“Ho, Bright Star!” Tom Gordon replied, equal friendliness in his voice. The Pottawattomee could not have failed to be surprised--greatly surprised--by this recognition on the part of the pair of whites, but, with traditional Indian impassiveness, not a muscle of his features changed. Nor did the look of his eyes alter a whit. “How you know Bright Star?” he queried, after a moment’s interval; his association with the soldiers and traders of the Fort Dearborn neighborhood had evidently enabled him to pick up a considerable understanding of English. “We saw you fight the young Sac chief, Prairie Wolf,” answered Ben quickly. “Ho, ho!” rejoined Bright Star. “You are a brave fighter,” complimented Tom. “Ho! The words of the white boy are good.” “But you must beware of the Wolf.” “Ho! He want my scalp. Ho! I know.” “You must always be alert.” “Bright Star does not fear. Only the sitting rabbit is caught by the fox.” The position of the sun now showed mid-day; so the twins took a quantity of food from a canvas pouch that Ben had carried over his shoulder. There was corn bread, some slices of cold roast duck, and several rosy apples. A share of this they offered to their savage companion, who accepted without demur. For a time, all three ate hungrily and in silence, washing down the tasty victuals with draughts of cold water from a clear spring that bubbled from the rocks and then ran away like a tiny rivulet into the nearby lake. “White boys are brothers to Bright Star,” asserted the Pottawattomee presently, as he tossed away the core of an apple that he had been munching. “Bright Star wish that all white man and all red man be like brothers.” “Maybe they will be from now on,” observed Tom hopefully. “Ugh! it will not be so.” “Not so, you say?” The young chief was silent for a long moment; as if weighing well the words he was to utter. The only sounds to be heard were the gentle lapping of the waves on the rocks and the clacking of the innumerable gulls that circled over the lake surface. “A big chief,” he said tersely, “not come to treaty council.” “You mean Black Hawk?” asked Ben, with a quick glance at the attentive Tom. “Ugh! Black Hawk, Sac chief.” “We did hear,” commented Tom cautiously, “that Black Hawk is sulking in his lodge beyond the big river. Does that mean bad medicine for the whites?” “Ugh! bad, bad medicine!” There was a brief, tense pause. “Have you ever seen Black Hawk?” asked Ben Gordon, finally breaking the ice. “Ho! many time, at big fort. Painting on his blanket, blood-red hand.” “Holy smokes, a blood-red hand on his blanket!” exclaimed Ben. “What does that signify?” Tom inquired. “Blood-red hand is sign,” answered Bright Star, “that the Hawk kill and scalp enemy when boy only fifteen years old.” “Whew! he must be quite a warrior. Awful big and strong, I reckon.”