping later to give the dead rough burial. 
 The buildings were deserted. There was no sign 
 that they had been attacked or molested by the sav 
 ages. The commander, conferring with his lieuten 
 ants, decided to remain there for the night, for 
 darkness was coming on, and travel at night was 
 hazardous. 
 
 Their supper was finished. The full moon, rising 
 in the sky, mellowed the dark shadows of the woods. 
 The men, lying on the ground in the pleasant even 
 ing, revived in spirits. One of them called for 
 Lincoln. 
 
 11 What's the matter with Abe to-night? "Why 
 don't he tell us a story?" 
 
 Lincoln, standing concealed in the shadow of a 
 house, made no response. His eyes were fixed on a 
 point in the woods, in the direction whence they had 
 come. Passing there among the trees, leaving the 
 camp, was a shadow ; the shadow of a man. Watch 
 ing him for a space, Lincoln stole from the obscurity
 
 In the Thicket 201 
 
 where he stood through other shadows, and so to the 
 place where the retreating figure had disappeared. 
 
 He traced his way among the trees, slipping 
 from one to another, always in the shadow, avoiding 
 the branches that lay upon the ground, silent and 
 stealthy. From time to time he paused to listen. 
 Ahead of him, through the woods, he heard the low, 
 sharp crackling of twigs, the crushing of mold 
 beneath the foot of some one who passed. He fol 
 lowed the noise. At times he could see the figure of 
 the man he followed, stealing through the patches of 
 moonlight, from tree to tree. At times the sound of 
 the other's steps ceased, and he stopped, that his 
 approach might not be heard. 
 
 The man worked toward the edge of the grove, 
 toward a point to the right of the trail by which they 
 had come ; toward a point in the direction of which 
 the Indian had vanished. The glow of the moonlight 
 on the prairie beyond began to show between the 
 trunks of the trees. The smell of the grass reached 
 Lincoln's nostrils. The rasping of the insects in the 
 field was loud in his ears. He saw the shadow of the 
 man against the moon-glow. He heard him push 
 ing gently through some brush. The noise of the 
 footsteps ceased. 
 
 Now he who follows must travel without noise on 
 such an adventure. Lincoln's progress was slow. 
 Through such places as were not illuminated by the 
 moon, he felt his way, lest he tread on a branch and 
 be heard. Tediously he approached the place where
 
 202 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 the man had disappeared. He was close to the edge 
 of the grove. He paused once more to listen. The 
 rasping of the insects on the prairie was louder. A 
 night-hawk cried at intervals overhead, leaving the 
 silence the more intense for his cries. Hushful 
 noises filled the night. 
 
 As he listened, out of the murmuring stillness 
 came a voice; a sharp, snarling, cracked voice; it 
 came from a clump of bushes close at his right hand. 
 In an instant it was smothered. Pausing a moment 
 longer to compose himself, Lincoln, with bated 
 breath, crept silently in the direction whence he had 
 heard it. 
 
 He crept along the edge of a clump of bushes. 
 He found himself on a slight bank bordering the bed 
 of a rivulet, now dry. Thickets enclosed it on both 
 sides, save for the space through which he had 
 approached. The bushes did not reach a sufficient 
 height to shut out the moonlight, which filled the tiny 
 hollow. He could see distinctly. 
 
 Sitting beneath the bank, with their backs toward 
 him, so close that he might have reached them with 
 his long arm, were Frake and an Indian. Lincoln 
 knew him by his stature, his slinking posture, his 
 dried-up face, as the native he had seen in the 
 bushes. The savage, whose face he could not see, 
 clutched in his hand a bottle, with which he made 
 feeble, drunken menace at his companion. 
 
 Frake paid no heed to the empty threat. One 
 hand grasped the Indian by the nape of the neck and
 
 In the Thicket 203 
 
 shook his head from side to side persuasively. The 
 other was shut tight over the Indian's mouth. 
 
 "Shut up, you fool!" growled Frake, under his 
 breath. "You want to get us both in trouble? 
 They're apt to be looking for me any minute." 
 
 The Indian, brandishing the bottle more, mum 
 bled something between Frake 's fingers that Lincoln 
 could not hear. 
 
 "I tell you I have not got any more whiskey!" 
 Frake replied, still whispering. "I've given you all 
 I had now. I'll have to go without myself, curse 
 your skin! You get those girls for me and I'll give 
 you a barrel of whiskey and half the money for their 
 return. That'll be enough to keep you in firewater 
 till it rots a hole through your pesky hide. If you 
 hadn't been fool enough to let Black Hawk get hold 
 of them, you 'd have had it by this time." 
 
 Frake removed his hand from the Indian's 
 mouth. 
 
 "What could Half Ear do?" whined the red 
 skin. "Mike Girty was chief; Mike Girty afraid of 
 Black Hawk ; Mike Girty give white squaws to him. 
 Half Ear could not help it." 
 
 "You're no good, Half Ear!" returned the other, 
 contemptuously. "You always go back on me. You 
 let that red-headed paleface get away from you the 
 morning before you went to get the girls, and then 
 you let the girls get away from you ! See to it that 
 you do better this time, or, by the Lord, I '11 
 turn you over to White Beaver and have you strung
 
 204 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 up. And, say, Half Ear ! ' ' added the white man, in 
 an afterthought; ''look out for the red-head. He 
 has left the army and is prowling around somewhere 
 looking for the girls, I reckon. He wants one of 
 them; the yellow-haired one. If you see him, you 
 know what to do. There's a half barrel in that for 
 you, too." ? 
 
 "Half Ear had no firewater that day," returned 
 the Indian, looking wistfully at the white. "Half 
 Ear cannot shoot straight when he no has whiskey!" 
 
 "I tell you, I have n't any more whiskey," Frake 
 snarled, interpreting the other's look. 
 
 Half Ear put the empty bottle unsteadily to his 
 lips and held it inverted for a long time, sucking the 
 tainted air into his mouth. Frake leered at him 
 while he did it. 
 
 "Now, then, Half Ear, I got to dig out of this," 
 he said, when the Indian finally put the bottle down ; 
 he knew how little chance there was of getting his 
 attention before he put it down, empty though it 
 was. "You've got it all straight, have you? You're 
 to get the girls from Black Hawk any way you can. 
 You 're to bring them down here without saying a 
 word to anyone about it. Bight here!" he empha 
 sized. "Not to Dixon's, or Ottawa, or Galena, or 
 Fort Armstrong, or anywhere else, but right here! 
 When you are here, you are to cut down that little 
 beech sapling out there on the edge, at the mouth of 
 this dry creek" he indicated the place with his 
 hand as Half Ear listlessly turned his head to look
 
 In the Thicket 205 
 
 "and I '11 happen along. I '11 be around here until 
 you show up and then you '11 turn 'em over to me. 
 And there 's a barrel of whiskey in it for you. 
 You Ve got it all clear, have you! A barrel of 
 whiskey; and if you bring me a certain red-haired 
 scalp, there 's a barrel and a half! But you need n't 
 bring me any but the right one, 'cause I can tell; 
 you can't fool me on that hair! And if you say a 
 word to them about Raven Hair, I '11 kill you! 
 Hear?" 
 
 The Indian nodded and rolled his head drunk- 
 enly, assuring the other that he knew what was 
 expected of him. 
 
 "Half Ear will do it," he mumbled. 
 
 "Come, now, you'd better make yourself scarce," 
 the white added. "It'd be a pretty mess if you got 
 caught here now!" 
 
 The. Indian staggered to his feet. The two made 
 their way slowly down the bed of the creek to the 
 edge of the grove. Lincoln could see them outlined 
 at last against the glow of the moon on the prairie. 
 Once at the edge, they separated and went in 
 opposite directions, keeping at the edge of the grove. 
 
 Lincoln waited until the sound of their soft steps 
 had died into stillness. Pondering many things, he 
 arose and returned to the camp.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE CAPTURE 
 
 JUNE! A blue sky, bending over a solitude, 
 unmarked of man; a glowing sun looking down 
 upon inviolate nature; the warmth of brimming 
 summer in the soft air ; lush grass ripening sweet on 
 the unbroken prairies ; shooting stars a-twinkling in 
 the breezes ; violets, coquetting with the sky, blue as 
 themselves, from the depths of the cool grass. Wild 
 strawberries reddening beside them. Larks flutter 
 ing to their nests with songs tinkling in their 
 throats; bobolinks whistling on the waving sun 
 flowers. It was surely June. 
 
 In the midst of it, a strip of woods fringing the 
 banks of a river ; fresh, soft verdure of new leaves, 
 awakened from dreams of life by the caresses of the 
 winds; the song of the robin and the thrush, the 
 scolding of the squirrel in the branches above; the 
 call of the cat-bird from the thicket, the twittering 
 of small warblers in the bushes; through the heart 
 of it the river, flowing softly between its wooded 
 banks ; teeming life in utter solitude. 
 
 Alone in the solitude a man was seated on a 
 fallen tree by the bank of the river. Behind him 
 stood a horse, his nose resting on his master's 
 shoulder. The face of the man was haggard, drawn, 
 
 206
 
 The Capture 207 
 
 pinched by hunger, pale and anxious. His eyes 
 deep brown eyes were fixed abstractedly upon the 
 softly flowing water. Such was the setting and such 
 the scene on the banks of a river in Northern 
 Illinois on a day in June; a day shortly after that 
 when Abraham Lincoln rode by day and prowled 
 by night. 
 
 Mortimer Eandolph, half arousing himself from 
 his abstraction, raised his hand and stroked the nose 
 of the horse. 
 
 "Powhatan," he said, deliberating as he spoke, 
 "we're on the wrong track. We don't seem to be 
 very good at this trick of trailing. I don't think we 
 have been following Black Hawk's party at all. I 
 think we have been chasing rovimg bands of raiders 
 all this time. We don't want to see any raiders, 
 Powhatan. We want to see Black Hawk first of all ; 
 so I think we'll cut right across for Ouisconsin and 
 hunt him out." 
 
 The horse nuzzled closer into the hand that 
 stroked it, drooping and dozing listlessly. The man 
 fell into thoughtful mood again. For a long time 
 they remained silent and motionless, lending them 
 selves to the solitude. Presently the horse, with a 
 low whinny, raised his head quickly and looked 
 through the trees and across the prairie over which 
 they had just come from the south. His ears were 
 pricked and flicking nervously; he sniffed the air 
 eagerly, whinnying again. The man arose from the
 
 208 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 fallen tree where he sat and followed the gaze of 
 the horse. 
 
 Debouching upon the prairie from a patch of 
 timber two miles away and coming toward them was 
 a band of horsemen. They were at such a distance 
 that Mortimer could not make out whether they 
 were whites or Indians. He studied them closely 
 for a space. They rode swiftly, apparently follow 
 ing and observing the trail over which he and Pow- 
 hatan had just come. Glancing quickly about in 
 reconnaissance of the topography, Mortimer drew 
 Powhatan beside him and mounted. 
 
 Turning the horse into the river, he directed him 
 down the current, making what haste he could 
 through the water, keeping close watch meanwhile 
 upon those who were riding up. A few rods below 
 where he entered the water, on the side of the 
 stream from which the strange body of men were 
 approaching, lay a long, low hill, extending about 
 two hundred yards along the bank. For part of that 
 distance it came quite close to the river, itself form 
 ing the bank. In some places there were tables or 
 shelves between the river and the hill. 
 
 Beaching the hill before he was able to determine 
 the identity of the horsemen, he decided to ride 
 through the water to the other end of it and observe 
 them thence. By the time he reached the point 
 they would be sufficiently close. If they proved to 
 be Indians on his trail, he could swing around the 
 further end of the hill when they passed the end he
 
 The Capture 209 
 
 had quitted, and leave in the direction whence they 
 came, keeping the hill between himself and them. 
 By the time they should find his tracks leaving the 
 water, he would have acquired a long start. For the 
 rest, Powhatan was sufficient. 
 
 With this plan in mind, he passed behind the 
 ridge, which shut out from his view those who came 
 across the prairie. The stream narrowed abreast of 
 the hill. The water grew deeper, retarding their 
 progress. Mortimer could hear the rumble of the 
 horses ' feet afar off on the sod of the prairie. Pow 
 hatan picked his way between the deeper pools, 
 silent and alert. They gained the end of the hill. 
 The sound of hoofbeats ceased. Mortimer dis 
 mounted. Leaving Powhatan close under the corner 
 of the hill, where he could not be seen either from 
 the strip of woods or the crossing at its upper 
 end, he crept through the brush to the top, and 
 looked out. 
 
 The band had stopped. They were clustered 
 together at the edge of the woods, consulting among 
 themselves. Because of the intervening brush, he 
 could not yet determine whether they were Indians 
 or whites. He waited. The horsemen scattered, 
 forming a long line at the fringe of the timber, 
 extending far enough to envelop the hill. As they 
 came to their positions opposite him, he saw that 
 they were redskins. They had suspected his 
 strategy. 
 
 One of their number, a tall young brave directly
 
 210 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 in front of him, raised his hand for a signal. The 
 line advanced slowly through the trees, with guns 
 and bows ready, their glances piercing the woods. 
 In the moment of their starting Mortimer recog 
 nized in the one who gave the signal and who came 
 most directly toward him, the young brave whom 
 he had seen on the top of Black Hawk's Watchtower 
 at Saukenuk the year before, whose fingers had 
 then been about Frake's throat, who had come with 
 the flag of truce, and whom he had thrown from his 
 horse at Old Man's Creek to save the life of Frake. 
 They were to meet now for the fourth time. 
 
 For a moment he hesitated, considering whether 
 to throw himself upon the generosity of the brave 
 whom he had served at Saukenuk, and relying upon 
 his gratitude. In the next moment the incident in 
 the fight at Old Man's Creek came before his mind, 
 and he decided against the risk. He must see Black 
 Hawk before he was seen by any Sacs. He would 
 trust all to Powhatan. He crept down the hill to 
 where he had left the horse. 
 
 Powhatan was not there. 
 
 ' * Powhatan ! Powhatan ! " he called, softly. 
 
 From behind an elbow of the hill to his left came 
 an answering whinny, quickly smothered as though 
 a hand were placed over the animal's nostrils. With 
 silent step he hastened to the elbow and peered 
 around it through the bushes. On a little shelf 
 between the high ground and the water were a half 
 dozen Sacs, hideous in war paint. Two of them held
 
 The Capture 211 
 
 Powhatan, who was struggling to throw them off. 
 One of the two had his hands on the horse's nose. 
 It was Half Ear. 
 
 Mortimer had no sooner seen the Indians than 
 their quick eyes detected him in the brush. They 
 had heard his call, and were alert. Before they 
 made a motion to fire upon him or take him, he 
 passed around the bushes and approached them, 
 making the sign of peace, extending the musket 
 before him on open, upturned palms. For the slight 
 chance of his own life he would have fought them 
 all; but more than his own life depended upon his 
 living. 
 
 ''I come in peace," he said. "Is there one of 
 you who speaks English!" 
 
 Half Ear, letting go his hold on Powhatan for 
 an instant, leveled his musket and fired at Mortimer. 
 That was the English he had learned of late. At 
 the instant he pulled the trigger, Powhatan, rearing, 
 struck the musket out of aim. The ball knocked 
 Mortimer's hat from his head, doing him no hurt. 
 
 Powhatan, pawing and biting, broke fully away 
 from the one Indian who held him when Half Ear 
 let go to fire, and came to the side of his master. 
 The Indians, screaming their war cry, pressed 
 toward him. He was so close among them that they 
 could not fire without danger of hitting their friends. 
 They came with clubbed guns and hatchets and 
 knives, bristling about him. His offer of peace had
 
 212 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 been received as their own truce had been on a time 
 which he too well remembered. 
 
 The one slim chance must be taken. All about 
 him was raging fury. The line of approaching sav 
 ages was already breaking out along the crest of 
 the hill. With one leap he was astride Powhatan's 
 back. Half Ear, green eyed with wrath and hatred, 
 was at the horse's head again, clutching at the bit 
 with a tenacity and courage new to him. Powhatan 
 pawed and reared; Half Ear clung. His name 
 might then have justly been Blue Wolf, as it was in 
 the beginning, before he knew the whites. 
 
 Mortimer, striking about him with his knife to 
 keep off his assailants, reserving his fire for the last 
 extremity, saw Half Ear clinging to Powhatan. He 
 pointed his gun at the Indian and pulled the trig 
 ger. A sluggish puff of smoke rose from the firing 
 pan; the powder sputtered and sizzled; there was a 
 low, muffled report in the chamber; but there was no 
 detonation. The powder was wet from the splash 
 ing of the horse through the river, and would not 
 explode. 
 
 Grasping the barrel of the rifle and swinging it 
 about his head, he aimed a blow at Half Ear, who 
 dodged it, letting go his grip on the horse. As he 
 let go, two Indians from the other side of the ani 
 mal grasped the bridle, and one who was behind the 
 rider, raising his musket, brought it down upon 
 Mortimer's head before he could recover his bal-
 
 The Capture 213 
 
 ance from his own blow and defend himself in the 
 rear. 
 
 He felt something crash against his skull with a 
 blunt heaviness; flashes leaped before his eyes; a 
 deep, hot pain shot along his spine ; his legs turned 
 numb and could no longer grasp his horse ; the trees 
 reeled against the sky, and he fell senseless to the 
 ground. 
 
 Gradually consciousness crept back into his 
 brain, bringing with it exquisite suffering. He felt 
 a knot about his wrists ; the pain from it was soaked 
 up by his arms. Cords were about his body; his 
 whole weight was suspended in them. They cut his 
 flesh. He knew that he was bound to a tree. 
 
 He raised his aching head at heavy cost. By 
 degrees he discerned the crowd of savages about 
 him. They gesticulated and talked excitedly, fre 
 quently pointing at him. As he tried to fix them in 
 his gaze, the trees of the woods set up a dance and 
 the sound of the stream close by, which was only a 
 gentle murmur of water, roared through his ears. 
 
 Little by little his strength came back and accu 
 mulated. He was able to stand again, relieving the 
 cutting of the cords that bound him to the tree. As 
 he gained control of himself, he forced his face into 
 composure, banishing all trace of suffering from its 
 lines, and looked boldly at his captors. They seemed 
 to be quarreling violently among themselves. As 
 they quarreled, they shot hasty glances of hate in 
 his direction, growing more excited every moment.
 
 214 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 The focus of the quarrel was between Half Ear 
 and the tall young brave. The young man seemed 
 fiercely to demand his immediate death. The other, 
 leering at him viciously from time to time, appeared 
 to be arguing against such a course. Mortimer 
 found no comfort in that circumstance. He believed 
 that at best it was only a question of the time and 
 circumstance of his destruction. He would have 
 preferred an instant fate to any that might be in 
 the devising of this distorted and degenerate savage. 
 
 He continued to stare boldly among them, meet 
 ing the gaze of such as glanced at him without 
 flinching, without sign of fear or supplication in his 
 face. Half Ear's eyes filled with hatred and fell 
 before his own when he turned them toward him. 
 Into the eyes of the others, through their animosity, 
 came a look of approbation for the cool manner in 
 which he faced them. He saw it, but built no hope 
 upon it, seeing how much stronger was the look of 
 vengeance. 
 
 For a long time they wrangled. In the end the 
 tall young warrior, with a grunt, threw his open 
 hands downward as a sign of acquiescence. 
 Grumbling, they unbound him from the tree, leaving 
 the thongs still upon his wrists. Driving him among 
 them with blows, they took up their way northward, 
 out of the woods and across the prairies. Half Ear, 
 leering at him viciously, mounted and rode 
 Powhatan.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 THE WHITE MAN'S CHILD 
 
 RAVEN HAIR, haggard, with sunken cheek, sat 
 on the ground by the bank of a river swinging 
 Fire Fly on her knees, seeking to soothe him to sleep 
 with a song. The child looked up at her with a 
 pitiful, wistful appeal, seeming to wonder why this 
 warm, soft, tender thing that had always been with 
 him, that had fed him and sheltered him from his 
 helplessness, that was all he knew of life and living, 
 did not now stop the dull, dragging anguish which 
 reached its cruel fingers within his tiny body and 
 gripped without mercy. 
 
 It was the pain of hunger that clutched him. He 
 was starving. His emaciated frame was like a skele 
 ton in papyrus; his eyes had an unnatural luster; 
 the hollows beneath them were leaden; the skin of 
 his face was drawn and colorless; his thin neck 
 could no longer support his head; his hands were 
 tiny, shriveled claws, blue, with purple veins upon 
 them. In one of them he held to his mouth a root 
 which he had sucked until it was nothing but white 
 shreds. He still sucked ravenously, staring at his 
 mother with yearning eyes. 
 
 Signs of distress were all about. Old men and 
 squaws lay beneath the trees, weak and fainting 
 
 215
 
 216 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 from hunger. Gaunt children staggered among 
 them, hollow-eyed. Papooses, their skin like taut 
 parchment over their bones, which threatened to 
 break through the envelope, lay silent in their 
 baskets. A horrid stillness brooded over all. No 
 voice was heard, save the low song of Raven Hair 
 crooning to her child. The silence was eloquent of 
 their stoic bravery to endure. Even Fire Ply, 
 greedily sucking the innutritions root, made no com 
 plaint, looking up at his mother with an expression 
 of patient faith that said if she let these pangs tear 
 at his bowels, they were a just part of life, and as 
 they should be. 
 
 Apart from them Black Hawk paced by the side 
 of the river. Sorrow bent his head. His eyes, full 
 of woe, were on the ground. Great grief was upon 
 him. He had led his people from the other side of 
 the Father of Waters that they might make corn in 
 their own land; now they were famishing. They 
 had been driven from place to place by the 
 implacable whites and had had no chance to plant, 
 so that there would be no crop for them; they had 
 brought but little food with them, and it was long 
 since gone ; it was not the season of much game, and 
 their hunters were away in war parties raiding the 
 white settlements; the Winnebagos, fearing the 
 wrath of the whites, had refused to help them; day 
 by day, without hope, they were slowly, patiently, 
 stoically starving, with relentless certainty. 
 
 Now they were camped on the banks of the Ouis-
 
 The White Man's Child 217 
 
 consin, whither they had come from Lake Koshko- 
 nong. Their case was not so desperate when they 
 could make camp and stay in one place and glean 
 from the surrounding country. The women, going 
 into the forest and upon the prairies, found berries 
 and edible roots ; the boys shot squirrels and snared 
 fish in the river. But soon they would be relent 
 lessly driven forth again, and so, again; until the 
 time came when their trembling limbs were unable 
 to bear them farther; when the bullets of the pale 
 faces would finish the work of hunger, and the 
 people of the Hawk would be no more. This was 
 the past, the present, and the future, as the mind 
 of their chief contemplated them, walking the banks 
 of the Ouisconsin. This was what he had brought 
 on his people. 
 
 He had wished to return beyond the river when 
 the whites showed hostility, but his young men, 
 incensed by the attack made on their flag of truce 
 at Old Man's Creek, urged him to retaliation. Chief 
 among the young men who asked for vengeance was 
 the White Eagle, fiercest in war. Feather Heart, 
 his squaw and the daughter of the chief, lent bitter 
 voice to the plea. The Hawk, weak against their 
 insistence because of his own anger, had acquiesced. 
 The young men had fought back in their own way. 
 descending in small bands upon the unprotected 
 settlers and slaying them. They had aroused the 
 whites by their depredations and had brought the 
 arm of the nation more heavily upon his people.
 
