“Makin’ mighty good time, Cap’n,” volunteered Bill Brown affably. “Reckon we’ll reach the Fox River afore nightfall.” “And how far might that be from Fort Dearborn.” “Nigh onto forty mile.” The warm sun began to cool, the afternoon passed its zenith, and the band rode on, mostly in silence. This trail, Tom and Ben noted surprisedly, was not anything like a highway, but was merely a narrow path, deeply indented by the hoofs of the horses on which the Indians rode in single file. So deeply was it sunk in the sod which covered the prairies, that it was difficult, sometimes, to distinguish it at a distance of a few, paltry rods. Furthermore, in this almost flat, open country there were no landmarks. One low elevation was so exactly like another, that if the trail were lost, there was about as little hope of regaining it as of finding a pathway in the midst of the ocean. Now and then the route led through marshy stretches of country, where progress was slow and difficult. Myriads of wild geese, brant, and ducks rose up screaming at their approach. At other times, the trail meandered through dense thickets of alder, willow and wild-plum. At late afternoon, just as they had passed one of the densest parts of such thickets, they rode out onto a pleasant, little plain, where the view was more open before them. “The Fox River!” called Bill Brown, pointing ahead. “Humph!” snorted Van Alstyne irritably. “About time! I thought we never would come to the end of those wretched thickets.” “Travel is better tother side o’ the Fox,” the big scout consoled him. “Let’s trust so. If I had my way, I’d let the plaguey Indians have this accursed country. It isn’t fit for white habitation.” They presently made camp for the night on the far bank of the Fox, having swum their mounts across the channel. After the horses had fed in the rich grass and the men had eaten their supper, Bill Brown took charge,--at the order of the Captain, who seated himself somewhat disconsolately on a handy log and proceeded to pull off his heavy cavalryman’s boots to rest his weary feet. Every trooper was instructed by the veteran scout to hobble his horse, and to see that his lariat was knotted properly. He was told, also, to drive his picket pin firmly into the ground, and before going to sleep for the night he must see that it was still right. Careful instructions were likewise given in case of surprise. Every trooper was to seize his horse’s lariat with one hand and his musket with the other. He was then to stand by his horse to prevent a stampede, about the worst thing that can happen to a mounted troop. “Lot of nonsense,” the Captain remonstrated. “As if those beggarly redskins would venture to attack a contingent of United States Regulars. Bah! Preposterous!”