“Will the sentry let us through?” immediately asked Bill, who knew that a closer guard would henceforth be maintained at Fort Dearborn,--now that the Sacs had taken the war-path. “I was comin’ to that,” went on the orderly. “Here’s a pass from the Major entitlin’ you to come and go freely at all hours of the day and night.” Within the fort, the three found a scene of varied activity. It was evident that preparations were being pushed forward at all speed, for the coming expedition against the rampaging Sacs under mighty Black Hawk. The boys saw soldiers walking back and forth, rifle on shoulder, across the parade ground, and beyond them other soldiers. Most of them were straight, sinewy and alert men, well equipped to cope with any danger or other problem that might present itself. When they had been ushered once again into the familiar quarters of Major Whistler, that harried officer came straightway to the point. “You’ve doubtless heard, men,” he said crisply, “that the die is cast. Black Hawk has raised the war-cry. I am, therefore, straining every nerve to get the mounted detachment ready to start west tomorrow.” “An’ we’re to go with ’em?” questioned Bill Brown. “Most certainly,--as I told you.” “Very well, Major. We’ll be on hand. What time is the start?” “At the crack of dawn.” “Any special orders?” “Yes,--also one other item, that may or may not be to your liking. But it can’t be helped, I assure you of that.” “Hm!” said Bill, a trifle perplexed. “Now as to the orders, you are to act as scouts for the detachment, spying ahead of the line of march. Above all, try to keep those red knaves of Black Hawk’s from setting an ambush. That’s what I fear most.” “It’s been the redskins’ fav’rite mode o’ warfare,” admitted the scout, “from Braddock’s day on.” “In that connection,” continued the officer, rubbing his cheek reflectively, “I wonder if it might not be a smart plan to get some friendly Indians to go along with you,--to aid in the scouting. Not that I don’t consider you the best in the business, Bill, but an Indian has unique gifts in the scouting line that no white man ever possesses.” “Yer right, sir,” Brown freely acknowledged. “Now take trackin’. An Injun is ace-high at that game. It’s born right in ’em.” “Well, I’m glad that you agree with me.” “Have you any certain Injun in mind, Major?” “No, I haven’t; but I did think that a Pottawattomee would probably be the best. It seems a sure thing that most of that tribe will remain loyal to us.” “Here’s a suggestion, sir,” broke in Tom Gordon eagerly. “If it’s a Pottawattomee you want, how about the young brave, Bright Star?” “Bright Star! Hm! where have I heard that name before?” replied the officer, wrinkling his brow in deep thought. “He fit quite a duel with the young Sac bully, Prairie Wolf,” explained Bill Brown, “only a day er so afore you got here.”