 218 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 Now his people were being hunted to their death by 
 the palefaces. 
 
 Feather Heart, at his side, sought to comfort 
 him. "Let the Sacs die, if they must," she said, 
 "but let them fight their oppressors. It is better 
 that they should be destroyed utterly, than that any 
 should live to tell the children of the Sacs that the 
 Sacs fled from the palefaces. The Hawk has done 
 well; his people are glad to die; the spirits of the 
 departed will praise him in their happy hunting 
 grounds." 
 
 The Hawk, laden with sorrow, made no answer 
 as he walked by the side of the stream. 
 
 Raven Hair, sitting on the ground, crooned in a 
 low voice to Fire Fly, her first born, as she swung 
 him on her knees. 
 
 ' ' The son of the white man must die by the white 
 man's hand," she said, in the English tongue, which 
 she used when she spoke to her babe. "He who 
 would have been chief of the Sacs will never lift the 
 hunting spear; he will never dance the war dance 
 with the young men of his people; the maidens of 
 the Sacs and the Foxes will not tremble with love 
 for him when the time of the Dance of the Crane 
 draws near. For the land of the Sacs is no more 
 the land of the Sacs; the paleface has driven the 
 Sank from his hunting grounds and from the Silent 
 City. So let the child of the paleface die by the 
 white man's hand." 
 
 She half chanted what she said to the child.
 
 The White Man's Child 219 
 
 There was no sorrow in her voice, and no anger; 
 there was resignation, fatalism, patience, but no 
 grief. 
 
 "You must not say that Fire Fly will die; Fire 
 Fly will not die. He will be a great chief and a 
 mighty hunter among his people. ' ' 
 
 A soft and sympathetic voice fell upon her ears 
 as she finished; a gen-tie hand rested on her shoul 
 der. Sylvia Hall stood behind her, gazing over her 
 shoulder at the child with pity in her deep blue eyes. 
 Her face was careworn and thin from her lack of 
 wonted food, her figure had lost the delicate fullness 
 of its contour; but the look of courage upon her 
 countenance, of strength to bear her trials and her 
 sorrows, and the brave self-reliance of her carriage 
 made her beauty and her grace more glorious than 
 they had ever been, even on the night when she bade 
 farewell to Mortimer Randolph by the side of the 
 Sangamon River. 
 
 Rachel stood at her side. She was pitiful to look 
 upon. She had a hunted, haunted look. Her glance 
 was restless and eager; she was pursued by the 
 phantom of hope. There was fright, terror, despair 
 in her face. She clung bitterly to a love of life, but 
 she had not the spiritual courage to have faith in 
 the future. She left hope and courage and faith to 
 her sister, depending upon her for their sustaining 
 virtues. In depending, she seemed to demand the 
 other's moral support, pettishly, querulously, like 
 a spoiled child, and as though all the tribulations
 
 220 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 that had come upon her had come through Sylvia, 
 with malice prepense. This was suggested both in 
 her appearance and in her bearing toward her 
 sister. 
 
 Eaven Hair neither raised her head nor turned 
 her face as she made answer. She had often heard 
 the soft voice and felt the gentle hand of the pale 
 face woman since the two prisoners had been turned 
 over to Black Hawk by Mike Girty and the Potto- 
 watomies. She knew who it was that spoke to her. 
 
 "His people are thy people, and thy people come 
 to slay him," she said, still half chanting. "Once 
 he could walk; now his head hangs on a thong and 
 his legs are as water. Once he laughed and called 
 to his mother ; now his voice is a moan in the night. 
 Blue death creeps to his heart by many trails. The 
 squaw of the whites is good. The squaw of the 
 whites is kind. Eaven Hair is grateful to the pale 
 face squaw. But Fire Fly must wither and fade in 
 the days of a summer; for the white man is cruel, 
 and the son of a white man cannot live on the roots 
 that the white man leaves for him to eat. ' ' 
 
 For the first time there was a trace of anguish 
 in her voice as she finished, and a shadow of sorrow 
 passed through her eyes. Eachel, forgetting her 
 own tribulations, listened keenly, almost with excite 
 ment, to the mother, casting many glances at Sylvia. 
 She had held herself apart from the Indians and 
 had not learned of Eaven Hair and the white man's 
 child before.
 
 ' I 1 ' ire Fly will not die. He will be a great chief and 
 a mighty hunter."
 
 The White Man's Child 221 
 
 "Why don't you take the child back to the white 
 man ? ' ' she asked, half sneering. ' * His father would 
 not let him starve, would he?" 
 
 Eaven Hair arose and confronted her, clutching 
 her child close to her. Her stoic composure was 
 upon her again. 
 
 "The white man has gone his way and I have 
 gone mine," she made answer, proudly, though not 
 without a regret, which she could not exclude from 
 her tone. 
 
 Eachel was on the point of speaking further, 
 when Sylvia put her aside with a gesture of reproof, 
 and laid her hand tenderly on the frail shoulders 
 of the baby. 
 
 "I have corn that the Hawk has given me," she 
 said, shuddering as she felt the tiny skeleton, almost 
 without flesh to cover it. "I will make a gruel for 
 Fire Fly. I will feed him. He must not starve." 
 
 "We have no corn to spare," expostulated 
 Eachel, snatching indignantly at her sister's sleeve. 
 
 "Let the black-eyed one have no fear," said 
 Eaven Hair, turning a scornful glance upon Eachel. 
 "I shall not take her corn; for the Hawk has said 
 that the white squaws must not be hungry, though 
 we all starve, and that they must come to no harm, 
 so that the palefaces may see that the Hawk has a 
 full heart. I will not take your corn." 
 
 "The Hawk shall not know," said Sylvia, more 
 and more distressed at sight of the starving child 
 sucking the unwholesome and worthless root. "I
 
 222 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 have plenty of corn. We will touch none of hers," 
 indicating Rachel with a gesture of her brows. 
 
 "Whether the Hawk knows or knows not is all 
 one, ' ' answered the Indian woman. * ' His word has 
 gone forth, and his word is the truth. ' ' 
 
 "Come! We will ask the chief," urged Sylvia. 
 "He will let you have some of my corn if I ask 
 him." 
 
 Eaven Hair pointed a thin hand toward Black 
 Hawk, pacing by the side of the stream. He was 
 alone now. Feather Heart had left him to his 
 sorrow. 
 
 ' * Shall I go to him with a cry because one of his 
 children is dying, when they are all dying at his 
 feet?" she said, with passion. "What is the child 
 of Raven Hair, and who is Raven Hair, that she 
 should go to the chief with her anguish when the 
 anguish of his whole people tears his soul? I will 
 go with Fire Fly to the woods and find roots for 
 him. When the time comes for him to die he shall 
 die like a Sauk, and not like a paleface." 
 
 She walked away from the two sisters as she fin 
 ished, disdainful of fate. Sylvia, knowing the soul 
 of the woman, made no further attempt to persuade 
 her, but watched her go with a heart full of pity. 
 Rachel, observing the sadness in her face, flew into 
 a passion. 
 
 "Have you no shame, sister?" she cried, stamp 
 ing her foot petulantly. "Aren't you ashamed to 
 carry on so about that child? Didn't you hear her
 
 The White Man's Child 223 
 
 say time and again that it was a white man's 
 child?" 
 
 "We are not to judge of that by our own laws, 
 Rachel," answered Sylvia, softly. "It is flesh and 
 blood, and we must not see it die of hunger." 
 
 "Yes, and whose flesh and blood! Whose flesh 
 and blood?" cried Rachel, bursting into tears in her 
 anger and vexation. "I hope you are satisfied now, 
 you stubborn fool ! I hope you will believe what he 
 is now! I suppose he is to be judged by our laws, 
 isn't he!" 
 
 The girl was beside herself with vexation. A 
 look of pain came into Sylvia's face. She turned 
 her head away to conceal it. Rachel, perceiving the 
 hurt she had given, in spite of her sister's attempts 
 to hide it, burst forth again more violently than 
 before. 
 
 "Didn't Mr. Frake give you warning what sort 
 of a man Randolph was!" she exclaimed; "didn't 
 your own brother see him with a squaw at Sauke- 
 nuk; did not he start for the Indians as soon as they 
 were in danger; can't you see that this is the squaw 
 with the half-breed papoose they told about; can't 
 you see why he came, and what he is ? It serves you 
 right ! It serves you right ! ' ' 
 
 She stamped her foot and bit her lip. The white 
 face of Sylvia was more pallid, and more beautiful, 
 as she made answer. 
 
 "Rachel," she said, "I have listened in silence 
 to many things that you have said about Mr. Ran-
 
 224 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 dolph. I have been patient with you and have tried 
 to overlook your wicked abuse of him. Now I will 
 hear no more of it. I forbid your mentioning his 
 name to me again. I charge you never to speak of 
 him, for good or evil. You have forfeited the right. 
 Until I see evil in him with my own eyes, I shall 
 believe in him, though the whole world cries evil 
 about him. Unless he destroys it in me, I shall have 
 faith in him until the last day." 
 
 There was rebuke in her tone, but no anger. 
 There was dignity and firmness in her countenance ; 
 but there was patient and pitying affection in the 
 look with which she regarded the passionate face of 
 the other. When she had finished she left Rachel 
 pouting, and passed among the miserable savages 
 to the little bark shelter that Black Hawk had caused 
 to be built for them apart from the Indians, for their 
 greater comfort and privacy. There they lived with 
 Light Foot, their custodian, chosen because she was 
 old and knew some words of English, learned from 
 Half Ear, her son, friend of the white man. 
 
 The sound of the words that Sylvia had spoken 
 that night by the banks of Sangamon River, 
 repeated half unwittingly now, awakened memories 
 that she tried to keep buried in the bottom of her 
 heart ; memories that floated in tears to her eyes as 
 she passed inside the shelter, filling her with sadness 
 and longing. The sound of them mocked her. She 
 had uttered them more to herself than her sister; 
 without realizing it, she had addressed them to a
 
 The White Man's Child 225 
 
 hideous fear and doubt that was raised up within 
 her; a doubt vague, intangible, preposterous, 
 persistent. 
 
 Her faith had contended much with Rachel's 
 prejudice. This day she knew with bitter misery 
 that she had more than her sister's skepticism to 
 struggle against; for this day a white man's child 
 had looked up into her face out of the arms of its 
 Indian mother. Many words falling in the same 
 place wear a hole into the bravest soul, just as many 
 drops of water beat into the heart of a stone ; now 
 the tiny, pale hands of the babe tore into her heart. 
 
 If she could hear one word from his lips she 
 would be restored; if she could look into his eyes 
 and touch his hand again faith would indeed live to 
 the last day. Alone, beset as she was by danger and 
 distress, sick at heart, with nothing to sustain her 
 but memories, she lost courage for the fight. Know 
 ing it to be a sin, and with an anguish upon her that 
 held her transfixed and dry-eyed beneath the shelter 
 of bark, she doubted.
 
 CHAPTER XVH 
 THE SHADOWS DEEPEN 
 
 QEATED on the ground in the shelter of bark, 
 ^ alone with her perishing soul, there came to 
 Sylvia's ears from afar off a cry, the war cry of 
 the young men of the Sacs returning from a raid 
 among the whites. She had heard the cry many a 
 time in her captivity; she had heard it in the dead 
 of night ; she had heard it piercing the storm to the 
 accompaniment of thunder ; she had heard it scream 
 ing through the solitary woods in peaceful quiet of 
 noonday; never had it affected her as it did now. 
 There was portent in it, coming so shrilly into her 
 thoughts of Mortimer. 
 
 She started from her seat on the ground and 
 rose to her feet. She hurried from the shelter and 
 looked eagerly, tremulously, in the direction whence 
 it had come. A hope and a deadly fear were at her 
 heart. 
 
 The cry of the returning band had stirred the 
 listless Indians into a ghostlike activity. They arose 
 excitedly from where they lay upon the grass and 
 gazed in the direction whence the young men would 
 come, speculating with many gesticulations and 
 grimaces. Some of the more vigorous went forth to 
 meet them; for the return of the raiders meant 
 
 226
 
 The Shadows Deepen 227 
 
 much to the starving old men and the women and 
 the gaunt children. It meant word of the dreaded 
 white man; it meant tales of victory to inspirit 
 them ; it meant strength for fighting ; it meant food ; 
 for the marauders brought what spoils they could 
 to their starving people. 
 
 Black Hawk stood in the midst of his waiting 
 people, silent and sad. Feather Heart crept toward 
 him, trembling with weakness as she walked. The 
 ghost of her beauty was left in her sunken cheeks 
 and hollow eyes. As she came near her father, her 
 step grew light, though the effort drew a tremor 
 through her frame. 
 
 " It is the White Eagle ! It is the White Eagle ! ' ' 
 she cried, merrily. Yet only the ghost of joyousness 
 was in her voice. 
 
 Sylvia, dazed, incapable of thought, left the bark 
 shelter and hurried toward the group of Indians 
 gathering in the center of the camp. The cry came 
 again, nearer at hand. Excitement ran through the 
 waiting Sacs. She could see the forms of the 
 approaching Indians through the trees, half naked, 
 painted, hideous. They passed from the shelter of 
 the trees and came down the open space toward 
 their people, jubilant and shouting. Among them 
 they drove a prisoner. His hands were bound. 
 He was pale, haggard, anxious ; courageous, defiant, 
 magnificent. It was Mortimer ! 
 
 As they came, she saw the beautiful eyes search 
 among the Indians until they found her. They
 
 228 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 rested for an instant; a sign of gladness and good 
 cheer and warning flashed from them, and they left 
 her face. She believed that it was his necessity and 
 hers that made his glance pass so swiftly; but she 
 wished that it could have tarried another instant. 
 There was a destroying hunger in her heart. 
 
 The returning warriors stopped and circled 
 about their prisoner with cries and gestures. The 
 old men of the Sacs, and the boys who hunted, joined 
 them. The women and the children waited at a dis 
 tance. Only Feather Heart of the women went to 
 meet the young braves, walking by the side of her 
 father, the chief, greeting the Eagle with a look of 
 love and pride as he circled, chanting, about the 
 prisoner. 
 
 Sylvia, among the women, saw Eachel standing 
 beside her. Eachel looked dumbly into her face, 
 overpowered by the situation. Sylvia instinctively 
 reached out and took her hand, cold and stiff from 
 nervous tension. Her eyes clung to her lover; not 
 once did he turn his gaze toward her. 
 
 They dragged him about among them. His 
 hands were bound, and once he fell to the ground 
 heavily, unable to save himself. He rose to his feet 
 with calm dignity, ignoring his captors, and turned 
 his face toward Black Hawk. Between the two 
 there flashed a look of recognition. It left the face 
 of each at the same moment. The countenance of 
 the chief hardened into relentless condemnation. 
 The features of Mortimer became fixed in an expres-
 
 The Shadows Deepen 229 
 
 sion of serene courage. The heart of Sylvia sank 
 at the sight. 
 
 The circling dance stopped. The sound of the 
 chant died upon the air. White Eagle and Half Ear 
 came before their chief. There were words in the 
 Sauk tongue which Sylvia could not understand. 
 Mortimer glanced once at Sylvia and smiled bravely. 
 The chief nodded his head. The savages turned to 
 Mortimer and dragged him to a tree. An excited 
 murmur went among the women. Eachel uttered a 
 sound that was half a shriek and half a whispered 
 prayer. Sylvia made no sound or motion. She 
 passed through the events that followed, swifter 
 than emotion could follow, dazed and stunned, like 
 one in a delirium. 
 
 A dozen hands bound him to the tree. A score 
 of hands brought dry brush and faggots, piling them 
 about him. Without a tremor, Mortimer looked 
 forth from his pyre. The Indians finished. A war 
 rior, kneeling, made ready to light the heap of brush 
 from the firing pan of a flintlock. There was a hush. 
 In the hush, the lips of the doomed man moved. 
 
 "Is there an Indian here who speaks the Eng 
 lish tongue?" he said, quietly, looking from face to 
 face. "I have a message for the Hawk from the 
 White Beaver." 
 
 The face of Half Ear filled with sinister light; 
 he made no response. Sylvia struggled to cry out ; 
 something clutched her throat ; something smothered
 
 230 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 her soul; she could not speak. Rachel, clinging at 
 her side, screamed. 
 
 ' ' Half Ear ! " she cried, pointing to him. * ' That 
 Indian can " 
 
 The hand of Light Foot pressed heavily over her 
 mouth; the arm of Light Foot was about her 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Let the white squaw hold her peace!" grunted 
 the Indian woman. ' ' The white man is a liar. Why 
 should Half Ear parley with a liar?" 
 
 For an instant the attention of the Indians was 
 diverted to Eachel. Mortimer understood, but held 
 his peace, having no hope in Half Ear. In another 
 instant the powder in the pan of the flintlock flashed. 
 A tiny blaze sprung up in the edge of the pyre. It 
 leaped and crackled. Smoke filled the heap of brush 
 and poured out of it. Through the smoke came a 
 smile of farewell; a smile that bade Sylvia be of 
 good cheer. She could make no response. She 
 could only stare dumbly into the smoke. Her soul 
 was dead within her. Her faith in him struggled 
 into life as he was about to die. 
 
 The flames gained headway, crackling louder and 
 louder. The savages, lifting their spears and 
 hatchets, danced about the burning pile in howling, 
 screaming frenzy. Black Hawk, standing motion 
 less, looked on stolidly. At his side was Feather 
 Heart, wavering slightly like a reed in the breeze, 
 her lips compressed and her hands clenched, gazing
 
 The Shadows Deepen 231 
 
 constantly upon the White Eagle, who lead the 
 dance and the frenzy. 
 
 Sylvia, standing like a statue among the women, 
 staring with fixed eyes, saw Raven Hair appear like 
 a vision by the side of Feather Heart, with Fire Fly 
 in her arms. 
 
 "The child of the white man must see how the 
 white man dies ! ' ' she heard her say. In the moment 
 that she said it, the veil of smoke drifted, and the 
 face of Mortimer was once more revealed, calm, 
 serene, magnificent in fortitude. Staring dumbly, 
 Sylvia saw Eaven Hair thrust the child into the 
 arms of Feather Heart, saw her leap to the burning 
 pile and snatch the brands away with bare hands, 
 crying loudly in the Sauk tongue. 
 
 Half Ear, his face distorted with rage, rushed 
 upon her. She thrust him aside, crying out in the 
 Sauk tongue. The White Eagle a score of young 
 men swarmed upon her. She threw the fire brands 
 among them, calling loudly in her own tongue. 
 
 Feather Heart, leaving her father's side, glided 
 to White Eagle. She laid her hand on his arm. She 
 whispered in his ear. Sullenly, he held the braves 
 off. 
 
 Raven Hair, tearing frantically at the crackling 
 brush, stamping the fire with her feet, arrested the 
 blaze. Feather Heart, the babe on her arm, spoke 
 to her father, the chief, pleadingly. The White 
 Eagle stood apart, his arms folded, taciturn and 
 baleful. Half Ear, slinking behind the young men,
 
 232 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 who stood in a wondering group, listened and 
 watched. 
 
 Eaven Hair drew herself up in front of the man 
 whom she had saved from the fire and confronted 
 the chief and the young men. Mortimer, blackened 
 by smoke, with distress and anguish contending with 
 his determination to endure without flinching, looked 
 on, marveling. He turned one searching glance 
 upon Sylvia. 
 
 All this Sylvia saw like one in a dream, not 
 understanding it, not trying to, not caring to under 
 stand; not daring to guess why this woman had 
 saved the life of that man. 
 
 There was rapid and vehement speech between 
 the Indian mother and the chief. It was in the Sauk 
 tongue, and Sylvia could not understand. Feather 
 Heart joined in it briefly from time to time, address 
 ing herself pleadingly to her father. The young 
 men muttered among themselves. In the midst of 
 their talk, Mortimer spoke. 
 
 "Eaven Hair," he said, "tell the Hawk I am not 
 afraid to die, but that I bear a message for him from 
 the White Beaver, which he should hear before he 
 kills me." 
 
 Eaven Hair turned to the chief and repeated to 
 him in Sauk what the paleface said. The Hawk 
 made answer. 
 
 "Let the white man say what he has to say," 
 Eaven Hair said to Mortimer. 
 
 "Tell the great chief of the Sacs that the White
 
 The Shadows Deepen 233 
 
 Beaver does not wish to destroy and punish the chil 
 dren of the Hawk," he said to her. "Tell him that 
 the Great Father does not wish to bring sorrow to 
 his children. He only wishes them to go beyond the 
 river, where they had promised to go. If they do 
 that there will be peace and love between the Indian 
 and the white man. Tell him that the Great Father 
 is kind, and will let the people of the Hawk go across 
 the Father of Waters if only the Hawk will send 
 back the young white women he has captive, and go 
 himself to see the Great Father in the Big Wigwam. 
 If he will do this, his people may go in safety beyond 
 the Mississippi." 
 
 An angry murmur arose among the Indians when 
 the woman made known to the chief what the white 
 man had said. Their resentment arose against the 
 bearer of the message, who had already aroused 
 their malice because of his rescue. The White 
 Eagle was bold in his displeasure. 
 
 Black Hawk, lost in thought for a space, held up 
 his hand and forbade the angry complainings of his 
 young men. Looking fully into Mortimer 's face, the 
 chief spoke long and mournfully in the Sauk tongue, 
 Eaven Hair repeating it in English from time to 
 time. 
 
 ' ' The Hawk is sorry he came, ' ' said the woman, 
 translating. * ' The Hawk is sorry that he has made 
 the Great Father angry. It is not well for the red 
 man to anger the great chief of the palefaces; for 
 the red man is the child of the Great Father. He
 
 234 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 came to make corn, believing that the palefaces 
 would let his people work in their fields through the 
 summer. But the whites have driven him from his 
 fields and his people are perishing. For himself, he 
 is old, and the night cometh upon him, but his people 
 are brave and strong, and the time is not come when 
 they should die. He is an old leaf, trembling on the 
 bough, but his people are like the green shoots of 
 spring. He will do as the White Beaver says. He 
 will take his people across the Father of "Waters. 
 He will send the paleface squaws back to the whites. 
 He will go to the Great Father in the Big Wigwam. 
 But how shall he know that the word of the paleface 
 is true? Many times has the paleface said one 
 thing, and done another. How shall he know? He 
 will first take his people across the river, and then 
 he will come to the Great Father for his blessing. 
 He will lead his starving women to the land of the 
 loways, and then he will give back the paleface 
 women to their own people. First the white man 
 must do what he says he will do, and then will the 
 Hawk fulfil his word." 
 
 Sylvia heard nothing of what was said. Her 
 eyes were fixed on the face of Mortimer. Her brain 
 was struck dead by a growing fear. Why had this 
 woman sought to save this man? What was there 
 between them that made her plead for him against 
 the tribe of relentless and hostile savages ? Was it 
 the true answer that Eachel, standing beside her, 
 was staring into her face ? No ! Until the last day
 
 The Shadows Deepen 235 
 
 she would hold to her faith, unless the man himself 
 destroyed it. But why did this woman save the life 
 of this man "? 
 
