“But I’ll fix him yet,” went on Bill, smashing his big, right fist into the palm of his other hand. “I’m a goin’ to take you boys over ther an’ let you give him yer story fust-hand. Mebbe, then, it’ll sink into that thick head o’ his’n, that the pot is really b’ilin’ amongst the Injuns.” The trio soon was crossing the old log bridge across the Chicago River. As they came to the end of the structure, they chanced to encounter a trim, blue-coated officer, who was walking down from the fort. “Ho there, Bill Brown!” the officer called back, as if in afterthought, when he had passed them with a cheery greeting. “What’s up, Left’nant Clark?” replied the big scout, quickly turning about. “I’d like a word with you, Bill. Here’s some tidings that may interest you.” “Let’s have ’em; an’ make ’em good.” “I’ll do that. Major Whistler is here.” “Major William Whistler?” asked Brown, his eyes opening wide with surprise. “Yes, he’s back here to take command of his old post, Fort Dearborn. Come in late last evening from Fort Niagara, with companies G and I of the 2nd United States Infantry.” “To take command, you say,” repeated the veteran borderer, as if still unable to believe his ears. “Hm! that makes Van Alstyne second fiddle.” “Are you sorry?” asked Clark, with a sardonic smile. “Oh, I kin skeercely stand it,” grinned Bill. “I’m cut plumb to the heart.” “I reckoned you would be,” guffawed the officer, as he resumed his walk across the bridge. “Must be good news, Bill,” guessed Tom Gordon, when Brown had rejoined the boys. “You have a satisfied look on your face, like a tabby-cat that’s just swallowed a canary.” “Thunderin’ good news, younkers!” exulted Bill. “Major William Whistler, a vet’ran border man, who understands the Injuns an’ ther ways, got here last night to take command o’ the fort.” “No?” chorused the boys. “Yep, come up the Great Lakes from Fort Niagara with a fresh batch o’ sojurs.” “Does that mean that we won’t have to talk with old gas-bag Van Alstyne, after all?” put in Ben, with a sigh of relief. “Yep, boys, it’s Major Whistler now; an’ praise be fer that.” “You know him personally, Bill?” Tom asked. “That I do. Did a lot o’ scoutin’ fer him, some five years ago, at the time o’ the Winnebago War, ’way up in the Wisconsin forests, when the great chief, Red Bird, hit the Tomahawk trail.” Without further talk the trio now headed for the fort gate, determined to see the new commander, and to lay before him the startling story of the conspiracy that wily Black Hawk was forming against the pale-face usurpers. They had not gone a dozen paces, however, when a jagged rock, nearly the size of a man’s fist, went hurtling past their heads and struck the log pickets with a thud.