 They were unbinding him from the tree. They 
 were releasing his wrists from the cords that bound 
 them. Their chief was talking to them, staying their 
 anger and disappointment. 
 
 ' * The Black Hawk says that the white man shall 
 go back with the answer he has made," said Eaven 
 Hair, when the chief had finished. "The White 
 Eagle will go with him until his way shall be safe. 
 The Hawk will do that which he has said he will do 
 when the palefaces have done that which they have 
 said they will do." 
 
 He did not tell them there was no hope in such 
 an answer. They gave him his own horse to ride. 
 They gave him his gun and his knife. The White 
 Eagle, surly and grim, mounted and led the way. 
 Without another glance at Sylvia, Mortimer headed 
 his horse to the southward and passed from the 
 camp. Watching him as one whose soul is afar off, 
 Sylvia saw him turn his head slightly as he left and 
 make a signal to the woman with the papoose. 
 Watching, she saw the woman steal among the trees 
 and follow him with her babe in her arms. 
 
 With a low moan, she groped her way back to 
 the shelter of bark.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 THE RISK 
 
 WHEN Mortimer Randolph, liberated by Black 
 Hawk and sent back to the whites without 
 opportunity to see Sylvia, made a signal to Raven 
 Hair to follow, he had no other purpose than to 
 send a message of comfort and encouragement by 
 her to the captives. A plan to bring about their 
 escape, through the agency of the squaw, had grown 
 in his mind as he rode by the side of White Eagle. 
 
 It was vague and indefinite and hazardous; he 
 could not be sure when or how he could cooperate 
 in its execution, or that he could do so at all. He 
 concluded to discuss it with Raven Hair, if she 
 should follow, confiding in her friendship, and leave 
 it to her decision, subject to the approval of Sylvia. 
 Of her courage and ability to undertake any plan 
 that might be devised, he had little doubt. 
 
 They traveled slowly. Mortimer contrived to 
 delay their progress by making Powhatan feign a 
 lameness ; a trick he had taught the horse for diver 
 sion and display. They were hardly out of sight of 
 the camp when they heard the voice of the woman 
 calling after them through the woods. 
 
 White Eagle, hearing her, supposed that the 
 Hawk had sent her with a further message for the 
 
 236
 
 The Risk 237 
 
 white man, she being the one who had acted as 
 interpreter. He stopped his horse and waited. She 
 came to them breathless, Fire Fly slung at her back. 
 
 "What does Eaven Hair want of us, that she 
 cries after us f " asked White Eagle, in the Sauk, as 
 the woman paused for breath. He was in an ill 
 humor, both because the white man had been spared 
 and that he had been sent with him, away from the 
 side of Feather Heart. "Has the Hawk thought of 
 something more that he would say to the White 
 Beaver?" 
 
 Eaven Hair, quick to see the advantage that his 
 conjecture gave her, replied that he had guessed her 
 errand. ' ' He thinks I have come from the Hawk to 
 speak more words with you for the White Beaver,'* 
 she explained, turning to Mortimer. "We may talk 
 without danger. I will tell him lies as we talk, that 
 he may think I parley with you for the chief. What 
 would the white man have of Eaven Hair 1 ' ' 
 
 "You have done much for me, Eaven Hair," said 
 Mortimer. "You have braved your own people, 
 and saved my life. I cannot reward you now, but I 
 will not forget. ' ' 
 
 "The white man has already rewarded Eaven 
 Hair," returned the woman. "He has saved her 
 from the blows of her husband before the women 
 of her people, and he has saved her husband from 
 loving another." 
 
 She sat on a fallen tree, being weary. Mortimer 
 dismounted from his horse and stood beside her.
 
 238 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 The White Eagle, watching them closely, remained 
 on his horse. 
 
 "What do you say to the white man?" he 
 demanded, in the Indian tongue. 
 
 "That the Hawk would ask the White Beaver to 
 come to parley with him at the Devil's Cave, in the 
 Dalles of the Ouisconsin," replied Raven Hair, 
 adroitly. 
 
 "And what does the white man say?" 
 
 "He has not said," answered the woman. 
 "What will you have of Raven Hair?" she asked, 
 turning to Mortimer. "The Eagle is cheated." 
 
 "I would ask much of you," returned Mortimer. 
 "I would ask more than you need to do for me. 
 One of the white women that you have captive is 
 my own dear love" it was necessary that the 
 woman should understand wholly ' ' and I want you 
 to help her escape." 
 
 He watched for the effect of the suggestion upon 
 the woman. The eye of the Eagle was upon her, and 
 she made no sign. 
 
 "What does the white man answer?" asked the 
 Indian, looking keenly at her. 
 
 "He says that the White Beaver will not wish to 
 come so far," she answered; "but he has more to 
 say. Hold your peace until he has finished. I do 
 the work of the chief ? ' ' 
 
 "How shall they escape?" she asked, turning to 
 Mortimer again. 
 
 "You must help," he answered, eagerly. "You
 
 The Risk 239 
 
 must find a way. Can you get horses? Can you 
 get them out of camp! Can you ride with them! 
 Can you come to me! We can appoint a place. 
 White Eagle will leave me in the morning. I can 
 meet you in the morning." 
 
 It was beginning to seem possible to him. Raven 
 Hair thought deeply for a moment. 
 
 "What is the white man's answer!" asked the 
 White Eagle. 
 
 "He has not finished. He asks if the Hawk will 
 come without any of his braves to Koshkonong, 
 where the White Beaver has built a fort." She 
 turned to Mortimer. "Toward the rising sun, as 
 far as a horse can go from noon till night, is a great 
 lake," she said. "On the lake, toward the setting 
 sun, is a rock ; a high rock, as smooth as the face of 
 Fire Fly before hunger was upon him. Beneath the 
 rock, toward the lake, is a cave. There I will bring 
 the white women before the sun rises again, if they 
 will come with me. But the risk is great. It will be 
 evil for them if they are found. Are the white 
 women brave! They are well with our great chief, 
 and the risk is great. Eaven Hair will bring them, 
 if they will come, and they are not caught. ' ' 
 
 "Tell them what you will do," Mortimer made 
 answer, beginning to falter at the risks involved. 
 * * Tell them the risk. Let them decide. If they stay 
 with the Hawk, I will come to their succor. If they 
 come, I will meet them. ' ' 
 
 ' ' How shall you know f ' '
 
 240 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 "If they do not come, I shall know," he 
 answered. 
 
 "If they do not come before the sun is upright 
 above the rock, they will not come," said Raven 
 Hair, positively. 
 
 "Raven Hair has spoken long," complained the 
 White Eagle, frowning impatient. "Can Raven 
 Hair hold parley like a chief? Is there no answer 
 to the message I ' ' 
 
 "The white man says that the Hawk must send 
 a young man to the White Beaver to tell him 
 whether he will come to Koshkonong," she 
 answered. "If the Hawk will not come to Koshko 
 nong, the Beaver will go to the cave in the Dalles, 
 bringing all his men. The Hawk must send a young 
 man with the answer." 
 
 "Has Raven Hair done! Has the white man 
 done ? ' ' asked the White Eagle, angrily. He did not 
 like this parley with the enemy of his people. His 
 blood was stirred against the palefaces; he would 
 speak with them only with the rifle. 
 
 "We have done," she made answer, rising. 
 "Until the sun is upright above the rock you may 
 wait," she added, to Mortimer. 
 
 "I cannot give you reward now, Raven Hair," 
 said he, gratefully. "But when Raven Hair comes 
 with the white women she shall go with us to the 
 land of the whites, where Fire Fly shall grow fat." 
 
 "Raven Hair will return to her people," replied 
 the Indian woman, solemnly. "The bones of Fire
 
 The Risk 241 
 
 Fly shall rest among the dead of the Sacs. She will 
 
 bring the white women if they will come; but she 
 
 will return to her own people. ' ' 
 
 "Is the white man done?" grunted the young 
 
 brave. 
 
 * ' He bids you come, ' ' said Raven Hair. ' ' Go. ' ' 
 Randolph mounted Powhatan and rode with the 
 
 Eagle through the grey shadows of evening, leaving 
 
 Raven Hair to await the darkness before she went 
 
 back to the camp.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 THE WHITE MAN'S FRIEND 
 
 NIGHT had fallen upon the camp of the starving 
 Sacs. Night noises of nature were in the air. 
 The rustling river whispered to its banks. Crickets 
 rasped in the grass. Frogs held sonorous converse 
 along the low margins of the river. The owl hooted 
 among the trees. The night-hawk called through 
 the forest. The timber wolf howled out of the 
 distance. 
 
 Among the sleeping Indians there was a hush, 
 save for a low, grating sound that Light Foot made 
 as she ground the corn that White Eagle had 
 brought her, and the sound of her voice raised in 
 bitter complaint. She was kneeling beside a small 
 fire that blazed in the bark shelter the only fire in 
 the camp. 
 
 By the side of Light Foot as she ground her corn 
 sat Sylvia, composed once more. The storm had left 
 her soul left it a crushed and twisted wreck, but 
 left it her own. She had fought, and she had lost. 
 In her defeat she was growing strong again. Hope 
 was dead, but dread had passed. She knew the 
 worst. There was nothing now that life could bring 
 her which she could not meet. The regret, the bit 
 terness, she could conquer in time. For the present 
 
 242
 
 The White Man's Friend 243 
 
 she was herself broken, shattered, miserable, but 
 herself. 
 
 Eachel lay sleeping fitfully on the ground, her 
 head in Sylvia's lap. Tears clung to her dark 
 lashes, for she wept in her sleep over the grief of 
 her sister. With an honest purpose she had sought 
 to destroy the faith of Sylvia in this man ; now that 
 the faith was dead she sorrowed. While her soul 
 was not great enough to grasp the immensity of the 
 tragedy, the magnitude of the event that had come 
 filled her with a sense of oppression. The one whose 
 grief it was had comforted her out of her greater 
 strength, so that she slept at last, fitfully, weeping 
 as she slept. 
 
 "Woe to Light Foot, mother of an evil son," 
 droned the old Indian woman as she knelt by the 
 side of the fire, pounding corn. "Shame and dis 
 honor are hers ; for the White Eagle, her son, is an 
 enemy to her people. He has stirred the palefaces 
 to wrath; but Half Ear, his brother, is a friend of 
 the whites, and has lived in peace among them. Now 
 we are starving; the White Eagle makes us starve. 
 He makes the whites seek our lives; but Half Ear 
 was their friend. Unhappy is the mother of an evil 
 son. ' ' 
 
 There was the sound of a footstep in the grass 
 close to the shelter. Some one approached, cau 
 tiously. Light Foot, hearing it, arose and went into 
 the darkness. Sylvia paid little heed. What was to
 
 244 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 happen would happen. She had lost hope. She was 
 prepared for all the misfortune life can hold. 
 
 Light Foot, walking softly through the grass, 
 saw some one standing beneath the trees. She 
 stopped and challenged in a low voice. A voice 
 made answer the voice of Eaven Hair. 
 
 ''What does the squaw of the white man want, 
 that she comes through the night to the lodge of 
 Light Foot?" demanded the old woman, gruffly. 
 
 "I would speak with the white women," made 
 answer Eaven Hair. 
 
 The murmur of their voices in the still night 
 reached the shelter ; Sylvia might have heard if she 
 had listened. She would not have known what they 
 said, for they spoke in the tongue of the Sacs. She 
 would only have known who it was that came 
 through the night to the lodge of her keeper. 
 
 1 'What would Eaven Hair say, that she comes in 
 the darkness?" asked Light Foot, jealously. 
 
 Eaven Hair hesitated. "I have corn for them," 
 she made venture. 
 
 "Must corn be brought in the night?" persisted 
 Light Foot. 
 
 The other was silent. 
 
 "What would you say to the white women?" 
 asked Light Foot again, more insistently. 
 
 "Light Foot is kind, Light Foot is good," said 
 Eaven Hair, coaxingly. "Light Foot will have pity 
 for the women of the palefaces. One of their race 
 has come and been sent away. He could have no
 
 The White Man's Friend 245 
 
 word with them. He bade me bear it to them. Light 
 Foot is kind. She will not deny it to them. ' ' 
 
 The eyes of the old woman closed to slits. She 
 looked at the other craftily, suspiciously. 
 
 "Must you come in the night to bear it to them?" 
 she asked, harping on the point. "Come in the 
 morning. They are tired. They sleep. The 
 morning will do." 
 
 "The white man bade me speak with them 
 to-night," returned Raven Hair, too anxiously. 
 "They will be waiting; they will be glad for what 
 I shall tell them." 
 
 "Who is the white man that you so quickly run 
 with messages for him?" asked the other, abruptly, 
 in a tone full of innuendo. Her attitude was almost 
 threatening. 
 
 "He is the friend of the poor Indian woman," 
 replied Eaven Hair, proudly. "He has saved her 
 from the hand of her husband before her people. 
 He kept the love of her husband from another ! ' ' 
 
 She spoke half defiantly, to deny the implication 
 in the other's tone. Light Foot tossed her head 
 shrewdly, without making response. In the wisdom 
 of her years, she guessed near the truth. She was a 
 woman ; she had known jealousy. 
 
 "Light Foot will let me go to them," resumed 
 Eaven Hair, after a moment. "It grows late, and 
 Fire Fly must rest soon." 
 
 ' ' Eaven Hair will tell Light Foot what she would
 
 246 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 say to the white women, ' ' suggested the other, slyly. 
 "Light Foot will bear them the message." 
 
 "Raven Hair must tell them!" exclaimed the 
 younger woman. ' l The word is for them. ' ' 
 
 "Ha! It is not for the ears of Light Foot?" 
 cried she. ' ' Then it is not for the ears of the white 
 women. ' ' 
 
 Before Raven Hair could make rejoinder, a 
 shadow came from behind a tree and Half Ear stood 
 between them. 
 
 "I have heard," he said. "I know. I am the 
 white man's friend. They would have slain him, but 
 I saved his life. Let Raven Hair speak with them 
 to-night. ' ' 
 
 Raven Hair turned a look of deep suspicion upon 
 him. He saw and answered it. 
 
 "Half Ear tells the truth," he said, solemnly. 
 "Half Ear is no more as he was in the days that 
 have gone. Half Ear would help. He is the white 
 man's friend. What did the white man say? Did 
 he tell his white sisters to come to him through the 
 night, that he might take them to their people? Is 
 that what the white man would have said? That 
 have I prepared to do. He has said it to me. Our 
 horses wait in the grove. He has said it to me, and 
 I have made ready to do his bidding. ' ' 
 
 Raven Hair, thrown off her guard, revealed with 
 a look that he had guessed the truth. 
 
 "He said nothing to me of Half Ear," she 
 observed, full of suspicion.
 
 The White Man's Friend 247 
 
 1 * How could he have told you what Half Ear was 
 going to do, when the brother of Half Ear 
 listened?" explained the Indian. "Does not the 
 brother of Half Ear know Half Ear's name in the 
 English tongue? Look! We lose time. We must 
 hasten. It is better that Raven Hair should go her 
 way, lest some see her talk with the women of the 
 whites and think evil of it. It is better that Raven 
 Hair should go among the old women and let them 
 see her, that they may think no evil. I will take the 
 pale face squaws on the horses that are waiting. 
 To-morrow we shall be far away. And to-morrow 
 the Hawk starts for the Father of Waters in flight. 
 He dare not pursue us, lest he fall into the hands 
 of the whites." 
 
 Raven Hair, full of doubt, was at a loss. 
 
 "Come," said Half Ear, addressing himself to 
 her, ' ' Raven Hair must not be seen here talking. She 
 must go among the old women and speak not of the 
 white man. I am the white man's friend; I will do 
 his will." 
 
 Taking her by the arm, he led her into the dark 
 ness toward the place where the women were. So 
 far his plans were working well. It was his first 
 return to the main band since his meeting with Frake 
 at Kellogg's Grove, where he had loitered after the 
 departure of the band that had billed the men that 
 Lincoln found. Half Ear had come away full of 
 schemes to abduct the white women, made bold by
 
 248 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 the reward offered by the government for their re 
 turn, and by the inducement Frake had added. 
 
 Eeturning, he had fallen in with another band of 
 Sacs and joined them, for his own safety. Luck 
 had placed Randolph in his hands. He had begged 
 for the life of the paleface at the time, thinking he 
 would gain favor with Frake if the man were tor 
 tured and killed in the presence of the white woman. 
 He did not entirely foresee in what way that would 
 benefit him, but his native shrewdness suggested 
 that there would be profit in it, in the end. 
 
 The escape of his victim disconcerted him at first, 
 but it indirectly brought him advantage now that, by 
 accident, he had stumbled upon his mother and 
 Raven Hair and intercepted Randolph's message. 
 The incident gave him an opportunity that he was 
 shrewd enough to seize. He would be able to get 
 them out of camp more easily. In the circumstances 
 Raven Hair would not reveal how they had escaped 
 when their absence was discovered in the morning; 
 the women themselves could be more easily induced 
 to accompany him, and the white man Randolph 
 would be thrown off the track. 
 
 He had no misgivings that the Indians would re 
 cover their captives if he once got them away, for 
 he had spoken the truth when he said that Black 
 Hawk was going to set out for the Mississippi in the 
 morning, and would not risk stopping to hunt for 
 them. There would be no danger of meeting any 
 roving Sacs, for they were all with their chief.
 
 The White Man's Friend 249 
 
 
 
 In the morning they would be thirty miles to the 
 southward in the white man's country. There his 
 only danger would be in encountering Randolph ; for 
 he could make satisfactory explanations to other 
 white men, with the corroboration of the women 
 themselves. Wherefor he was in high spirits when 
 he returned to his mother, who awaited him where 
 he had left her. 
 
 "What will her people say of Light Foot when 
 the women are not in her lodge in the morning?" 
 moaned the old woman, as he returned, fearful of 
 herself. * ' The face of the Hawk will harden against 
 her; his hand will be raised in wrath; she will be 
 without honor among her own people." 
 
 1 1 The hope of the Sauk is with the paleface now, ' ' 
 made answer her son, hearing her fears. "I will 
 take the women to their own people. I shall be made 
 rich. The whites will be my friends, and the friends 
 of my mother, she who helped to free the paleface 
 squaws from the Hawk. When the war is done. 
 Half Ear will bring his mother to live with the pale 
 faces; she shall dwell among them in honor. The 
 Sacs are nothing; the hope of the Sauk is in the 
 whites. ' ' 
 
 With such craft and device he argued, to set her 
 mind at rest. She being a mother, though of an evil 
 son, believed him and was reassured. Together they 
 went to the shelter. 
 
 The fire had burned to a red and dying coal. 
 Sylvia still sat near it on the ground. Rachel,
 
 250 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 awakened by her troubled dreams, leaned, trembling 
 and shivering against her. Light Foot spoke to 
 them. 
 
 "Half Ear is the friend of the whites," she said. 
 "He has come to take the paleface squaws back to 
 their people. The white man who was here awaits 
 them in the forest. He will take you to safety. The 
 horses stand ready. Make haste, before the moon 
 comes." 
 
 Eachel, with a little scream, grasped her sister. 
 "No! No! No! I dare not," she cried. 
 
 "Black Hawk leaves to-morrow for the Father 
 of Waters," said Half Ear, urgently. "He cannot 
 take the paleface women with him. He will kill them 
 before he goes." 
 
 Eachei, in an extremity of fear, fell sobbing on 
 her sister's neck. "Oh, what shall we do I What 
 shall we do?" she moaned. 
 
 "We will go with the Indian," made answer 
 Sylvia, calmly, rising and lifting Bachel to her feet. 
 "We are ready." 
 
 She confronted the lowering and sinister Indian, 
 prepared for what fate might have next in store for 
 her. She did not entirely believe that he intended 
 taking them to Mortimer. If he did, she could meet 
 the situation. If he did not, she would not be in 
 worse case than she was with these starving and 
 fugitive Indians. She need have no dread of the 
 gravest thing a defenseless woman has to fear from 
 a man. That the Indians never gave white women
 
 The White Man's Friend 251 
 
 cause to apprehend. So she would go with him with 
 out anxiety having lost hope. 
 
 Half Ear, seeing that she would follow, snatched 
 the bag of corn which his starving mother had been 
 grinding and left the shelter silently, not stopping 
 to bid her farewell. Sylvia and Rachel followed, 
 disappearing into the night.
 
 CHAPTER XT 
 THE CAVE IN THE ROCK 
 
 IT is not pleasant to ride by night through a lonely 
 and unknown forest at best, and terror stalks 
 by day in the vicinity of hostile Indians. It is pe 
 culiarly unpleasant when one's companion on the 
 ride is an Indian whose inherent savagery has been 
 aroused to ferocity by acts personally witnessed. 
 Nor does it make it better when he is known to have 
 recently been deprived of the satisfaction of pro 
 ducing one's death by slow torture and fire. 
 
 Mortimer had sufficient confidence in Black 
 Hawk to feel that he would not connive at his being 
 killed and scalped by one of his young men on a 
 journey assumed under his direction and auspices. 
 He could not be equally secure in White Eagle's 
 fidelity to the trust reposed in him by the Hawk. 
 He had seen the young man fired upon when he bore 
 a flag of truce to the Americans. He himself had 
 thrown him from his horse in flight, and deprived 
 him of revenge. He believed that White Eagle was 
 one of the leaders in the belligerent faction of the 
 Sacs. He considered it reasonable to suppose that 
 scruple would not deter him from any act of violence 
 to the white race. He had personal and recent ex 
 perience to prove that his present companion 
 
 252
 
 The Cave in the Rock 253 
 
 might kill him without compunction. He realized 
 that all to withhold him from the act was a sense of 
 duty to the chief. He had no means of ascertaining 
 how strongly that sense would hold the Eagle ; there 
 fore he was constantly on his guard as he rode with 
 the Indians through the dark. 
 
 One circumstance aroused his caution. White 
 Eagle, instead of bearing to the south-eastward, in 
 which direction lay Dixon's ferry, or to the east 
 ward, toward Koshkonong, where soldiers might be 
 expected to be encountered, turned in a southerly 
 direction toward a point unlikely to be occupied by 
 troops. This led him to doubt the sincerity of the 
 brave, and caused him added uneasiness. He feared 
 that he was being led into an ambuscade. 
 
 However, as the night grew on and the moon 
 rose without his companions doing anything further 
 to arouse suspicion, he concluded that it was prob 
 ably a strategy on the part of the Indian to delay 
 his reaching General Atkinson with the message. He 
 had deduced from the opposition which the White 
 Eagle appeared to offer against the sending of the 
 message by the Hawk, and by his sullen deportment 
 during the last interview with Eaven Hair, which 
 the Indian supposed to be part of the parley, that 
 the young brave was not in sympathy with the nego 
 tiations he was intrusted with, and would be glad if 
 the reply of his chief never came to the ears of the 
 American general. 
 
 Nevertheless, Mortimer abated nothing of his
 
 254 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 watchfulness. Tired as he was, and occupied as was 
 his mind with the prospective escape of Sylvia, he 
 constantly kept his attention upon the Indian by his 
 side, and upon the road ahead, in so far as the dark 
 ness permitted, to prevent a possible surprise. 
 
 As the night wore on the other's taciturnity 
 seemed to disappear. He could see by the light of 
 the moon that the sulky cast of the Indian's counten 
 ance was passing, and the sullen hatred that had 
 been in his eyes was slowly submerged in a more 
 genial light. In course of time White Eagle grunted 
 a few fragments of English words that he had picked 
 up. They were disjunctive and not strikingly ap 
 propriate to any topic of conversation which they 
 might have pursued had they been provided with a 
 vehicle for communicating their thoughts, but in the 
 circumstances they were highly eloquent. 
 
 By an elaborately intricate and largely unintelli 
 gible system of signs, too, White Eagle, gradually 
 conveyed to the mind of Mortimer that he was not 
 insensible to the favor that the white man had done 
 him in the episode at Saukenuk the year before. 
 Mortimer believed that he detected a desire on the 
 part of the Indian to impress upon him the idea that 
 Feather Heart was especially grateful for that act ; 
 and that out of respect for her, at least, the Eagle 
 would not do the paleface damage, but was rather 
 inclined to be friendly with him, when such a rela 
 tionship could exist between them without sacrifice 
 of principle.
 
 The Cave in the Rock 255 
 
 Mortimer was not unaware that the savages fre 
 quently resorted to just such devices on the eve of 
 their most nefarious and brutal acts, but he was dis 
 posed to make the most of the necessity he was 
 under of accepting as honest the other's demonstra 
 tions and to receive them with an appearance of 
 truth and faith. He did not cease to be wary, but he 
 felt less and less apprehensive of this savage; his 
 principal fear now being that he might be followed 
 by others of the young men not so amicably disposed 
 toward him. 
 
 It was nearly two in the morning, as he judged by 
 the position of the moon, when White Eagle, stop 
 ping abruptly in the bottom of a little rocky defile 
 through which a brook coursed, dismounted, and 
 made a sign for him to do the same. He did so, half 
 expecting and fully prepared for a lively denoue 
 ment. 
 
 The Eagle held out his right hand. "Hand 
 shake," he said, laboriously. "Me friend.'* 
 
 Nothing in the night had so aroused Mortimer's 
 foreboding. He took the extended hand with a 
 forced readiness, smiling, as pleasantly as he could. 
 
 1 1 Hand shake ! Me friend too ! ' ' having been re 
 peated, the Eagle seemed gratified, and threw him 
 self down on the ground without further ado. 
 
 "Sleep," he grunted, as he stretched his splendid 
 limbs upon the grass. 
 
 Mortimer, whispering Powhatan to stand close, 
 lay down more deliberately. He did not approve of
 
 256 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 the nature of the place White Eagle had selected 
 for a camp. It was deep and dark, with rocky banks 
 on either side of the brook, which made a double 
 bend through the ravine, so that little of its length 
 could be seen. The spot was entirely enclosed. It 
 was an ideal place for treachery. Nevertheless, he 
 could not make objection without running the risk 
 of incurring the displeasure of the Indian ; a result 
 that would aggravate matters if the case was as he 
 feared, and which certainly would not improve the 
 situation if his anxiety was groundless. He accepted 
 the circumstances, therefor, only resolving not to 
 permit himself to fall asleep, but to watch guardedly 
 against any surprise. 
 
 The night was warm and pleasant. The moon, 
 which had arisen in the middle of the evening, was 
 now well down toward the west, as he could see by 
 observing its light on the eastern rim of the defile. 
 The noises of the night were hushed. Only the purl 
 ing of the brook, the deep breathing of the sleeping 
 Indian and the restful sounds made by the browsing 
 horses disturbed the silence, which they served 
 rather to intensify than destroy. 
 
 Mortimer was weary, in body and brain. He 
 had traveled far under great worries. He had eaten 
 little. His rest for many nights had been meager 
 and superficial, compelled as he was to be constantly 
 watchful. The blow on the head which he had suf 
 fered in the encounter with the Indians when he was 
 captured still affected him. The physical and mental
 
 The Cave in the Rock 257 
 
 strain of his experience as an intended victim of 
 torture had exhausted his strength. His distress of 
 mind for Sylvia, the bitterness of coming so close to 
 her without being able either to assist her or speak 
 with her and his anxiety concerning her possible at 
 tempt to escape had depleted his nerve force. In 
 spite of his necessity and his determination to re 
 main awake, the soporific hush about him slowly 
 mastered his consciousness, and he drowsed into 
 profound slumber. 
 
 He was awakened by the neighing of his horse 
 It was daylight. The first fact that struck upon his 
 attention, with the force of a blow, was that the 
 White Eagle was gone. Neither was the Indian's 
 horse to be seen. He was on his feet, in instant 
 alarm, fully awake. 
 
 His gun was at his feet. He snatched it up, 
 searching the rocky inclines about him for sight of 
 a foe. A motion in the bushes at the eastern rim 
 of the gulch caught his eye. He fixed his attention 
 there, just in time to see the head of Half Ear van 
 ishing from sight. 
 
 His first impulse was to follow, directly and im 
 mediately. Before he responded to it, he considered 
 the possibility that the Indian's appearance and dis 
 appearance at that point were a decoy to lead him 
 into ambush. He resolved to pass down the bed of 
 the stream a short distance, climb the bank and 
 circle wide through more open country in order to
 
 258 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 approach the ambush, if there were one from the 
 safer side. 
 
 With this intention he saddled Powhatan, who 
 stood nervously expectant at his elbow, leaped upon 
 his back, and sent him down the creek as fast as the 
 rough character of the footing permitted. The 
 course of the stream was disastrous to his strategy. 
 Beyond the bend which enclosed the spot where he 
 had been it turned to the west, abruptly, away from 
 the direction in which he wished to circle, and so 
 continued for a distance. 
 
 Nevertheless, he rode down the creek for an 
 eighth of a mile before he turned to mount the bank. 
 Approaching the side of the ravine, he found that 
 the walls were so rocky and precipitous and so 
 tangled with brush that egress there was impossible. 
 He had already gone far in the wrong direction in his 
 flanking movement. Instead of proceeding further 
 down stream, he turned and retraced his steps, keep 
 ing close watch for an opportunity to get out of the 
 defile, at the same time scrutinizing the thickets for 
 Indians. 
 
 He had nearly reached the place where he had 
 slept before he found a point where he could ride 
 out. He was at the top of the acclivity in a moment. 
 A thin stnp of woods fringed the ravine. Beyond 
 it was open prairie. He struck out for it at right 
 angles. Once clear of the trees, he rode to a safe 
 distance in the prairie and turned his horse toward 
 the place where he had seen Half Ear.
 
 The Cave in the Rock 259 
 
 No Indian was to be seen. He scanned wood and 
 prairie. He followed the edge of the strip of wood 
 until he had gone beyond the point where Half Ear 
 had been. He was about to turn in there, cautiously, 
 when he saw the tracks of a horse in the wet grass. 
 They led away from the ravine, and were fresh. 
 
 Without hesitation he followed them. They were 
 easily seen, for the grass reeked with dew, and the 
 feet of the horse had made a vivid wake across the 
 prairie. 
 
 At a distance of a quarter mile was another 
 stretch of timber, wider and more dense, which 
 skirted a larger stream into which the little creek, 
 making a broad sweep, emptied at a distance below, 
 where the two belts of wood came together. Thither 
 the tracks led, and thither Mortimer followed, urg 
 ing Powhatan to speed. 
 
 Entering the edge of the woods, he came where 
 a number of horses had stood ; he did not stop to see 
 how many. Here the tracks he followed mingled 
 with the others. He knew that here the Indians had 
 joined companions and had fled thence with the 
 other horses. He could see their foot prints, not so 
 plainly as on the open prairie in the wet grass, but 
 readily enough to be able to follow at a good pace. 
 There appeared to be three or four in the party. 
 
 Instantly he set out in pursuit. He knew that 
 he could overtake any Indian pony the Sacs had with 
 them, and he was in a mood to stop the annoyance 
 he had experienced from this particular Indian.
 
 260 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 Sacs in general he sympathized with, but this speci 
 fic representative of the tribe he was willing to con 
 sider an exception. 
 
 He had not gone a hundred yards before the 
 thought of his rendezvous with the escaping sisters 
 burst into his mind. It was already daylight; the 
 sun was above the horizon. It was late July, and it 
 could not lack seven hours until midday, which was 
 the last hour set between him and Raven Hair. He 
 had ridden slowly southward for nearly eight hours. 
 The lake and the rock and the cave, and Sylvia, lay 
 a half day's ride to the eastward from his point of 
 departure. It all came to him in a flash, and he 
 pulled up short. 
 
 Stopping for a moment to make mental calcula 
 tion of the distance and direction of the place set for 
 meeting Sylvia, he turned Powhatan and started off 
 on a brisk lope, bearing a little east of northeast, 
 making allowance in his course for the slow rate of 
 travel southward during the night. 
 
 He rode hard and pitilessly through the morning. 
 His heart sank beneath many misgivings, and he 
 charged himself bitterly with faithlessness and blun 
 dering negligence. There were streams to cross and 
 woods to penetrate; the grass on the prairies was 
 long and whipped about his horse's feet, retarding 
 him. He steered by the sun as best he could, keeping 
 as nearly on the course he had laid as the topography 
 of the country permitted. 
 
 With every bound of his tired horse the quest
 
 The Cave in the Rock 261 
 
 seemed more nearly hopeless. To reach the point 
 he aimed at in the time that remained would have 
 been difficult enough, if he had known the way there ; 
 but the necessity of covering the distance and find 
 ing the smooth rock before midday, traveling blind 
 and by guess as he was, appalled and dismayed him. 
 Had he been strong; had his bruised head not 
 throbbed with each motion of the horse over the un 
 even ground, his native fortitude and self-reliance 
 would have held him in courage. But he was weak 
 and sick and momentarily grew more dizzy and faint. 
 
 He had ridden, as he guessed, between six and 
 seven hours ; as nearly as he could judge by the posi 
 tion of the sun it was eleven o'clock; there was no 
 sign of a lake before him. He was on the point of 
 concluding he had miscalculated and was not headed 
 toward the lake he sought, and was about to change 
 his course, half frantic with the thought that he was 
 lost, when he observed a high, sloping ridge ahead 
 of him as he came out of a patch of timber. It was 
 prairie land, promising a view of the country about, 
 and he pressed toward it, with a flicker of reviving 
 hope. 
 
 His heart leaped with joy when he came to the 
 top and could look beyond. Blue, serene, peaceful, 
 beautiful, with stately forests skirting its gently 
 curving shores, stretching away into the broad dis 
 tance was a lake. Shouting in his gladness, he urged 
 Powhatan into a run and went toward it. 
 
 As he was crossing a depression in the interven-
 
 262 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 ing prairie, eager and unobservant, Powhatan called 
 to him with an admonitory neigh. Mortimer cast his 
 eyes about. Beneath the very feet of his horse, 
 extending to a breadth before and behind, were 
 tracks made by many horses, fresh in the grass, lead 
 ing to the westward. He stopped. For a moment he 
 was at a loss to account for them, believing that they 
 had been made by Indians. In the next moment he 
 knew that it must be the path of the army on Black 
 Hawk's trail, and he hurried on toward the lake. His 
 relief in the conviction that friends were in the coun 
 try added to his happiness in discovering the lake. 
 Succor was at hand. It only remained to find the 
 rock and Sylvia. 
 
 As he thought of her once more, his hopes fell. 
 He had not found her yet. What if this were not the 
 lake? What if the rock he looked for were many 
 miles away I for the lake was large and the location 
 of the smooth rock upon it was indefinite in the de 
 scription that had been given him. And what if she 
 should not be there ? 
 
 Agitated by conflicting hope and fear, he 
 reached the woods that fringed the banks. He had 
 come upon its western edge, but near to the southern 
 extremity. The rock might be far to the northward. 
 He rode to the water 's edge to see whether he might 
 not be able to get a glimpse of it from there. His 
 view was cut off by a wooded point extending far 
 into the lake, half a mile above him. Beyond it there 
 seemed to be a deep, wide bight, for the next point
 
 The Cave in the Eock 263 
 
 he could see was at a great distance. He would go 
 beyond the point and make a survey from there. 
 
 Powhatan was growing tired. Randolph did not 
 urge him as he had done, but rode more leisure 
 ly, walking and trotting. In the easier pace he 
 was able to collect and calm his thoughts, and steady 
 his whirling brain. He kept close to the water, for 
 the rock he sought, as he understood it, was near the 
 lake. The woods were free of underbrush, but were 
 so densely grown that the view was not extensive. 
 As he neared the point he kept further in from the 
 water, to save the distance of the indentation. 
 
 As he was in the midst of the woods, penetrating 
 to the other side of the base of the point, he caught 
 a glimpse of something between the trees that made 
 his heart stop. Ahead of him, by the edge of the 
 water, was a great, gray, symmetrical rock, smoothed 
 by the wind and weather of many a century since 
 its fellows had fallen into decay and dust. Shouting 
 in his gladness, he hurried toward it. 
 
 As he came near he called loudly the name of 
 Sylvia. There was no answer. Yet it was possible 
 that there was more than one such rock. It was 
 possible that there were many. 
 
 He was at the edge of the huge boulder. He dis 
 mounted, not willing to trust his haste to the feet of 
 a horse. He ran around toward the side that faced 
 the lake. He did not call her name now. He had 
 not the courage. He would hope while hope re 
 mained.
 
 264 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 He came to the front of it. In the middle was a 
 great cave, hollowed out by the waves when the 
 shores were further inland. He crept toward it. 
 He had not the fortitude to run. He was at the 
 opening. The light of day flooded the hollow 
 throughout; for it was shallow. He looked within. 
 It was vacant. There was not the least sign of 
 humanity. 
 
 He looked over his shoulder. The sun was up 
 right above the rock.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL 
 
 FOB an hour he waited. He found berries in the 
 woods, and clams in the shallow water, to stay 
 his hunger and to bridge the time. Powhatan, ex 
 hausted, lay down to rest, after Mortimer had re 
 moved saddle and bridle. At the end of an hour he 
 replaced them and mounted. He retraced his steps 
 until he came to the track of the army. He turned 
 Powhatan 's head in the direction they had gone, 
 and urged him on. 
 
 Heavily, wearily, he followed. There was noth 
 ing now but to remain on Black Hawk's trail until 
 until that happened which would happen. He 
 knew that there was slight hope left in negotiations, 
 after the answer the old chief had given. The hope 
 that remained depended upon his overtaking the 
 army, moving on Black Hawk's trail, and preventing 
 an attack by it. It would effect little to see General 
 Atkinson, even if he proved willing to accede to the 
 Hawk's terms, were these troops permitted to go 
 forward and attack the Sacs meanwhile. 
 
 In two hours he saw the rear of the column, pass 
 ing slowly across a prairie. He continued at an 
 even pace until he overtook the rear guard. 
 
 They were troops under General Henry's com- 
 
 265
 
 266 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 mand; that much he learned in the first greetings. 
 The soldiers paid little heed to him, except to re 
 mark that he had ridden hard, believing him to be an 
 express from Fort Atkinson, on Lake Koshkonong, 
 where they had taken their departure. 
 
 Without waiting to exchange talk with them, he 
 rode forward until he found General Henry, who was 
 consulting with Colonel Dodge, in command of the 
 Ouisconsin troops that had joined the command. 
 
 ''You are not going to attack 1 ?" he said, eagerly, 
 without preliminary, as he rode up to the command 
 ing officer. His hope in negotiation was slight, but 
 he would not abandon it without a struggle. 
 
 "I certainly am, as soon as I can find anything 
 to attack," answered General Henry, vigorously. 
 
 "But negotiations are under way," pursued Mor 
 timer. 
 
 "Who are you?" demanded the general, bluffly. 
 He did not intend rudeness. He only asked for in 
 formation. Mortimer identified himself, overlook 
 ing the form of the request. 
 
 "Oh, you are the man, are you," observed Gen 
 eral Henry. "Have you seen the Hawk, then!" 
 
 "I have, and he has practically agreed to the 
 terms," replied Mortimer, stretching a point. "We 
 should not attack him." 
 
 "If he has agreed, where are the girls?" de 
 manded General Henry pertinently, in his brusque 
 manner. 
 
 Mortimer, somewhat disconcerted, explained the
 
 The Beginning of the Trail 267 
 
 details of his conference, not yet mentioning the pos 
 sible escape of the Hall sisters. 
 
 "That won't do !" exclaimed General Henry, with 
 emphasis. "He 's got to come to the scratch. Be 
 sides," he went on, "General Atkinson has with 
 drawn his offer. It is too late now. We have orders 
 to punish him. He should have answered before." 
 
 Mortimer made the plea that he had not had 
 opportunity. 
 
 "Can't help that!" ejaculated the other. "Seems 
 to me you are pretty anxious about the hide of the 
 old fellow?" he went on, sarcastically. 
 
 "I am more interested in the safety of his host 
 ages, if they still remain with him," returned Mor 
 timer, ignoring the tone and manner of the man. 
 
 "What do you mean, man?" demanded General 
 Henry, catching the "if." 
 
 Mortimer made answer at length, telling such 
 parts of the story as he considered of consequence 
 to General Henry, making two points. One was that 
 if the young women still remained with the Hawk, 
 an attack by the whites, after the Indian's offer to 
 return them conditionally, might be fatal to them. 
 The second was that if they were fugitives from the 
 savages, seeking shelter with their friends, they 
 should be sought for. 
 
 To the first General Henry returned shortly that 
 they would have to take their chances in case of at 
 tack. For the consideration of the second he sent
 
 268 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 for William Hall and William Munson, who 
 presently appeared. 
 
 The wrath of those two at what they termed the 
 meddling of Randolph in the affairs of the sisters 
 was full and bitter. Only Mortimer's equanimity 
 and the interposition of the commanding officer 
 averted an open physical quarrel. Mortimer was 
 surprised at the angry antagonism of the two, but 
 gave it little thought, having weightier matters on 
 his mind. 
 
 The band was halted to discuss what had best be 
 done. Hall and Munson, arguing from their knowl 
 edge of women in general and Eachel Hall in par 
 ticular, maintained that they would not venture upon 
 an attempt to escape, and were still with Black 
 Hawk. They urged immediate pursuit. 
 
 In the end it was decided that a dozen rangers 
 should be despatched to make a search for the girls, 
 while the others continued on the trail of the chief, 
 now made plain for them by the report of Mortimer. 
 Mortimer himself, thinking only of Sylvia, decided 
 to go with the main body, believing it more probable 
 that the sisters were still with Black Hawk. 
 
 They rode hard, Mortimer keeping up with them, 
 despite his own fatigue and the exhaustion of his 
 horse. As he rode he learned of such few events as 
 had happened since he left to seek the Indian chief. 
 General Atkinson, not hearing from the message to 
 Black Hawk, did not long delay in pressing the pur 
 suit. The militia and a body of regulars marched
 
 The Beginning of the Trail 269 
 
 northward along the Rock River to Lake Koshko- 
 nong, in search of the Sacs, who skillfully eluded 
 them. At Watertown, in southern Wisconsin, a large 
 body of the militia was sent home because of a 
 failure in provisions, the rest taking up the trail 
 which they discovered leading toward the Ouisconsin 
 river. Among those thus dismissed from service was 
 Abraham Lincoln. 
 
 Late in the afternoon the soldiers came to the site 
 of the camp on the bank of the Ouisconsin. All about 
 were the signs of hasty departure. Fires where the 
 Indians had cooked the crumbs of corn brought them 
 by the raiders were scarcely cold. The ashes were 
 fresh and undisturbed. A few utensils lay about, 
 abandoned, being of no further use to the Indians, 
 who had nothing to cook in them. There was a fresh 
 grave by the banks of the river, which the soldiers, 
 in brutal spite, uncovered as they hurried through 
 the place. 
 
 They rode, before they stopped to eat and rest, 
 until it was so dark that they were in danger of miss 
 ing the trail. Mortimer had difficulty in continuing 
 on with them. He was weak from exhaustion and hun 
 ger, and a feeling of sickness crept over him from 
 time to time. His head reeled and a cold tingling 
 numbness passed over his skin, like wind squalls 
 across the surface of water. The fatigue of Pow- 
 hatan, too, was pitiable and reacted upon the condi 
 tion of his master, bringing it still lower. 
 
 The soldiers gave him a bit of corn cake, some
 
 270 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 jerked venison, and a tin of weak coffee. It was all 
 they had that night. Their provisions were running 
 low, and they could not tell when more would be sent 
 them. Famishing as he was, he could scarcely eat 
 the little they gave him. He put what he could not 
 eat into his pocket, and lay down upon the ground 
 to sleep, depressed and dizzy. 
 
 As soon as the dusk of morning showed them the 
 way, the troops were in motion again, not stopping 
 to heat water for coffee. The trail was plain before 
 them. Marks of horses' hoofs and prints of naked 
 feet were in the path that led northward along the 
 river. On either side the grass was crushed and 
 trampled. 
 
 Mortimer, still dizzy and with the little cold skin 
 squalls sweeping over his body, rode in the forefront. 
 Powhatan had recuperated somewhat, and was able 
 to maintain the pace without distress to himself or 
 rider. The soldiers, revived in spirit by signs of 
 their quarry, shouted and laughed as they rode, 
 flinging coarse jests back and forth and towsling 
 each other in rough play. 
 
 Mortimer, in no mood to witness such a display 
 of humor, rode a little ahead. The sun, above the 
 horizon, struck among the boles of the trees, light 
 ing the grass or sending long shadows across it. The 
 birds twittered busily in the day's work. Mists 
 steamed up from marshes across the river. The loud, 
 rude noises of the boisterous troops jangled harshly 
 on the serene peace of the morning.
 
 The Beginning of the Trail 271 
 
 As he went forward, miserable in body and mind, 
 Mortimer kept close watch ahead, hoping against all 
 reason that he might yet avert a tragedy if he should 
 be first to see Black Hawk's band. Riding among 
 the trees, his eye caught sight of the tuft of an In 
 dian's scalp lock at the foot of an oak, and a dusky 
 form laying half concealed behind it. He glanced 
 over his shoulder to make sure that he was not ven 
 turing too far from the troops, and went cautiously 
 forward. 
 
 The Indian did not stir. He came within a dozen 
 paces, stopped, and called to him. There was no re 
 sponse. He went to the foot of the tree, keeping 
 close watch on both sides as he proceeded. He passed 
 around the trunk. The Indian lay still, face down 
 ward. He spoke to him again. There was no an 
 swer of voice or muscle. He dismounted from his 
 horse and touched the prostrate form. It was cold. 
 The Indian was dead. 
 
 It was the body of an old brave, horribly emaci 
 ated. The scalp lock was a thin wisp of white hair, 
 tinged with yellow from excess of age. He turned 
 the face upward gently with his hand. The agony 
 of the death he had died was in the open, sight 
 less eyes, the twisted lips, the sunken cheeks. 
 
 A squad of soldiers, seeing him kneeling behind 
 the tree, hastened up. 
 
 "What you found!" demanded one gruffly. 
 
 He looked up. It was William Hall. 
 
 "Do you know what this means, men?" said
 
 272 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 Mortimer, rising, appalled by the spectacle. "This 
 savage has starved to death 1 ' ' 
 
 "That's a good way for 'em to die; saves pow 
 der," laughed William Hall. "Here! Wait till I 
 get his scalp. ' * 
 
 Hall leaped from his horse and hurried to the 
 side of the dead body, drawing his knife as he went. 
 
 "For the love of God, man!" cried Mortimer, 
 aghast. "You will not mutilate the dead?" 
 
 * ' You go to hell, Eandolph ! ' ' roared Hall, flaring 
 into anger. "Is it any of your business? You're 
 altogether too friendly with these Indians for your 
 own good ! I know you ! These boys know all about 
 you ! I've told 'em ; and they won't put up with none 
 of your tricks. You'd better tend to your own af 
 fairs!" 
 
 He was down on his knees at the side of the dead 
 Indian. His knife reached for the naked, withered 
 crown. Mortimer, with a cry of wrath and horror, 
 grappled with him. Hall threw him off with ease, 
 so great was his assailant's weakness. 
 
 ' * Now see here ! " he bellowed, taking him by the 
 throat and raising the knife threateningly, "you 
 leave me alone, or, by God, I'll make you!" 
 
 Three or four of the soldiers, who had dis 
 mounted, grasped Mortimer's arms and held him 
 helpless. 
 
 "Let him alone," they growled to Mortimer, 
 with ugly looks. "He owes it to 'em." 
 
 Mortimer, rendered powerless to interfere phy-
 
 The Beginning of the Trail 273 
 
 sically and knowing the futility of words, held his 
 peace. Hall glanced fiercely at him and returned 
 to the body. He made a few clumsy gashes of his 
 knife through the thin flesh against the skull, twisted 
 his hand in the thin white hair, and jerked. The 
 scalp came away. 
 
 "You mind your business after this, Randolph, 
 or you'll be sorry," growled William Hall, close to 
 his face. 
 
 The others, muttering warnings, released their 
 hold. Mortimer mounted Powhatan and rode on. 
 He was not angered against them. He would not 
 quarrel with them. He had other work to do. He 
 was only filled with horror, and marvel that such a 
 one as this man should be brother to Sylvia Hall. 
 
 All through the weary, wicked day they rode, and 
 into another day. From time to time those in front 
 broke into clamorous and exultant shouts, and those 
 behind presently passed bodies of Indians, scalped 
 and bleeding, who had fallen famished by the way 
 side. Children there were, with shrunken frames, 
 who had lain moaning until the soldiers came, when 
 they moaned no more; old women whose grey hair 
 fell over their haggard, staring faces. Mortimer did 
 not know that one of these was Light Foot, mother 
 of Half Ear. If he had known, he would have felt a 
 deeper pity. 
 
 The trail was ghastly with sights of death and 
 despair. To the horror of it in Mortimer's mind was 
 added the dread of what might befall Sylvia, fleeing
 
 274 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 with the starving, fugitive Indians; Sylvia, weak, 
 soft, tender, gentle, beautiful. His head reeled; his 
 skin was parched and hot. 
 
 It was the afternoon of the second day. The sun 
 in its declining course passed behind a dark and 
 murky cloud. Lightning flashed across the heavens ; 
 thunder rolled through the woods. Raindrops pat 
 tered on the leaves and dashed little spurts of dust 
 from the dry ground. The storm broke in wild, fan 
 tastic fury. The bodies of dead and dying Indians, 
 lying along the trail, spattered and drenched, showed 
 in the lurid lightning. Mortimer lifting his face to 
 the lowering sky, made a silent prayer for the safety 
 of his beloved. If the Indians died, how should the 
 white woman escape! 
 
 The swiftly moving column came to the edge of 
 a prairie that opened to the river. Beyond it rose 
 the heights of the Ouisconsin. Beyond the heights 
 was low, swampy ground where the river shallowed 
 and could be crossed. It was this crossing which the 
 Hawk strove to reach before his relentless pursuers. 
 
 Looking beyond the prairie Mortimer saw, in the 
 daylight that remained, the last of the Indians strag 
 gling and struggling up the heights, dragging their 
 weary, bloodless limbs across the steep places. He 
 could have cried out in his pity for them and his 
 distress for his beloved. 
 
 The soldiers saw also. Sounding the army cry, 
 they put spurs to their horses and urged them for 
 ward with voice and lash. Living excitement ran
 
 The Beginning of the Trail 275 
 
 through the command. Men came hurrying out of 
 the woods where the column still passed and rushed 
 across the plain. As they hastened forward the rain 
 ceased, and Mortimer's fears for Sylvia rose 
 higher. What would Black Hawk do with his pris 
 oners when the soldiers attacked? 
 
 A shot rang out from the thicket on the crest of 
 the ridge. The Indians had made a stand. The 
 soldiers in advance paused. Their comrades came 
 up. The men dismounted. The line of battle formed 
 It swept up the hill, the men firing as they ran from 
 tree to tree. The Indians made answer, fifty against 
 four hundred. It was the White Eagle with the 
 young men of the tribe, covering the retreat of Black 
 Hawk across the Ouisconsin. 
 
 Up the ridge, from tree to tree, crept the four 
 hundred. The flash of rifle fire gleamed through the 
 gathering dusk, along the top of the ridge, and over 
 its slopes. Bullets whined through the air; the 
 grunts and moans of the stricken filled the evening. 
 The fifty stood well. They became forty, and thirty, 
 and still stood their ground. 
 
 Mortimer, thinking only to succor his beloved, 
 went in the forefront, musket in arm He did not 
 load and fire. The pity of it all was upon him. He 
 only went that he might save Sylvia in her extremity. 
 
 1 'Charge." 
 
 General Henry broke through the line, sword in 
 hand.
 
 276 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 "Charge!" Colonel Dodge, further along the 
 ridge, echoed the order. 
 
 The soldiers dashed up the slope. The Indians 
 held their ground. The soldiers closed with them, 
 musket butt to hatchet. The Eagle, watching the 
 willow fringed islands in the river, cried out a sig 
 nal. The Indians, such as were left, turned and fled 
 down the hill. The Hawk was safe. 
 
 The soldiers followed the fleeing savages into the 
 ravine beyond the ridge, where the gathering dark 
 ness obscured the enemy. Night was upon them, 
 and they halted, glorying in their victory over a 
 famished foe. 
 
 Mortimer, sick at heart, weary and oppressed, 
 sought out Powhatan from among the horses the 
 soldiers had left when they went into the fight, cared 
 for him with loving hand, and lay to rest close by 
 him, having no other comfort in his heavy misgivings 
 for the safety of Sylvia.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 THE END OF THE TRAIL, 
 
 IN the midst of the night there came a cry to the 
 ears of the slumbering soldiers ; a long, low, son 
 orous cry, intoned from the top of the hill beyond. 
 Mortimer, hearing it in his sleep, awakened with a 
 start. It fitted his dreams. He had dreamed of 
 Sylvia, done to death by the savages, calling to him. 
 He listened. Not hearing it again, he thought it was 
 from his dreams, and turned to go to sleep once 
 more. 
 
 Turning, a hot, tingling flush went through him. 
 His head whirled. He put his hand to his brow to 
 steady it. It was dry and hot and throbbing. The 
 trees above him and the shadow of the hill assumed 
 a vastness, and overpowering immensity that was de 
 lirium. His weakened limbs shivered and trembled. 
 Fever was upon him. His heart sank beneath the 
 knowledge. Not for himself, but for her whom he 
 would save. He set his determination against it, 
 composing himself to sleep by sheer force of will. 
 
 Into his ears there came again the cry. Chills 
 coursed through him at the sound. He tried to rise. 
 He could not. The effort only sent the cold more 
 swiftly through his weakened frame. He lay still, 
 listening. It came again. He knew it to be the call 
 
 277
 
 278 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 of an Indian. He knew that the Hawk wished to 
 parley. He waited to hear an answer, intense, ex 
 cited. He was like one at a play. He awaited the 
 event as one who watched it, having no part. He no 
 longer strove to rise, to answer the call, to bring 
 about a parley, to put an end to the horror of tlie 
 chase, to save the life of his beloved. Like one hav 
 ing no volition, he waited for some one else to do it, 
 taking no part himself. Waiting, he passed into 
 troubled slumber, full of fantastic dreams, and so 
 slept fitfully till morning. 
 
 In the morning he was better, but the fever still 
 fought for possession of him. He said nothing of 
 it to his companions, who had been surly to him since 
 his encounter with William Hall. He ate what he 
 could of the food they grudgingly offered him, scanty 
 and poor at best, and waited for the next step in the 
 drama, unable to think into the future, glad only to 
 rest on the grass for the present. 
 
 General Henry, going to the top of the heights in 
 the morning, gazed across the river, cursing and 
 stamping his feet. The Hawk had flown from his 
 island in the night. His soldiers had little food left. 
 They could not pursue until General Atkinson came 
 with the regulars and more provisions. He sent an 
 express to report the fight and to hasten forward the 
 others. Having done that, he abandoned himself to 
 impatience, and waited. In a day General Atkinson 
 arrived, with commissary. The troops moved at 
 once in the direction which the Hawk had taken.
 
 The End of the Trail 279 
 
 Mortimer, slowly burning, half dazed, scarcely 
 knowing what he did, or why, went with them, 
 mounted on Powhatan, who had been refreshed and 
 strengthened by his rest. He rode in the van, his 
 head afloat and his spirits sunken. His companions, 
 looking into his burning brown eyes and seeing the 
 look on his face, pointed at him, touching their fore 
 heads and chuckling. He did not know, nor would 
 he have cared. 
 
 The way was easy to trace. The bodies of In 
 dians, fallen famished by the side of the path, 
 aroused no further interest now than that they 
 blazed the trail. They found horses that had suc 
 cumbed to starvation and exhaustion and been par 
 tially eaten by their masters, ere they hurried for 
 ward to escape the vengeance that pursued. There 
 was no pity for them. There was only exultation 
 and rejoicing among the following soldiers. 
 
 Mortimer, riding far ahead on a morning, half 
 delirious, saw a squaw seated by the side of the trail, 
 her head hanging on her sunken breast, her bare 
 and bleeding limbs, little more than bundles of bone, 
 folded beneath her. In her lap was a tiny bundle, 
 wrapped in a blanket. Something about the woman 
 recalled Mortimer's wandering faculties, flashed 
 memory and rationality into his brain. He looked 
 more closely at her. It was Raven Hair. 
 
 He spurred his horse. She did not raise her head 
 as he drew up beside her and dismounted.
 
 280 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 "Let the white man finish his work!" she said, 
 in even voice. 
 
 ' ' Eaven Hair ! " he cried, laying his hand gently 
 on her shoulder, "You, too?" 
 
 She looked up at him. Her eyes were sunken, 
 her face a shadow. Yet a light passed across it as 
 she recognized him. "Let the white man finish his 
 work," she said again, in the same even voice. 
 "Raven Hair would have crossed the river to lay 
 her Fire Fly far from the hand of the white man who 
 has slain him, but her time has come. Let the white 
 man finish his work." 
 
 Mortimer lifted the corner of the blanket that 
 covered the bundle. Beneath was a baby dead, hor 
 rible. 
 
 "God!" he muttered, closing his eyes to the sight. 
 
 Eaven Hair, replacing the blanket which he had 
 let fall, was silent. 
 
 "Gome! Quick! Take my horse," said Mor 
 timer, full of compassion, remembering what he 
 owed to the woman. "I will bury the child. Leave 
 it with me. I shall not let them harm it." 
 
 "Fire Fly died in the arms of Eaven Hair; in 
 the arms of his mother he shall rest when she dies," 
 returned the woman doggedly. 
 
 The sound of horses came closer in the trail be 
 hind. Without thinking what he did, Mortimer 
 raised the woman, pitiably light, in his arms and 
 placed her on the horse, before she could resist.
 
 The End of the Trail 281 
 
 "He will return to me," he said. "I will find 
 the horse at the river." 
 
 "The white man is good; Fire Fly will sleep in 
 the land of the loways, among his ancient people," 
 said the woman, who thought only of saving her 
 dead child from sacrilege. 
 
 A word from his master, and Powhatan, with a 
 whinny of unwillingness, bounded down the trail 
 just as Hall and Munson appeared behind with some 
 of the soldiers. 
 
 "There 's the cursed squaw now!" cried Hall to 
 Munson, and the two beat their horses into run, fir 
 ing a shot after the retreating Indian. 
 
 Mortimer would not have understood what they 
 meant had he attended to their words; and he did 
 not listen. For as he saw Powhatan, breaking into a 
 run under the urging of his rider, distance the pur 
 suers and disappear through the trees, he remem 
 bered that he had not learned of the woman the one 
 thing he would have given his soul to know, the fate 
 of Sylvia. Recalling that, he burst forth into a laugh 
 that sent the blood chilling through the veins of 
 those who heard it. 
 
 The soldiers, looking askance at him as he stag 
 gered along, laughing and muttering to himself, 
 passed him rapidly. General Atkinson, coming upon 
 him and recognizing him through the spectral 
 shadow of his delirium, called an orderly to him. 
 
 "Find that man an animal and get the surgeon 
 for him," he said. "He is sick. Get him a pack
 
 282 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 animal, anything, ' ' added the general, seeing the per 
 plexity in the soldier's face and interpreting it. 
 
 The orderly, saluting, went to Mortimer and took 
 him by the arm, with some apprehension. Mortimer 
 looked vacantly at him, and laughed. 
 
 "I guess I am only sick, my fellow," he faltered. 
 "Have you seen Sylvia anywhere?" 
 
 The soldier, kind in his rough way, stayed by him 
 until the surgeon came. He gave him what he could 
 to soothe him and relieve him of his fever. 
 
 " Seems to have been through a hard strain 
 which has broken him up pretty well," he reported 
 to General Atkinson. "I should judge the man was 
 half starved. It's just a touch of the fever. He 'd 
 be all right in a jiffy with rest and proper care. 
 Shame he can't be taken somewhere. Nothing for 
 it but for him to stay with the army, though. ' ' 
 
 There were a number of pack animals to carry 
 provisions, some of which had been divested of their 
 loads. The orderly, with the kindness of a brother, 
 put his saddle on one of these and made Mortimer 
 ride it, himself mounting the bare back of his own 
 horse. Thus he traveled through the woods on Black 
 Hawk's trail, alone with his fantasies among a thou 
 sand men, whispering of Sylvia by day and calling 
 her name as he slept by night. 
 
 How long they travelled he did not know. To 
 him it was an eternity. One morning as he rode he 
 was aroused from his delirium by the sound of shout 
 ing and the firing of guns. An excitement ran
 
 The End of the Trail 283 
 
 through the column which tingled in his blood, mak 
 ing life real. He awakened to a half possession of 
 his faculties. He was only partially aware of 
 where he was, and how he had come there, but be 
 neath his sensations, partaking at once of reality 
 and fancy, was a consciousness of why he was there. 
 Thoughts of Sylvia mingled with his vagrant hallu 
 cinations about her. These thoughts he grasped and 
 clung to, for the final moment was come, and the end 
 of the trail was at hand. 
 
 Riding toward the confusion and sound of battle, 
 which swelled constantly in his ears, ignoring the 
 soldiers and ignored of them, he came upon the scene 
 of struggle. Black Hawk's warriors were making a 
 last stand. On one hand was the Mississippi River, 
 their goal. On the other hand were the soldiers. 
 It was at the mouth of the Bad Axe River. A line 
 of low wooded hills extended parallel to the Missis 
 sippi, distant half a mile. Between the hills and the 
 river was low ground, overgrown with thick and 
 tangled grass, reeds and scrub willows. In the 
 stream were islands, covered with willows. An hour 
 sooner and they would have made their escape. But 
 the hour was not theirs, and now the famished and 
 desperate band made a last stand, hoping that their 
 women might find time to cross. 
 
 Of the three hundred braves with Black Hawk in 
 the beginning, not a hundred were left. Those who 
 survived were weak and sick from starvation. 
 The militia and the regulars, strong and inspirited
 
 284 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 at sight of their quarry, rushed upon the braves con 
 fronting them along the hill. Mortimer dismounted 
 and standing on a shoulder of the hill beyond the line 
 of the fighting, saw the army sweep down. He saw 
 their ranks melt and scatter beneath the bullets and 
 bayonets of the assailants. He saw those remaining 
 of the line swarm down into the tall grass of the low 
 land and disappear. Beyond, at the margin of the 
 river, he saw the women and the children and the 
 old men leaping into the water or standing stolidly 
 to meet their fate. Weak as he was, he cried aloud 
 for mercy toward them and went forward into the 
 tall grass. 
 
 His knees trembled beneath him. He reeled as 
 he walked, leading his horse, unaware of its presence. 
 "Be strong, be strong," he said to himself. "The 
 hour of need has come." 
 
 He entered the low ground from the hill above 
 the point of contact between the soldiers and the 
 Indians. He was alone. He walked toward the 
 group on the bank of the river, searching for Sylvia 
 there. He sang a song as he went; a hymn of his 
 childhood. 
 
 The grass rustled at his feet. An Indian sprang 
 up and aimed a gun at him; it was the brave of 
 Saukenuk, the White Eagle. Before he could fire, a 
 woman, with the wreck of youthful beauty on her 
 face, arose beside the brave and grasped the gun, 
 speaking swiftly to the Indian in the Sauk. It was
 
 The End of the Trail 285 
 
 Feather Heart. He knew her, through the mask 
 of hunger and grief that was on her face. 
 
 The horse tugged at the lines, startled by the 
 conflict. Mortimer at that moment remembered the 
 animal. He led it in front of him, pointing to it 
 and handing the lines to the brave. "Take him. 
 Fly!" he cried. 
 
 There was no need for them to understand the 
 words. 
 
 The Indian, looking at him, shook his head. Mor 
 timer pointed behind to where the soldiers were 
 hunting the Sacs out of the tall grass and the reeds 
 like rabbits. The Indian glanced over his shoulder. 
 He gazed into the face of the woman. He lifted her 
 onto the back of the horse. Eunning beside the ani 
 mal, he turned toward the hills to the north, beyond 
 the lines of soldiers. Mortimer, watching them, saw 
 them reach the hill. He saw them join another In 
 dian; a small, bent man on a white pony. Even at 
 the distance he recognized Black Hawk in the sor 
 row-laden figure. As he watched, they disappeared. 
 He turned and went toward the group on the shore, 
 singing a song. 
 
 His thoughts wandered. He held them with his 
 will. The soldiers were shooting and slaying through 
 the grass with mad, glad shouts. The women and 
 old men huddled closer on the bank. They leaped 
 into the water. Some of them sank. Others reached 
 the islands close to shore. 
 
 There was a sound in the water below ; a hissing,
 
 286 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 muttering, chugging noise, a thick yellow smoke 
 across the sky, and a steamboat came toward the 
 group. At the taffrail trailed the American flag. 
 Coming closer to those who cowered on the bank of 
 the river, Mortimer saw the Indians wave a white 
 flag to the boat. He heard them hail. He heard 
 parley. He saw a flash at the bow of the boat and 
 a rolling, leaping cloud of white smoke. The roar 
 of a gun came to his ears, and the singing of the 
 missies that hurtled into the Indians. They were 
 firing canister. He knew. He had been in the army 
 once. They were firing into the defenseless savages, 
 who sought to surrender. His song changed to a 
 cry of wrath. He hurried to the edge of the water. 
 
 There was a moan in the grass at his feet. He 
 saw a crouching figure ; the figure of a woman, a liv 
 ing skeleton. She bent above something that she 
 held in her lap. 
 
 "The white man finishes his work, little Fire 
 Fly," said the voice of the woman. It was Raven 
 Hair. 
 
 He grasped her by the shoulder and raised her 
 to her feet. She looked at him. There was indif 
 ference in her face, at first, and resignation. There 
 followed a gleam of recognition and, after that, 
 resignation and indifference. 
 
 "Where is she? Where is she?" he asked, 
 eagerly. 
 
 A puzzled look was her reply.
 
 The End of the Trail 287 
 
 "The white woman? The woman who was with 
 you? My sweetheart?" 
 
 She understood now. * ' Gone ! ' ' she said. ' ' She 
 did not come to you? She went with her sister in 
 the night." 
 
 His amazement made her continue. ' * With Half 
 Ear, the friend of the whites ! ' ' she said. 
 
 His thoughts ceased. He could not comprehend. 
 He did not try. After all, what did it matter? He 
 laughed softly, to himself. "Fire Fly is dead," he 
 said, simply. 
 
 She looked at him, wondering at his unconcern 
 for the white woman. 
 
 "Take him to the land of the loways," he went 
 on. "Look, there is the river. Beyond is the land 
 you seek. I will help you. " 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Come." 
 
 He half dragged her to the edge of the water. 
 On its surface, between the steamboat and the spot 
 where they stood, the heads of swimmers bobbed 
 across the waves. The boat was firing canister. He 
 could see the shot skipping over the river's surface, 
 dragging up after it little spurts of water, which fell 
 back in pretty dimpling ripples. 
 
 * ' Swim ! " he said, leading her into the water. 
 
 With her burden in her arms, she waded into 
 the current, to her knees, to her waist, to her breast. 
 She leaned forward. She leaped. She struck out 
 with her legs, and with one arm. The other held
 
 288 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 something close to her breast ; something black and 
 awful. 
 
 He returned to the shore, and stood watching. A 
 horse whinnied softly at his back. A lean roan nose 
 nuzzled into his elbow. He reached his hand up with 
 out taking his eyes from the swimming woman and 
 laughed. 
 
 ' ' Powhatan I " he said, laughing again, softly. ' ' I 
 knew you would come to me. ' * 
 
 He watched the woman swimming. A numbness 
 crept into his head. He laughed at it. The woman 
 was in midstream, swimming more slowly. One 
 arm she did not use. His thoughts floated above 
 him. He held them until ha could watch the woman 
 across the river. 
 
 The water was filled with swimmers. Many of 
 them sank. Those who neither swam nor sank, died 
 on shore when the soldiers reached them. 
 
 Raven Hair was beyond the center of the sweep 
 ing flood that divided the bank from the nearest 
 island. She struggled through the yellow, lapping 
 current with her legs and one arm. 
 
 The air was again filled with noise ; they were fir 
 ing canister. A swarm of jumping jets scattered 
 along the top of the water, swift as light, thick about 
 the woman who swam. 
 
 The water around her was no longer churned by 
 her strokes. Peace came upon it. Her head sank 
 lower. It passed from sight. A little whirlpool 
 formed where she had been. In the midst of the
 
 The End of the Trail 289 
 
 whirlpool there floated a tiny bundle, done up in a 
 blanket. It whirled and tossed in the turbulence. 
 Quiet came over the water. The bundle floated down 
 the stream on the silent current, mysterious, awful. 
 A man with sunken cheek and flaming eye, who 
 stood at a distance on the bank of the river, turned 
 with a laugh in his throat and made his uneven way 
 toward the hill. At his heels trailed a roan horse, 
 wonderingly, with ears erect. Up the hill they 
 passed, and over the top, beyond the sight of those 
 who might have seen.
 
 CHAPTER XXIH 
 RESIGNATION 
 
 SYLVIA HALL, erect, graceful, certain of step, 
 with a brave look in her blue eyes, slowly walked 
 along the street of New Salem. Her old beauty, the 
 beauty of youth and happiness, was gone. In its 
 place was a new and sublimer beauty ; the beauty of 
 sorrow, of strength in adversity. She had fought 
 down the past. She had built up from the wreck of 
 her heart fortitude for the future. 
 
 It was late in August a month since she and 
 Rachel had escaped from the Indians by the aid of 
 Half Ear. Their flight had been without any start 
 ling event, although Rachel had nearly succumbed to 
 excitement and fear. They had found the horses 
 that Half Ear had secreted in a glade half a mile 
 above the Sac camp, and had ridden on through the 
 night, making a wide detour to avoid the Indians. 
 Then they had turned to the southward. 
 
 Only twice had an alarm come to them. Once 
 they had seen a solitary Indian making his way 
 slowly northward in the first light of the morning, 
 but had escaped his observation. The other incident 
 was more exciting. It was later on the first morn 
 ing. Half Ear, leaving them in a strip of timber 
 along the banks of a stream, had ridden across a 
 
 290
 
 Resignation 291 
 
 narrow prairie toward a smaller piece of woods 
 which he told them concealed a ravine where they 
 must hide during the day. Presently he had come 
 back in deep consternation, telling them that a band 
 of Indians was concealed in the defile. Thereupon 
 they fled precipitately through the woods. 
 
 They had not been followed. Nevertheless 
 Half Ear, in a state of trepidation, had not halted 
 until they had hurried many miles. Then he had 
 stopped only to cook some of the corn meal he had 
 taken from his mother, which Sylvia had not had 
 the heart to eat, after which they had ridden slowly 
 southward, keeping in the timber as much as pos 
 sible, and not resting until evening. 
 
 In the night they had taken their course again, 
 traveling more directly under the shelter of dark 
 ness. On the second morning they came to a grove. 
 A rough trail led through it, but this the Indian 
 avoided, keeping in the edge of the woods until he 
 came to the mouth of a dry creek, hidden by thickets. 
 This he entered, telling them that must be their 
 hiding place until night. 
 
 Passing up the creek bed, they came presently to 
 a pocket, where the bushes opened into a clear space. 
 Here, to the astonishment and dismay of the Indian, 
 they found a white man sitting. He proved to be 
 Isaac Frake. By what rare chance he had come 
 there was not revealed by him. He released them 
 from their conductor, whom he took in custody, and
 
 292 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 they went thence to Fort Armstrong, where the In 
 dian disappeared. 
 
 Frake brought them to New Salem; and Frake 
 now walked by her side as she passed up the street 
 of the settlement. When she met him in the grove 
 she saw him without surprise, without fear, with 
 out concern for what the meeting might signify. She 
 was prepared for anything that fate might hold for 
 her. She was glad that he released them from the 
 hands of the savage, whom she mistrusted had 
 learned too much of the ways of the white man. 
 
 Isaac Frake had been kind to her, and to her 
 sister as well. To herself he had been almost tender, 
 in an uncouth way. She knew the meaning of it. 
 She had been sorry ; she surely had not been glad ; 
 perhaps she had been indifferent. She did not an 
 alyze, for she did not know. 
 
 He had been kind since they came to New Salem. 
 He had been pressingly kind, at times. He had 
 stayed in the village for no obvious reason other 
 than to be kind to her. That she understood, and 
 the reason for it. She would rather that he had not 
 remained, perhaps. She had not given it much 
 thought. 
 
 Now he had just been telling her why he stayed, 
 and that he wished to take her with him when he 
 went. She had fought down the past and was ready 
 to meet the future. She was alone in the world, or 
 would be soon, for Eachel was to be married to Wil 
 liam Munson within a month. She could not stay
 
 Resignation 293 
 
 always with her kin in New Salem. She would not 
 do so, if she could, yet she was in a sense helpless. 
 Fate had offered her this refuge. 
 
 If fate had presented this to her a month before, 
 or a week, her heart would have rebelled against it. 
 If she had permitted herself to confront the thought 
 of going with this man a month before, or a week, 
 she would have shrunk from it. She had subdued 
 the past in so far as the struggle lay within herself; 
 she could not have been sure of conquering it if the 
 old memories had been awakened from without, as 
 they would have been awakened a month or a week 
 before by the -thought now obtruded upon her. 
 
 For until the week before a spark of hope had 
 lived, unknown for the most part, and resisted when 
 known. Until the week before there were moments 
 of weakness when her soul denied the terrible truth ; 
 when shreds of faith persisted in weaving them 
 selves into her life. But within the week her brother 
 and William Munson had returned from the war. 
 They had told of Mortimer Randolph's friendship 
 with the Indians, and protection of them, with many 
 exaggerations and no omissions. They had told of 
 seeing him give his horse to the Indian woman ; they 
 had told how he had sent her into the river to save 
 her, and had turned away distraught when she was 
 killed. 
 
 Last, and not least for her struggling soul, they 
 had told how he had vanished from the face of the 
 earth and had not been seen again. That he was
 
 294 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 dead she was thankful. It was a wicked and selfish 
 gratitude, perhaps, but it brought its own absolu 
 tion ; for if he was dead she could hold to the truth, 
 and in the truth there was nothing from which he 
 deserved more than her wish that he had not lived. 
 
 Now Isaac Frake walked beside her to know her 
 choice. "I don't want to be hard on you, Sylvia," 
 he said, humbly. "I know your feelings. I know 
 how much you thought of this man, and how bad you 
 feel about it." 
 
 She interrupted him. "There is no man of whom 
 you may speak like that, Mr. Frake," she said, 
 quietly, without emotion or reproof. 
 
 "I know, I know," he hastened to say. "I don't 
 mean that. I know that is all past. But I can 't help 
 feeling that you have not got over it entirely yet. 
 It was a terrible blow." 
 
 She stopped him by lifting her hand. 
 
 "Excuse me," he apologized. "What I want to 
 say," he went on, endeavoring to avoid the forbidden 
 thing this time, "what I mean to say is, that I don't 
 want to hurry you, and I '11 wait for your answer; 
 but I' d like to have you tell me now if you can. I 
 want to get back to my place on the Eock River. 
 I've been away a long time, and there's no telling 
 what has happened there. The Indian troubles are 
 all over now, and we won't be bothered any more by 
 them pests. I want to get home, and I want to take 
 you with me, but "
 
 Resignation 295 
 
 He did not consider it safe to conclude his qual 
 ification. There was a pause. 
 
 "I am not sure that I should make you a good 
 wife, Mr. Frake, ' ' said Sylvia, ending it. * * I am not 
 sure that I should want to." 
 
 "Why not?" he asked, bluntly, with a general 
 intention of obtaining some specific basis for dis 
 cussion and argument. 
 
 "I am not sure that you would be able to make 
 me contented," she replied, thoughtfully. 
 
 "Why not?" he asked again, not seeing an open 
 ing. 
 
 ' * I have told you that I do not care for you, ' ' she 
 made answer, frankly, but as kindly as she could. 
 "That is why." 
 
 "And I have told you that I don't care if you 
 don't care for me to begin with," he rejoined. 
 
 ' ' You should care. ' ' 
 
 * i Well, of course, I 'd want you to before we got 
 through, and I think you would," he asserted. 
 
 Frake was sufficiently shrewd, but his mind did 
 not move delicately enough for finesse. He was los 
 ing his self-possession. 
 
 "I am not sure that I ever would," observed his 
 companion. 
 
 "Now, Miss Sylvia," rejoined the man, a little 
 less adroit in his tone and manner, "I '11 take my 
 chances on that." 
 
 "I am not sure that I dare take mine." 
 
 Frake changed his tactics. "I don't see why,"
 
 296 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 he said. * ' You don 't know me yet. I am sure I have 
 been good to you " she nodded her head slightly, 
 conceding as much. "I got you away from that In 
 dian; there 's no telling what he would have done." 
 She agreed. "You might never have got that far 
 from the Hawks if I had n't induced Governor Key- 
 nolds to offer a reward. That 's what the Indian 
 was after in the first place. I brought you 
 down here ; I took good care of you ; I did not force 
 myself upon you; I haven't bothered you or urged 
 you ; I am willing to wait for you now. ' ' She nodded 
 as he catalogued his devoted acts. "And if it had n't 
 'a' been for me, you might never have found out 
 about that other man," he added, visibly encouraged. 
 She did not nod. If he had known the dangerous 
 chord in her mind which he had tangled, if he had 
 realized how often she had remarked that circum 
 stance in the days of the struggle, he would have 
 turned pale; he would have had great cause to be 
 thankful that she believed the other man dead. 
 
 He saw that he had made a mistake, though he 
 could not comprehend its gravity, believing it to be 
 only a trespass on the forbidden subject. He be 
 gan again after a pause, in which it became ap 
 parent that he was to get no help from her. 
 
 "If I have been good to you lately, you ought 
 to know that I will be after this," he said. "God 
 knows how I love you. I have got a good place, 
 lots of rich land and plenty of stock, and a man to 
 help me work it. I 'm going to build a new log
 
 Resignation 297 
 
 house. I Ve got furniture for it, and utensils. I 
 can give you a good home, and you haven't got 
 any to go to. Where are you going to live ? Who is 
 going to take care of you in your old age ? ' ' 
 
 He did not perceive that the inducement he held 
 out to her grew to be almost a threat in its condi 
 tions, or that he was taking advantage of her help 
 lessness. She made no sign that she realized it as 
 she nodded her head in acknowledgment of the point 
 he had driven home. 
 
 She made no reply. They walked in silence until 
 they came to the door of the house where Sylvia 
 and Eachel were living. She stopped and faced the 
 man. 
 
 ' ' I wanted you to know what was in my mind, Mr. 
 Frake," she said. "I wanted you to be certain of 
 the considerations that might enter into my decision. 
 Are you sure that it would be fair to you if I should 
 go with you? Are you sure you would care to have 
 me go with you?" 
 
 She looked fully and frankly into his face. His 
 eyes fell before her's. 
 
 ' ' You know what I think about it, ' ' he said. ' ' You 
 know what I have said. ' ' 
 
 "And you would like to have me answer you, 
 now?" 
 
 He nodded greedily. 
 
 "I will go with you at the end of a month," she 
 said. 
 
 "Oh, Sylvia, Sylvia," he said, with cumbrous
 
 298 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 tenderness. He came closer to her. He reached 
 out his hands to hold her. He thrust his face toward 
 hers. She drew back with complete calm. 
 
 "No. Not now. At the end of a month," she 
 said, and entered the house.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 THE MAN FROM THE DEAD 
 
 ON a day in August there came into the street 
 that ran between the log cabins clustered 
 about Fort Armstrong, a man dreadful to look upon. 
 He was cadaverous and spectral, with glistening, 
 flaming eyes of brown, deep in his head, as though 
 they had burned their way through the lean flesh of 
 his face. His skin was the color of death, save that 
 in each cheek glowed a round, red spot. He had 
 no hat ; his hair was scorched by the sun of summer, 
 an<l fell in a tangle about his ears and forehead. His 
 clothes were tatters. On his naked breast were 
 wounds as though he had pressed his way through 
 thick brush. At his heels stalked a horse, thin and 
 woeful, of a faded roan color. 
 
 An Indian lying in the street ; a pitiable, drunken 
 Indian, with bent and cringing frame, with narrow 
 eyes, disfigured, lacking half of an ear, saw him 
 and arose from his drunken stupor with a shriek. 
 The man came toward him, jibbering, with a new 
 light in his glistening eyes. The Indian, seeing him 
 come, crouched, screamed, and fell lifeless, a prey 
 to terror and the liquor of the whites. 
 
 Soldiers, hearing the scream, came running from 
 the fort to see. The man walked among them. They 
 
 299
 
 300 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 stood aside, appalled. An officer appeared, cried out 
 an order, and placed a hand gently on the bony 
 shoulder of the wanderer. The man looked at him, 
 vacancy in his glistening eyes. 
 
 4 'Sylvia," he whispered, and laughed. 
 
 They led him into the fort. They stripped his 
 torn clothing from his body. They bathed him and 
 cooled his fevered head, laying him in a bed. He 
 looked upon them listlessly, submitting to what they 
 did for him without thought. The surgeon, attend 
 ing him, gave him a draught. He sighed, and sank 
 to sleep. 
 
 General Atkinson, coming in curiously to see the 
 stranger as he slept, gazed long upon the face, pass 
 ing from side to side of the bed. 
 
 ''It is he," he said at last; "the man who went 
 to find the Hawk." 
 
 The man slept deeply, and long. When he awoke 
 the fever was strong within him. 
 
 "It is going to be a hard fight, and a close one," 
 said the surgeon, working over him. "The man has 
 been through some sort of hell, I should guess. 
 We '11 see what we can do. I 'd like to hear him tell 
 about it. It might be valuable to a professional man 
 to hear his story. ' ' 
 
 There was much to agitate and excite the garri 
 son in the fort through the days that followed, and 
 the sick man was forgotten by all save those who 
 cared for him, and the surgeon who wanted to hear 
 his story. Black Hawk had been captured, betrayed
 
 The Man from the Dead 301 
 
 to his enemies by an Indian of the Winnebagos who 
 believed that it might be worth while for an Indian 
 to do the will of the white men. He had been tracked 
 to his lair in the Dalles of the Wisconsin through 
 this fellow's treachery. Now Lieutenant Jefferson 
 Davis had gone to bring him to the fort, and they 
 awaited his coming with lively expectation. 
 
 Lieutenant Davis returned. Black Hawk, riding 
 his white pony, unutterably sad, ignoring the stare 
 of the soldiers, rode at his side, with a proud look. 
 Behind, in the escort of the soldiers, rode the White 
 Eagle, the bravest and fiercest of the young men of 
 the Sacs. Behind them all, Feather Heart, defiant, 
 with a spirit that rose higher under calamity and 
 ignominy. 
 
 Theiue was rejoicing among the soldiers, who had 
 suffered much to bring this thing to pass. There 
 were cheers and jubilations. Between the cheering 
 lines rode the captives, haughty and disdainful. 
 
 The Hawk was to be sent to Jefferson Barracks, 
 near St. Louis. Thence he was to be taken to 
 Washington to be interviewed by President Jackson, 
 and to be admonished. Jefferson Davis was to es 
 cort him. The young brave was to be taken with 
 them. As for the young squaw, she would be given 
 into the keeping of Keokuk, the friendly Sauk in the 
 land of the loways, whither the imprisoned chief and 
 the young warrior would be brought after the pros 
 pective inculcation of moral doctrines at the hands 
 of the whites. Such were the orders, and such were
 
 302 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 the plans. Their execution only awaited the arrival 
 of the steamboat Warrior from Jefferson Barracks 
 to bear them thither. 
 
 Lieutenant Jefferson Davis, sitting that evening 
 with the officers of the fort at the mess table, ex 
 changing talk with them, in course of conversation 
 heard about the stranger who had come among them 
 a week before like a man from the dead. He lis 
 tened keenly to the story, fascinated by the romance 
 and mystery of it. 
 
 "He seems to be pulling through all right now, 
 but it was a close fight," said General Atkinson. 
 "We are rather impatient to hear what he has to 
 say. He seems to be some one of consequence. We 
 have no idea who he is, further than that he was the 
 man who undertook to bear the message to Black 
 Hawk from Dixon's Ferry." 
 
 Hearing that Lieutenant Davis sprang from his 
 seat with an exclamation of astonishment. Without 
 pausing to explain he hastened from the quarters to 
 the door of the room where the man lay ill. The 
 physician, coming out at the moment, encountered 
 him. 
 
 "What 'sup? "he said. 
 
 ' ' How is he 1 " returned Jefferson Davis, eagerly 
 "He is a lifelong friend. I want to see him." 
 
 "So?" said the surgeon. "You can't see him 
 to-night, my lad," he went on. "The fever has 
 broken and he is sleeping normally. He has had a
 
 The Man from the Dead 303 
 
 fine day. But you can see him in the morning, I 
 guess." 
 
 The young lieutenant submitted impatiently to 
 the necessity, and returned with the surgeon to the 
 mess-room. 
 
 In the morning, before the sun was warm, he was 
 knocking gently at the door of the sick-room. The 
 surgeon thrust out his head. 
 
 ''All right; come in," he said, in answer to the 
 questioning look. "Go easy, though." 
 
 The man lay on the bed, pale and quiet. His 
 eyes were closed. His hair, thinned by the fever, lay 
 across his high brows, bronze on alabaster. Jeffer 
 son Davis stepped softly to the side of the bed. He 
 took one of the thin hands in his own. 
 
 "Mortimer! Mortimer!" he whispered. "God 
 bless you ! Mortimer ! ' ' 
 
 1 i Go easy, there, ' ' warned the surgeon. 
 
 The sick man opened his eyes. The glisten had 
 gone from their brown depths. He gazed, puzzled 
 and questioning into the face that bent over him. 
 
 "Jefferson, Jefferson," he said, "Is it you? Per 
 haps you can tell me. Something seems to have hap 
 pened. I can't quite understand it. Where am I? 
 What !" 
 
 He did not finish. As he spoke, a change came 
 over his face. A look of pride, of coldness, of for 
 mality succeeded. 
 
 "Don't look at me like that, Mortimer!" cried 
 the other, observing the expression. "It is all right
 
 304 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 now. I knew it was all right as soon as you werfe 
 out of sight, when you left me at Dixon's. I 've been 
 foolish, Mortimer. I want you to overlook it. ' ' 
 
 The face of the sick man softened. 
 
 ' ' I knew all the time that I was making a fool of 
 myself." The other hastened on, earnestly "I 
 knew that there had been a blunder somewhere. I 
 don't want to know where. I don't want you to tell 
 me anything about it. All I want you to tell me is 
 that you are well again. ' ' He spoke with a pressure 
 of the thin and feeble hand that he held. 
 
 "Don't make me weep, Jefferson,'* said Mor 
 timer, smiling at him. "Don't make me weep. lam 
 outrageously weak." 
 
 "Steady, there," interposed the physician watch 
 fully. "Go easy, now." 
 
 Mortimer turned to him. "Doctor," he said, 
 "You need have no worry for me now. You have 
 done your work too well for that. I want to talk to 
 this man. He is an old friend of mine. We were 
 boys together It won't hurt me to talk to him; it 
 will do me good. ' ' 
 
 The surgeon half shutting his eyes and pursing 
 his lips, scrutinized them both for a moment and left 
 the room without further word. The eyes of the 
 two friends met. There was a moment of bounteous 
 silence. 
 
 "It is a mistake, Jefferson," said Mortimer, 
 presently. ' ' Shall I tell you about it ? "
 
 The Man from the Dead 305 
 
 * * No ! " exclaimed the other decisively. ' * I don 't 
 want to hear about it. ; ' 
 
 "Jefferson, it does me a world of good to hear 
 you say that. If you don't have to hear it, so much 
 the better. If the truth is not necessary, I am glad, 
 for the truth would hurt, somewhere. ' ' 
 
 "Where have you been? "What have you done? 
 What has happened?" asked the lieutenant, dismiss 
 ing the other subject finally, with a look of affection 
 at the sick man. 
 
 "You '11 have to tell me something that has 
 puzzled my head, before I can begin," returned 
 Mortimer. "I have been trying to figure out how I 
 came here. Do you know? Have you heard them 
 say?" 
 
 "You came into the fort like a ghost, raging with 
 fever," explained the other. "That 's all anybody 
 knows about this part of it." 
 
 "I thought so. The last thing I remember is that 
 horrible slaughter of Indians up there on the Mis 
 sissippi. It was on the Mississippi, wasn't it?" 
 
 Jefferson Davis nodded his head. 
 
 "Wasn't there a steamboat there?" pursued 
 Mortimer, ruminating. "It seems to me that I can 
 remember a steamboat. It fired canister among the 
 Indians. Yes, I can see it again now ; the spurts of 
 water scurrying across the river's face in among 
 the swimming savages. God ! It was awful. There 
 was a steamer, was there not ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, the Warrior was there."
 
 306 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 ' ' Who commanded ? ' ' 
 
 ''Captain Throckmorton. " 
 
 "I should not like to be Captain Throckmorton 
 when the time comes for me to answer to my 
 maker," said Mortimer, solemnly. 
 
 Lieutenant Davis made no audible comment, be 
 ing in the service of the Government. 
 
 "And tell me another thing/' resumed Mortimer, 
 looking fearfully and anxiously into the face of his 
 friend. ' * The sisters, Rachel and Sylvia Hall ; were 
 they saved?" 
 
 Understanding broke upon the intelligence of 
 Lieutenant Davis. * ' They were brought in by an In 
 dian and are in the hands of their friends," he re 
 plied. "They are safe and well; but I don't think 
 both of them are entirely happy, ' ' he added, his eye 
 twinkling. 
 
 Mortimer ignored the innuendo with some ap 
 parent annoyance. His love was not a thing to be 
 alluded to in a spirit of levity, even by his lifelong 
 friend. Of all the world, only two had heard him 
 speak of it. 
 
 "Where are they?" he asked, with an attempt at 
 composed indifference. 
 
 "Somewhere down in the middle part of the 
 State, I think," Davis made answer, regretting his 
 intrusiveness. 
 
 "And one more thing, Jefferson," Mortimer con 
 tinued. "I had a horse once. Can you tell me any 
 thing about that?" His hope was faint.
 
 The Man from the Dead 307 
 
 "That fine roan of yours?" 
 
 Mortimer's eyes lighted. He nodded affirmative 
 ly. "Powhatan," he said. 
 
 "He 's here. He followed you into camp. He 's 
 fat and fresh and lonesome, waiting for you. ' ' 
 
 Deep satisfaction settled on the countenance of 
 Mortimer. He sighed with relief and contentment, 
 as he began his story. 
 
 "Let me see," he commenced. "The last time 
 you saw me was when I left you at West Point on 
 furlough, to visit my people in Virginia, was n't it?" 
 
 Jefferson Davis nodded his head. 
 
 "That's where my story begins," Mortimer re 
 sumed. "When I reached home I found trouble 
 brewing. Before my time for returning was up, 
 things came to such a pass that it seemed to me best 
 for all involved that I should leave. That I should 
 disappear exile myself immure myself in a wil 
 derness. All I took with me was my horse Powhatan, 
 a sum of money that was my own, and the execra 
 tions of my people. Only a firm of attorneys in Eich- 
 mond knew where I was. I kept them informed in 
 my travels. 
 
 "We wandered rather aimlessly, Powhatan and I. 
 I don't know how it came about; perhaps it was the 
 lure of the army ; perhaps it was fate ; but we found 
 ourselves at last at Jefferson Barracks I didn't 
 have much to do with the army men, because it was 
 better for many reasons that I should not be known, 
 and there was risk of meeting old acquaintances
 
 308 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 among the officers at the Barracks. But I stayed 
 because I liked the taste in the air. 
 
 " Finally I came to know a man named Thomas 
 Forsyth, who had been an agent of the Sacs and 
 Foxes, and was then living at Jefferson Barracks. 
 Through him I became interested in the Indians, and 
 undertook a mission or two of slight consequence. 
 I was with General Gaines when he drove Black 
 Hawk across the Mississippi a year ago last spring. 
 I knew the old chief, and felt sorry for him. I felt 
 sorry because I believed that he was an honest old 
 fellow; pig-headed and mistaken, but sincere and 
 without any viciousness." 
 
 1 'He is a capital old fellow!" interjected Jeffer 
 son Davis. * ' He is a sterling old man ! I have a high 
 regard for him. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, he is," rejoined Mortimer, his thoughts on 
 what he was telling. "When I returned from Sau- 
 kenuk last year I met a man in central Illinois who 
 impressed me as a great and wonderful man. I met 
 him in a little settlement on the Sangamon River, 
 near Vandalia, on my way to the State capital on 
 business for Forsyth. He is young, little more 
 than twenty-one or two, but there is something about 
 his soul that makes me believe he will be a giant 
 among men. He is rough, uncouth, even vulgar in 
 some respects ; and yet I believe that there springs 
 in the bottom of his heart a flow of inspired wisdom, 
 of tenderness, of loving sympathy and understand 
 ing, which would flood the world if events should tap
 
 The Man from the Dead 309 
 
 it. He is of the most humble and insignificant origin, 
 a product of the destitute frontier, without any ad 
 vantages, with only such education as he has been 
 able to grub, without opportunity, without inspira 
 tion from his environment ; and yet I believe that if 
 the chance comes, he will cope with destiny and mold 
 it. He held me from the first, and I stayed in the 
 little village to be near him. ' ' 
 
 "Who is this man?" asked Jefferson Davis, deep 
 ly attentive. 
 
 " He is Abraham Lincoln, ' ' returned Mortimer. 
 
 "Lincoln," repeated Jefferson Davis, thought 
 fully, trying to recall. "Was he not with the militia 
 at Dixon's ferry?" 
 
 "He was captain of militia," Mortimer told him. 
 
 "A great, tall, lank awkward fellow with a home 
 ly face and a marvelous smile ? ' ' pursued the young 
 lieutenant. 
 
 "You know him?" asked Mortimer, with a trace 
 of surprise and pleasure, by way of answer. 
 
 "He told a funny story at a council one day; I 
 remember him. ' ' 
 
 "Wasn't the story shrewd?" asked Mortimer, 
 as one who takes pride in the deeds of his friend. 
 "Wasn't it pointed? Didn't it mean something? 
 Did n 't it clear something up for all of you, generals 
 and all?" 
 
 "Yes, it did," Jefferson Davis conceded; "and 
 it was funny, too, the way he told it. But we all
 
 310 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 thought it somewhat out of place in a militia captain 
 to crack jokes at a council of war. ' ' 
 
 * * My dear Jefferson, ' ' rejoined Mortimer, 
 pleased, "did it occur to any of you as possible that 
 you were all out of place except him 1 ' ' 
 
 Jefferson Davis smiled and nodded his head, and 
 Mortimer took up his story again. 
 
 "There was another reason that might have kept 
 me in the settlement," he said, looking afar off, "if 
 Lincoln had not been there." It was in his heart 
 to tell this friend, too, about his love. * ' Sylvia Hall 
 was stopping there with kinsfolk of hers ; a delicate 
 flower in the midst of a desert; a fragrance in the 
 wilderness what are Gray's words? 
 
 ' ' Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 
 The dark, unf athomed caves of ocean bear ; 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. ' ' 
 
 His voice fell ; the other could scarcely hear. 
 "How such a soul was brought from the stars into 
 this wild spot, God alone can answer. Dainty, beau 
 tiful, noble, pure in heart, with lofty instincts and an 
 innate delicacy of feeling and sentiment, she was like 
 a wanderer among these rough and barbarous peo 
 ple; a rare and exquisite exotic in a rugged soil. 
 She is even different from her own family. For her 
 only I should have stayed ; with them both my life 
 was full to the brim.
 
 The Man from the Dead 311 
 
 "I did not tell her of my affection. There was 
 this thing in Virginia that forbade me. In the 
 autumn she left and went to her home at Indian 
 Creek. In the spring following this spring I re 
 ceived papers from Henderson and Lee, my attor 
 neys, that told me I was restored in the sight of men, 
 and left me free to go to her with my love. 
 
 ' l Before I reached her home, I heard of the dan 
 ger from the Hawk. I thought I might be able to 
 avert it, having been among the Indians, and having 
 sympathy for them, which I feared few other white 
 men had. So I stopped only to warn them, and went 
 to do what I could do. I failed, and then I cannot 
 speak of it yet ; I am too weak. She was taken cap 
 tive, and I tried to find her. I had some hard, rough 
 journeys. I believe the hardships and distress of 
 mind were too much for me. I don't remember. I 
 am tired, Jefferson, and I must rest. But I am well 
 now! I am well again! God bless you, Jefferson, 
 this has been a glorious day. Come back to me, 
 won 't you ? ' ' 
 
 He held out his thin hand. Jefferson Davis 
 pressed it for a moment in silence. Eeleasing it, he 
 turned to leave the room. At the door he looked 
 back. 
 
 Mortimer, with a smile of peace upon his face, 
 rested, with even breath, and the color of returning 
 health creeping into his wasted cheeks.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 DARKNESS 
 
 THE month of respite that Sylvia Hall had given 
 herself before becoming the bride of Isaac 
 Frake was near its close. Another day would be 
 the last. Frake, who had been at his place on the 
 Kock Eiver, had returned to New Salem two days 
 before, resplendent in a new suit of butternut and a 
 high, stiff-crowned hat that he had gone all the way 
 to Chicago to purchase, and was conducting himself 
 in lofty manner at Kutledge's tavern. In obedience 
 to a promise made to Sylvia, which he had the craft 
 to observe, he had not proclaimed his errand in spe 
 cific and definite terms ; but he had deeply hinted at 
 it, which was sufficient in a village with the news 
 facilities of New Salem. 
 
 Sylvia was sitting in the large room of her kins 
 folk's cabin, which served as kitchen, parlor, dining- 
 room, and nursery by day, and bedroom by night. 
 The children were at the little school kept by Mentor 
 Graham ; the father and mother in the harvest fields. 
 Rachel, married to William Munson, lived in a home 
 of her own. Sylvia was alone in the house. 
 
 She sat by the open door, looking out upon the 
 cluster of houses and the street that led between 
 them to the mill behind the bluff. Her hands were 
 
 312
 
 Darkness 313 
 
 in her lap. She was idle. She was not even think 
 ing. A perfect calm was upon her a final stoicism. 
 She had chosen, and was adjusted to life. 
 
 As she sat there she saw the angular form of 
 Abraham Lincoln ambling up the street. He was 
 keeper of a store now, having failed in his election to 
 the legislature. Her heart felt a pang for him as he 
 walked slowly along; for a great grief was close be 
 side him. Ann Butledge lay at her home desperately 
 ill, a prey to the morbid sensitiveness of her con 
 science. She had always accused herself of break 
 ing faith with the man who had betrayed her confi 
 dence and deserted her. Sylvia understood the story 
 with a woman's intuition, and pitied the man. 
 
 As he came near he raised his eyes from the 
 ground and looked at her. Without removing his 
 gaze, he came toward the open door. She arose and 
 bade him enter. He did so, in silence. Pacing up 
 and down the room without speaking, he confronted 
 her at last, fixing his sad eyes upon hers. "I have 
 good excuse for coming here this afternoon," he 
 said. 
 
 She told him he needed none. He acknowledged 
 her graciousness with a momentary lowering of his 
 eyes. 
 
 "I have something for you," he went on. 
 
 She murmured something that was nothing and 
 waited for him to continue. 
 
 "I had a very dear friend once," he said, soberly. 
 "He was the finest man I ever knew. One day he
 
 314 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 set out on a dangerous journey. Before he went he 
 gave me something that I was to give to you if he 
 never came back. I do not think he is coming back. ' ' 
 
 His voice faltered. She stepped toward him with 
 a quickening heart. There was that in his manner 
 and tone which told her the matter was portentous. 
 
 "It was one night when I was with the soldiers, 
 in camp near Dixon's. It was just after you had 
 been captured by the Indians. He came into the 
 camp that night; he had just come from Indian 
 Creek with the alarm. He had gone there to see you, 
 and found the place in ruins. Your brother had told 
 him what had happened to you, and he was setting 
 out alone to find you. He was afraid he would not 
 come back, and he wanted me to give it to you if he 
 didn't. He said it would remove a shadow. I have 
 waited a long time. I am afraid he is not coming. 
 Here it is. Do you know who it is from ! ' ' 
 
 He held out toward her a large envelope. 
 
 "Yes," she whispered, trembling throughout he A - 
 frame as she reached out a hand and took it. 
 
 "There will be no harm if you read it and he 
 does come, ' ' went on Lincoln, looking tenderly down 
 upon her bowed head. "He was going to have you 
 read it when he started for Indian Creek this spring. 
 He wanted you to read it ; only, he wanted to give it 
 to you himself. But I am afraid he is not coming, 
 and I thought you ought to have it before it is too 
 late." 
 
 There was a significance in the tone of his closing
 
 Darkness 315 
 
 sentence that caused her to look quickly at him. He 
 had turned toward the door and she could not see 
 his face. Before she could command herself to speak, 
 before she could be sure whether she wished to hear 
 more from him, he was gone. 
 
 With a fluttering heart, she hastened to the light 
 by the door, clasping the envelope eagerly in her 
 hands, like hope new found. Beaching the doorway, 
 she paused, her eyes staring wide into the future be 
 fore her. The letter dropped from her hands. She 
 leaned against the door post. She dared not read. 
 She dared not brave the past. What if this letter 
 should tell her that what she believed were not true ? 
 What if it should tell her that it was true ? She was 
 contented with what she knew ; why should she know 
 more! She had won the fight with her past; why 
 should she risk the struggle again? She had ad 
 justed herself to the future ; should she hazard it all 
 on a bit of writing? It would be folly. And had he 
 any right to wish her to read it now? Was there any 
 shadow that could be removed? He was dead now; 
 should she revive her buried memories ? 
 
 Being at the last a woman, she picked it up and 
 read. 
 
 It was a letter to Mortimer Eandolph, Esquire, 
 formerly of Eoanoke, Virginia, indited to him by a 
 firm of attorneys in Eichmond, Virginia. 
 
 "We find ourselves at liberty to inform you,'* it 
 ran, after formal salutation, "and take great pleas-
 
 316 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 ure in so doing, that the recent unfortunate misap 
 prehension under which you considered it advisable 
 to leave your home and family connections has been 
 removed. Through the death of your brother, facts 
 have come to light which make it obvious to all ac 
 quainted with the circumstances that, instead of 
 being a malefactor deserving the execration and con 
 tempt of your family and friends, under which you 
 suffer, you are in truth worthy the greatest honor 
 and respect ; that you have made a courageous and 
 noble sacrifice of yourself, and taken the blame of 
 another's sin, out of consideration for his wife and 
 children, who would have been keen sufferers had 
 the truth been known; a belief which you will per 
 mit us to say we have entertained throughout the 
 trying episode. In brief, your brother, dying, has 
 confessed to the infamy of which you permitted 
 yourself to be suspected. We are requested by your 
 parents to communicate with you, to this effect, and 
 to forward to you letters from them, severally, which 
 we herewith beg to enclose. Congratulating you 
 most heartily, 
 
 "We beg to remain, dear sir, 
 
 1 'Your obedient and faithful s'v'ts, 
 
 * ' HENDERSON & LEE, Att 'ys at Law. ' ' 
 
 As she finished she sank upon the chair which she 
 had occupied before Lincoln came, bringing the let 
 ter. In the tumult of her feelings she was forced to
 
 Darkness 317 
 
 wait and calm herself before she could collect her 
 thoughts. 
 
 She looked for the enclosures; they were miss 
 ing. She glanced about the room to see if they had 
 slipped from the envelope to the floor. She could not 
 find them. She opened the letter again, which, in 
 her emotion, she had folded and folded into a thin, 
 hard strip, and read it a second time. She arose 
 from the chair and walked to the doorway, op 
 pressed, seeking light and air. 
 
 Why should she be so perturbed by the communi 
 cation? Why should it stir the mighty powers of all 
 that lay in her past into contention against her re 
 adjustment to life? What had this, whatever it 
 might mean, to do with that other thing? What 
 could they of Virginia know of an Indian squaw on 
 the banks of the Mississippi River! How could a 
 brother's guilt clear him? Why should it disturb 
 her to know he had ever made such a sacrifice ? Why 
 should it arouse an anguish in her soul before which 
 she felt herself becoming helpless? It had no bear 
 ing. It must not, it should not, unsettle her ! 
 
 The sound of a horse's hoofs crunching in the 
 sand of the roadway ; a low whinny ; the glad cry of 
 a voice; someone was moving swiftly toward her! 
 She was half aware of it all through her obsession. 
 She recalled her eyes. 
 
 They rested upon the face of Mortimer Randolph, 
 wan and worn, beautiful in the joy of seeing her.
 
 318 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 "Sylvia! Sylvia!" he murmured, coming close, 
 with eager haste. 
 
 She shrank from him. Her countenance was 
 blank. He stopped, troubled and at a loss. 
 
 ' * Sylvia ! " he said. 
 
 She turned from him and entered the house, mak 
 ing no response. He followed slowly, uncertainly. 
 He passed to her side. He touched her hand the 
 hand that held the opened letter. She withdrew it 
 from his touch; she shrugged her shoulder away 
 from him. 
 
 " Don't touch me yet," she said, in hollow voice, 
 averting her face, and extending the hand with the 
 letter in it as though she would have held him off 
 with it. 
 
 Instantly he became all repose and self-posses 
 sion. "Miss Hall, I humbly crave your pardon," he 
 said, with calmness and formality. It was not re 
 buke, it was not offended dignity, it was not wounded 
 pride ; it was only the delicate consideration of an 
 instinctive gentleman for a woman's wish that 
 molded the form of his speech and gave it its tone. 
 He believed that she had changed in her affection ; 
 he would not question her privilege. ' * I ask you to 
 forgive my effrontery. It was not my intention to 
 be rude. Perhaps you will be able to condone my 
 blunder ; perhaps you will be able to understand how 
 I fell into it. I in the circumstances, I was led to 
 expect another form of greeting from you. I again 
 ask your indulgence for my unwitting mistake."
 
 Darkness 319 
 
 The tone of his voice pierced her soul; the sin 
 cerity and generosity of his words rent her. Her 
 body was wrenched by her unhappiness. He saw, 
 and knew he had caused her pain. 
 
 * ' I beg you will not misunderstand me, ' ' he has 
 tened to say, still calm, and misunderstanding her 
 most completely. "I had no intention of insinuating 
 that your welcome should have been different. I 
 hope you do not think that. It would be most un 
 warrantable presumption in me to question your at 
 titude toward me. That I have no cause for doing 
 and should have no right to do if I thought there 
 were cause. There was nothing in our former inter 
 course that would give me the privilege of asking 
 of you the consideration I did myself the honor 
 to expect on a renewal of our acquaintance. If 
 there had been, I should not now have the right to 
 press you for a renewal of kindness, after the lapse 
 of time and events which have intervened since our 
 parting. I am grieved to have given you pain. I beg 
 you will not permit yourself to believe either that 
 you owe me any regard because of our former ac 
 quaintance, or that I feel that you do. I am indebted 
 to you for the great pleasure of such companionship 
 as you accorded me. I can only thank you, and beg 
 that you will permit me to look back upon my asso 
 ciation with you with pleasure and gratitude. ' ' 
 
 He spoke slowly, with a feeling in his voice that 
 he could not hide, though he made an effort to do 
 so. He labored to make her understand that he held
 
 320 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 her free to change in her regard for him, without 
 implying what the regard had been. His eyes were 
 on the floor as he spoke. He did not see that she 
 trembled with stifled sobs as she heard his chival 
 rous, magnanimous words. 
 
 "No, no, it is not that," she said, with averted 
 face, still holding the letter extended toward him. 
 "This letter," she added, fluttering it in her trem 
 bling hand. "Is there anything more than this 
 letter?" 
 
 For the first time he observed what it was, hav 
 ing refrained from looking at it before, believing 
 it private. He was puzzled to see her with it. 
 
 "Where did you get it I" he asked, nonplussed. 
 "When did you get it?" 
 
 "He gave it to me, today?" 
 
 "Abraham Lincoln?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 * * Did he know I was coming ? ' ' 
 
 "He said you were not coming." 
 
 "There were enclosures," said Mortimer, after a 
 pause, beginning to think that he saw her meaning. 
 "I have lost them, I am afraid. I have been ill, and 
 they were mislaid. I can tell you what they said. ' ' 
 
 "No, no," she repeated, in a heavy voice. "It is 
 not that. Is there nothing else you have to tell me ? " 
 
 She was losing the fight ! She knew it, and was 
 glad ! He could tell her all the horrible truth now, 
 and she would be rejoiced to yield the fight, to sur 
 render herself to him. Only, he must tell her. She
 
 Darkness 321 
 
 dared not look at him as she awaited his reply. She 
 waited long, for he was lost in an effort to fathom 
 her meaning. To her heart, each moment that she 
 waited was a lifetime. 
 
 "There is nothing I can bring to mind to which 
 you might be referring" he said, at length, slowly. 
 "There seems to be some strange and subtle mis 
 understanding between us, Miss Hall," he added, 
 still in his formal tone. * * Perhaps we should be able 
 to remove it by mutual explanation. Can you tell 
 me more definitely what you mean? Are you will 
 ing to?" 
 
 She could not speak for a moment. "Is there 
 nothing about an Indian?" she asked, slowly, with 
 a struggle between each succeeding word. 
 
 "I have had experiences with the Indians re 
 cently, ' ' he replied, perplexed. ' ' If you will be more 
 definite?" 
 
 ' ' About an Indian woman ? ' ' with an effort which 
 cost heavily. 
 
 Mortimer was more confused than he had been. 
 "I do not know what you mean, Miss Hall," he said. 
 * ' Can you not help me a little further ? ' ' 
 
 "No, no, no, no," she cried, in a voice that was 
 between a moan and a whisper. "I can not! Oh, he 
 will not tell me ! He will not tell me !" 
 
 She placed her hands before her face, and walked 
 slowly toward the door, weeping. Mortimer fol 
 lowed her with his eyes, amazed. 
 
 As he watched her, he saw the figure of Isaac
 
 322 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 Frake in the doorway. Sylvia saw it at the same 
 moment through her tears. She recoiled and stood 
 in the center of the room, like a statue. 
 
 "Well, what's going on?" demanded Frake, an 
 grily; for he feared this man as one fears another 
 to whom he has done deadly injury; and fear is 
 anger and hatred. 
 
 "What you doing to this woman! What do you 
 mean by coming here and taking advantage of a 
 defenseless woman ? You needn 't think you can play 
 any of your tricks here ! ' ' 
 
 There was silence. Mortimer overlooked the bit 
 ter, burning insult for the time. His eyes were fixed 
 on Sylvia. He watched her closely, trying to under 
 stand. 
 
 "What you doing here?" demanded Frake again, 
 with a show of the heroic. Seeing Randolph with 
 Sylvia, and seeing Sylvia in distress, he thought the 
 man was seeking a reconciliation, which he knew 
 could be effected, given the opportunity. From this 
 false premise, he concluded, shrewdly enough, that 
 his greatest security lay in vigorously braving the 
 other down, depending for his advantage on Sylvia's 
 conviction that Randolph was a guilty man. 
 
 Mortimer, wholly ignoring the other's bluster, 
 spoke quietly to Sylvia. 
 
 "Is it your wish that I should answer this man?" 
 he asked, deferentially. 
 
 "He has the right to ask it," returned Sylvia, 
 meeting his gaze with sublime courage.
 
 Darkness 323 
 
 1 'Mr. Frake," said Mortimer to him, advancing 
 and extending his right hand ; there was no sign in 
 his face of the surprise, the dismay, the grief that 
 was in his heart, "I offer you an apology. In regard 
 to my visit to Miss Hall, I have to say that I came 
 here this afternoon after a long absence with the 
 desire of renewing an acquaintance with her which 
 I once found enjoyable. I found her averse to a 
 resumption of our former friendship, which she had 
 given me no reason to suppose she would care to 
 revive. I protest to you, as one entitled to my confi 
 dence in the matter, that I have no knowledge of the 
 cause of her perturbation, and do not feel myself at 
 liberty to conjecture. ' ' 
 
 Frake considered it best to take the hand ex 
 tended to him, and to express briefly his satisfaction 
 in the explanation offered by Mortimer. This done, 
 the Virginian dismissed the entire subject with a 
 word, and turned toward Sylvia. She was pale and 
 slightly trembling; but for that her outward calm 
 was complete. 
 
 "Miss Hall, permit me to say good bye, and to 
 express again my regret in having annoyed you," he 
 said, respectfully, bowing to her in strict formality. 
 Again it was not to rebuke her, but to relieve her, if 
 necessary, from any embarrassment that her mem 
 ories might have caused her. It was to erase all that 
 had been between them ; for such seemed to be her 
 wish. 
 
 "Good bye, Mr. Randolph," she said, evenly; 
 and he was gone from the room.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 LIGHT 
 
 A BEAHAM LINCOLN lay on his back in the 
 *~V grass at the foot of an oak that grew in front 
 of his store, one of his grotesque feet resting high on 
 the trunk of a tree. A book leaned against his up 
 raised knees a volume of Blackstone. He was en 
 deavoring to read it, but was making little progress. 
 It was not often that he failed to concentrate his 
 attention upon his reading when he was able to as 
 sume the position which he now enjoyed. It was his 
 favorite attitude. To-day it availed him nothing. 
 He had shuffled his feet higher and higher along the 
 bole of the tree to the extreme length of his long 
 legs, to no purpose. He could not keep his mind on 
 the pages before him. 
 
 Isaac Frake was the cause of his mental disturb 
 ance. He was worried and annoyed because Isaac 
 Frake had returned to New Salem, and because there 
 appeared to be foundation for the rumor that Isaac 
 Frake was about to take Sylvia Hall to wife. He 
 knew Isaac Frake from top to bottom. He knew 
 Sylvia Hall as well as it is given man to know 
 woman. He knew Mortimer Eandolph with the in 
 forming love of one strong man for another. He 
 knew the tender and abiding affection that Randolph 
 
 324
 
 Light 325 
 
 had borne for Sylvia. Mortimer had told him of it 
 upon occasions, most memorably upon the eve of his 
 departure for Indian Creek in April, after the day 
 he had received a certain important and interesting 
 communication from his attorneys in Richmond, 
 Virginia. 
 
 Knowing these things, he was disturbed and made 
 anxious by the prospective marriage of Frake and 
 Sylvia. He was positive that Sylvia could not know 
 what manner of man Frake was, or how he had con 
 cerned himself in her affairs and the affairs of her 
 lover. Making every charitable allowance for the 
 circumstance that Sylvia was a woman, he still could 
 not credit that she would marry this man if she had 
 even a suspicion of the truth about him. 
 
 From which, being logical, he deduced that there 
 was a bitter misunderstanding somewhere, and that 
 a great and irreparable blunder would be made if 
 something or someone did not prevent it. So far he 
 could go, and no further, in Blackstone or out ; for 
 Mortimer was among the dead or missing. He had 
 not been seen or reported since the day of the fight 
 at Bad Axe, when he had been observed passing over 
 the crest of a hill leading his horse and raging with 
 fever, or worse. If Mortimer were here, or known 
 to be alive, someting might be effected. He himself 
 was in possession of certain facts which would go far 
 toward bringing about a better state of affairs. But 
 without Mortimer he could not see the way. 
 
 Lying on his back with his feet high on the trunk
 
 326 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 of the oak, Abraham Lincoln felt that he had much 
 to blame himself with, as he thought of Mortimer. 
 He believe that he had blundered, largely and fa 
 tally. When he overheard the conversation between 
 Frake and Half Ear in the creek bed at Kellogg 's 
 Grove he had not interfered then in the designs and 
 machinations of the man for reasons that he thought 
 good. He argued that Mortimer, roaming among the 
 Indians, would be in no graver danger from Half 
 Ear, under instructions from Frake, than he already 
 was exposed to. Half Ear, as well as any other 
 Sauk, would probably kill him anyway if the chance 
 offered. 
 
 As far as the plan involved the release of the 
 Hall sisters, he approved of it. If Half Ear could 
 succeed in abducting them from Black Hawk's band 
 they would at least obtain their freedom, and Sylvia 
 could subsequently be rescued from Frake, either 
 when Frake met the Indian at Kellogg 's Grove or 
 when he brought the girls back to civilization. In 
 deed, he had so far followed out a counterplot in 
 that direction as to send Slicky Bill Green, his faith 
 ful follower, upon a secret mission to Kellogg 's 
 Grove as soon as he himself had returned from his 
 discharge at Watertown. But Slicky Bill had failed 
 him lamentably, just as others were to fail him later 
 in life when matters of greater moment depended. 
 
 Even now, in the midst of the miscarriage of his 
 counterplot, his conviction that he had erred arose 
 rather from his failure to effect his purpose than
 
 Light 327 
 
 from any flaw he could find in his schemes by process 
 of logic. Nevertheless, the conviction was strong 
 and depressing, and whether the fault were his or 
 not, the fact existed that Sylvia was about to be pre 
 cipitated into a tragic disaster, and Mortimer was 
 out of reach, to say the least. 
 
 The state of affairs had engaged his agitated at 
 tention for some days ; ever since Frake 's return, in 
 fact. A delicacy about interfering in another's con 
 cerns, increased by the element of uncertainty aris 
 ing from the circumstance that that other was a 
 woman, had deterred him from any open activities 
 until this day. This very afternoon his sense of obli 
 gation to his friend and of duty toward the young 
 woman had impelled him to take one step. He had 
 gone to Sylvia with the communication that Morti 
 mer had received from his Richmond attorneys and 
 which he had entrusted to him for conditional deliv 
 ery to Sylvia when he set out on his hazardous 
 search for her. He had explained to her the circum 
 stances of his having it. In fact, he had not returned 
 from his errand ten minutes before, to resume his 
 Blackstone and his recumbent attitude. 
 
 But his thoughts persistently wandered from 
 Blackstone to Mortimer and Sylvia. The more he 
 thought of the matter, the more convinced he was 
 that the cloud that the attorneys ' communication was 
 intended to clear away was not the only darkness 
 that existed between Mortimer and Sylvia; that it 
 would not of itself be sufficient to induce her to repu-
 
 328 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 diate Mortimer and marry this other man. He did 
 not know anything about the elaborate and lucky 
 devices by which Frake had prevailed upon her to 
 think that Mortimer already had an Indian wife 
 when he fell in love with her, but he was convinced 
 that something more than a shadow had destroyed 
 her faith in his friend, and that the letter alone 
 would not suffice in setting matters to rights. 
 
 Coming to this conclusion, he took his feet down 
 from their elevated resting place and stood upright 
 upon them, resolved to return to her and utterly 
 blast Frake before her eyes, if nothing more were 
 to be effected by it than her own salvation. Turning 
 in the direction of the cabin where she lived, which 
 was within sight of his tree, and casting his glance 
 thither, his heart jumped. 
 
 Standing before the cabin he saw a horse; a 
 beautiful roan thoroughbred which he could not pos 
 sibly mistake. As he gazed at the animal in stupe 
 faction, in which was mingled a trace of supersti 
 tious alarm, he saw Isaac Frake approach the door 
 of the cabin and enter. Without further delay he 
 clapped his book together, threw it without regard 
 into the open door of his store, and plodded up the 
 street, thankful for the first time in his life for the 
 length of his legs. 
 
 As he came near he heard a voice within, a low, 
 modulated voice. It was the sweetest sound he had 
 ever heard, and gave him the greatest throb of joy 
 he had ever known, for it was the voice of Mortimer
 
 Light 329 
 
 Randolph. He put his legs to a greater strain, and 
 ran forward, arriving at the door just in time to fold 
 Mortimer himself in his great arms, as he was com 
 ing forth, so unutterably sad and woebegone that he 
 did not see his friend until he felt his embrace. 
 Without stopping for other greeting than the acci 
 dental hug, Lincoln bolted through the door, drag 
 ging Mortimer with him, struggling as much as a 
 gentleman from Virginia could with decorum on 
 being brought into the presence of a lady. 
 
 Frake, with his back to the door, was standing 
 before Sylvia, talking to her in rough expostulation, 
 evidently demanding to see the letter that she still 
 held in her hand. She gave him no response, either 
 of look or word, seeming utterly dazed and lost. 
 
 ''Howdy, Miss Hall," said Lincoln, scarcely able 
 to repress jocosity in his voice, so great was his 
 exultant delight in finding matters as they were. 
 "Howdy, Frake!" 
 
 Sylvia stared blankly at him, and at Randolph. 
 Frake turned abruptly and fell into a state of bewil 
 dered consternation at sight of the two. Randolph, 
 not yet released by his friend, stood with his hat in 
 his hand and his head bowed, like a recalcitrant 
 schoolboy. 
 
 "Miss Hall," said Lincoln, gazing gloriously 
 around,"! suppose the first thing I ought to do would 
 be to apologize for coming here like this, but I'm not 
 going to do it. If I'm right I won't need to apolo 
 gize, and if I'm wrong I'll have a whole lot more to
 
 330 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 apologize for than just coming here, so I'm not going 
 to waste time doing it now. ' ' 
 
 Sylvia Hall, feeling the imminence of a great 
 event in her life, made no answer, unless the recalling 
 of her attention from abstraction and the fixing of it 
 upon Lincoln with an intentness that he could almost 
 physically feel might be termed a response. Frake 
 remained staring, with a sullen gleam of anger and 
 fear coming into his eyes. Mortimer continued as 
 he was, fairly in the hands of fate. 
 
 "I may be right and I may be wrong," Lincoln 
 went on, his voice ringing with gladness and enthu 
 siasm. "I'm willing to take the consequences, and 
 the responsibility is all mine. I'll answer for it. I 
 might as well be brief. The truth is somewhere 
 about here, and we can never get to the truth too 
 soon ; sometimes not soon enough. ' ' 
 
 Mortimer ventured to raise his eyes toward his 
 friend. His thoughts were all afloat. He could not 
 wait to hear what Lincoln had to say. He could not 
 listen to it with his eyes on the floor. Sylvia still 
 looked at Lincoln. Frake, overwhelmed by the sud 
 denness and surprise of Lincoln's interruption and 
 his own fears, looked from one to another furtively. 
 
 ' ' Miss Hall, something seems to be wrong here, ' ' 
 Lincoln continued, looking into her eyes with a sym 
 pathy and sincerity that made her heart flutter 
 again, and build up hopes. "I am not a great be 
 liever in meddling with others folks' affairs unless 
 I am asked, but something seems to have gone so
 
 Light 331 
 
 far wrong here that I am not going to wait to be 
 asked. ' ' 
 
 The words were prophetic of the events that were 
 to make him a great character of history, belonging 
 to the centuries. 
 
 "My excuse is my love for this man and my re 
 gard for you," he said, jerking his head toward Mor 
 timer and Sylvia in turn. "I'd risk making a big 
 mistake for either. That letter doesn't seem to have 
 done much good ; ' ' he inclined his eyes toward it 
 "it doesn't seem to be all that's needed to set things 
 right. Frake " he turned suddenly ' * Frake, I 
 want to ask you a few questions. ' ' 
 
 He paused longer than he had at any time in 
 his talk, with his eyes fastened upon the man. Frake 
 met his gaze with sullen defiance. 
 
 "Did you ever happen to know a miserable little 
 Indian by the name of Half Ear?" Lincoln asked, 
 quietly. 
 
 "Now see here, Lincoln," growled Frake, his face 
 growing intensely red and ghastly white in swift suc 
 cession, "none of your blamed jokes, now! I won't 
 put up with 'em." 
 
 Sylvia, in quivering expectancy, turned her eyes 
 upon the face of Frake, and saw there much more 
 than the answer he refused to make. Mortimer 
 glanced at him for a moment, returning his gaze to 
 Lincoln. Lincoln, releasing him and gesticulating 
 with his long arms as he proceeded, spoke again. 
 Mortimer might have left now, but he did not. He
 
 332 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 was held by something stronger than the strong arm 
 of his friend. He was held by the expression on 
 Sylvia's face, which he saw in a glance as his eyes 
 returned to Lincoln. 
 
 * ' You make it pretty clear that you do know him, 
 Frake," the tall, thin man resumed. "Now, Frake, 
 do you remember seeing this Indian in the woods at 
 Kellogg 's grove that afternoon when we found the 
 five dead bodies?" Frake was speechless with sur 
 prise and dismay. "And do you remember meeting 
 him in the bed of a dry creek that same evening?" 
 Frake only stared at him. The eyes of Mortimer and 
 Sylvia, fixed upon him, seared into his soul. 
 
 "Do you happen to recall what you said to him 
 that night?" continued Lincoln, not deeming it nec 
 essary that Frake should make verbal acknowledg 
 ment of the truth of the incidents which his ques 
 tions suggested as having happened. 
 
 "You seem to know more about it than I do," 
 muttered Frake, hoarsely, with an abortive attempt 
 at bravado. 
 
 ' * I reckon I know more about it than you think I 
 do," returned Lincoln, "because I was lying in the 
 bushes right behind you while you talked with him. ' ' 
 Frake gasped. The attention of Sylvia became more 
 intensely fixed, if that were possible. Mortimer 
 began to see the first faint glimmerings of a light 
 breaking ahead. 
 
 "I am going to tell these people what passed 
 there, since you won't do it," said Lincoln, earnestly.
 
 Light 333 
 
 "I think it would interest and enlighten them. If I 
 go wrong, you will correct my mistakes. First, you 
 gave the Indian your bottle of whiskey there wasn't 
 much left, I reckon. He seemed to expect whiskey 
 from you. You told Half Ear that he was no good 
 because he let that red-headed paleface get away 
 from him on the morning before the massacre 
 at Indian Creek the morning when Mortimer 
 Randolph rode .with express to Ottawa didn't 
 you, Frake? And you told him that he was a 
 fool to let Black Hawk get hold of the Hall girls 
 after he and Mike Girty had stolen them for you 
 from Indian Creek, didn't you, Frake? You told 
 him that if he had turned them over to you instead 
 he would have a barrel of whiskey for his pains, 
 didn't you? And you renewed the offer of a barrel 
 of whiskey if he would kidnap them from the Indian 
 chief who held them captive and bring them to that 
 same spot where you sat. Am I wrong? You also 
 said that he could have half of the reward of a thou 
 sand dollars offered for their return, which would 
 keep him in whiskey until it rotted his pesky hide. I 
 hope you gave him his share, Frake. And you gave 
 him promise of still further reward. You told him 
 that if he got a certain red scalp and brought it to 
 you, he could have another half barrel of whiskey. 
 Frake, your sense of color or your choice of adjec 
 tives is not very good. The scalp you meant is not 
 red ; it is more nearly the color of bronze ! ' ' 
 
 He spoke without passion or malice. His voice
 
 334 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 rose as he went on, but the increase in pitch was 
 more from joy and gladness rather than from other 
 excitement ; for the grim jest he played was dear to 
 his heart. His disclosures poured so rapidly from 
 his lips, their significance and intimate bearing upon 
 those who listened were so stupendous and of such 
 moment to all of them, that there was not a sound or 
 the movement of a muscle in the room as he uttered 
 them. As he concluded with his reference to the 
 scalp of red hair, he turned his eyes critically toward 
 Mortimer and looked quizzically at his head. 
 
 "What the hell were you doing there?" cried 
 Frake, utterly routed and confounded. Lincoln 
 smiled at his unwitting confession to the truth of 
 all he had just said. 
 
 "I didn't quite know why I was there that 
 night, ' ' replied Lincoln, with a drawl, ' ' but I am be 
 ginning to find out now. I merely thought at the 
 tune that you would bear watching. I didn't inter 
 fere with you then, Frake, because I thought your 
 scheme might be a good way to free the Hall girls. 
 And it was. It was. So far it worked out right. We 
 are all grateful to you for that, Frake." 
 
 "I saved their lives," blurted Frake, seeing a 
 foop-hole. 
 
 "You cannot complain of ingratitude on that 
 score, Frake," rejoined Lincoln, shaking his head 
 and his long forefinger at him, "because, unless I 
 am mistaken, Sylvia Hall is going to marry you for 
 that." He was guilty of the indelicacy wittingly,
 
 Light 335 
 
 with specific intention and purpose. He said it be 
 cause the moment was psychological. 
 
 A sob that was half a moan escaped from Sylvia. 
 She turned away her head and covered her face with 
 one arm, clinging with the other hand to the rough 
 wall of the cabin, wavering, unsteady. The soft look 
 of love in Mortimer's eyes, fastened upon her, be 
 came more tender, more compassionate, more yearn 
 ing. Involuntarily he made a move to go to her, but 
 checked himself. The time was not yet come. Frake, 
 confounded, cast his gaze upon the puncheon floor. 
 
 "There's one thing more I want to ask you about, 
 Frake, before I go," Lincoln began again. "I don't 
 know that it applies at all. If it does, I don't see the 
 connection, but it has to do with facts concerning 
 yourself, and facts about you should not be over 
 looked at present. Do you know anything about an 
 Indian woman named Raven Hair!" 
 
 Eaven Hair! At the sound of the name Sylvia 
 reeled against the wall. She closed her eyes behind 
 the arm that hid them. She dared not meet the look 
 in any face. Mortimer, seeing its effect upon her, 
 wondered, seeking vainly in his memory for explana 
 tion of it, believing in his heart that here lay the 
 solution of the enigma. 
 
 "Ask him!" snarled Frake, jerking his thumb 
 toward Mortimer, intending to sneer and leer. 
 
 Ask him! Ask him! Mortimer, beginning to 
 understand, looked at Sylvia. She shuddered against 
 the rough logs of the wall. The light began to break
 
 336 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 upon him. The clouds rifted and scattered. The 
 time was coming swiftly. 
 
 "I might ask him," returned Lincoln, calmly. 
 "He might know something about her. But you 
 probably know more, because she was your wife. ' ' 
 
 Sylvia, leaning against the rough wall, uttered a 
 low cry. Mortimer heard, and the light was full 
 upon him. The time was close at hand. 
 
 ' * The hell she was my wife ! ' ' growled Frake, at 
 bay. * ' She was not my wife. ' ' 
 
 "It's your shame to say so, then," rejoined Lin 
 coln, solemnly. * ' She should have been. ' ' 
 
 A tense silence. Lincoln broke it. 
 
 "What do you know about it?" growled Frake, 
 beaten. 
 
 "Why that old Indian who came into camp on 
 the night after we left Dixon's ferry, whom you tried 
 to kill, told me about it," replied Lincoln, "and I 
 don't think he was such an awful liar as you tried to 
 make out, Frake ! ' ' 
 
 Frake, in the wrath of defeat, turned fiercely to 
 ward Sylvia. 
 
 "I've had enough of this, Sylvia," he snarled. 
 "Are you going to let these men come here and insult 
 me f If they won 't get out, we will. Get your bonnet 
 and come with me ! " 
 
 It was a command, a command in which all the 
 brute and the coward and the bully that was in him 
 found voice. Sylvia stood apart from the wall. She 
 took her arm from before her face. She was a
 
 
 "Sylvia!" His hand reached forth and touched 
 her's, gently.
 
 Light 337 
 
 tigress; a princess of the Goths a thousand years 
 out of the past; a priestess of Greece; erect, rag 
 ing, magnificent, sublime in her lofty dignity. 
 
 "Go!" 
 
 Her arm, the arm that had hidden her eyes, ex 
 tended toward the door. Her voice was solemn, 
 awful. Frake, quailing before her terrible look, cast 
 his eyes furtively about the room, from one face to 
 another, and slunk out. Lincoln, watching him go, 
 followed. As he passed through the opening there 
 came into his eyes a look of unutterable, wistful sad 
 ness, for as he left these lovers his thoughts were of 
 his own love, of Ann Butledge, who lay dying in her 
 father's house. 
 
 1 * Sylvia ! ' ' Mortimer whispered her name, coming 
 close to her, where she stood by the wall of the cabin. 
 In his voice was all the love, all the compassion, all 
 the tenderness that was in his eyes. The light was 
 full within him. The time had come. Her head was 
 upon her breast. Her hands were clenched at her 
 sides. She wavered and swayed. Her heart burst 
 within her with joy and with grief. Her gladness 
 was smothered beneath the weight of the wrong she 
 had done this man, her lover, whom she loved with 
 her whole life. 
 
 "Sylvia!" His hand reached forth and touched 
 hers, gently. 
 
 "Leave me," she said, in a heavy whisper. "I
 
 338 A Knight of the Wilderness 
 
 cannot lift my head. I cannot look into your eyes. 
 I have sinned against you. ' ' 
 
 He raised her stiff and clutching hand. Gently, 
 sweetly, he lifted her head. 
 
 "Sylvia!" 
 
 She raised her lids, slowly, timidly, falteringly. 
 Her eyes met his. In them was contrition, humility, 
 adoration, inestimable love, unutterable joy. 
 
 He kissed her upon the lips. 
 
 THE END.
 
 When Good Fellows Get Together 
 
 t| For all generous minds that have heen young there is 
 a radiance of loveliness that nothing can ever obscure 
 over the Bohemian days of long ago. Remembrance 
 hallows them : all their hardships are forgotten ; through 
 the mists of time they glimmer in unsullied beauty, com 
 ing back with their lost loves, their vanished comrades, 
 their hopes that since have withered, their dreams that 
 are dead and gone ; and the heart thrills to remember, and 
 for a moment the glory of morning streams over all 
 the world. William Winter. 
 
 J These lovely lines serve as the introduction to WHEN GOOD 
 FELLOWS GET TOGETHER which is a most charming book 
 either to own or to give a friend. 
 
 flThe editor, James O'Donnell Bennett (Dramatic Critic of The 
 Chicago Record Herald), has chosen with rare taste a compre 
 hensive selection of quotations from a wide range of authors, both 
 noted and little known, expressive of good-fellowship, optimism, 
 uplift and cheerfulness. 
 
 J The following department headings give an idea of the range 
 
 of the subject matter: The Good Fellow's Short Guide, 
 XXV Toasts from Shakespeare, Meeting and Parting, 
 Eating and Drinking, Smoking and Dreaming, Living 
 and Loving, Sweethearts and Wives, Playing the 
 Game, The Golden Days, etc., etc. 
 
 Printed in two colors on fine paper and bound in dark green cartridge 
 paper covers with an inlaid reproduction in three colors of a beau 
 tiful painting hy F. S. Manning. 12mo. 200 pages. Price $1.00. 
 Bound in fine Persian Ooze, gold stamping, boxed; price $2.00.
 
 MISS MINERVA and 
 WILLIAM GREEN HILL 
 
 By FRANCES BOYD CALHOUN 
 
 | Screamingly ridiculous situations are mingled with bits of 
 pathos in this delightfully humorous tale of the South. 
 
 <I Do you remember "Helen's Babies"? and "Mrs. Wiggs"? 
 Do you recall "Tom Sawyer" and "Huckleberry Finn"? 
 
 Miss MINERVA AND WILLIAM GREEN HILL is every bit as 
 
 genuine as any of these. 
 
 J It contains a delightful little love story, but deals principally 
 with William Green Hill, a six-year-old boy with sunny hair, 
 a cherub's face, and a wonderful dialect acquired from the plan 
 tation negroes among whom he formerly lived. In the narration 
 of the activities of Billy and his associates, Jimmy, Frances and 
 Lina, the author shows an intimate knowledge of the workings 
 of the juvenile mind and makes the pages sparkle with laughs. 
 
 CJ From start to finish mere is no let-up in me fun. Any normally 
 constituted reader of the book will soon be in a whirl of laugh 
 ter over " Sanctified Sophy," "Uncle Jimmy-Jawed Jup'ter," 
 " Aunt Blue Gum Tempy's Peruny Pearline's chillens," and the 
 other quaint characters of this fascinating book. Their hearts 
 will go out to lovable little Billy, and they will be convulsed 
 by the quaint speeches of bad Jimmy, who says to his chum : 
 "You all time gotter get little boys in trouble. You 'bout the 
 smart-Alexist jack-rabbit they is." 
 
 Small 12mo. ; 212 pages; bound in scarlet 
 cloth cover attractively stamped ; 22 clever 
 illustrations by Angus MacDonall. Price $1.00.
 
 A WOMAN FOR MAYOR 
 
 A novel of today timely and interesting 
 BY HELEN M. WINSLOW 
 
 Illustrated by Walter Dean Goldbeck 
 
 <J Whether one is in sympathy with or against the idea ot woman 
 in politics, Miss Winslow's story should hy all means he read. 
 As a notable piece ot fiction it is worth while. Besides, it has 
 ror the first time advanced a real idea as to how woman may 
 become a valuable factor in deciding the right and policy of the 
 nation by means of the ballot. Some of the strongest novels of 
 modern times have had a political side, mostly relating to men. 
 Here is something new a political novel in which woman fig 
 ures more largely than man and of course that means a good 
 love story. 
 
 <J Prominent people in various parts'of the country mayors, 
 politicians, lawyers, doctors, preachers and political economists 
 have been interviewed by the press concerning Miss Winslow's 
 story. While opinions differ as to the political significance of 
 the novel, all are agreed that the author has been exceptionally 
 clever in both plot and story; that she has shown how woman 
 may retain all her womanly qualities and still take an interest in 
 the questions which involve the betterment of the community 
 in which she lives. 
 
 <J Full of excitement and plausibility and the love thread is most pleasing. 
 
 Baltimore American. 
 
 J Shows the ease with which a woman may be chosen when men fail utterly to 
 
 treat correctly great moral questions. New York Herald. 
 
 ^1 It is a vivid, well-told story. Salt Lake Tribune. 
 
 CJ Contains a great deal of lively repartee and clever talk. The love story it fully 
 
 up to requirements. Buffalo Evening News. 
 
 flMiss Winslow has written a story that every suffragist will hug to her bosom, 
 
 and that every good natured opponent will concede is clever. Chicago 
 
 Examiner. 
 
 {JThe romance and the problem are blended very deftly and with results that are 
 
 extremely happy. Chicago Inter-Ocean. 
 
 J One need not be a suffragette to find "A Woman for Mayor," an absorbing 
 
 story. St. Louis Times. 
 
 12mo., standard novel size; 342 pages; bound in maroon 
 cloth, with striking four-eolor jacket. Price $1.50.
 
 JE SOUTHERN f 
 
 A 000119848 o