All that day, and the next morning, too, the band of troopers from Fort Dearborn continued their steady travel westward, over the rolling prairies of the Illinois country. The four scouts--three whites and one red--led the march, and from time to time the agile Bright Star would alight from his horse and examine the trail they were following. His study always revealed that the Prairie Wolf and his Sacs, together with the deserter, Pat Fagan, were fleeing before them. “Heading for the Rock River, to join up with the main Injun force under Black Hawk,” conjectured Ben Gordon. “Maybe we can catch up with them and wipe them out, before they make a junction,” Tom added, raising himself in his stirrups and searching the rolling plain with his strong, young eyes. “Ugh,” said Bright Star, shaking his head soberly, “it will not be.” “I reckon the young chief is right,” Brown agreed. “The Wolf an’ his men are movin’ powerful fast, an’ while the trail is growin’ warmer, it don’t look as if we kin catch ’em afore they hit the river.” “They’ve maybe reached Black Hawk by now,” concluded Ben. At noon the usual pause was made. Food and black tea were served, and then the sixty remounted. For two hours more the trail led directly west, then veered very slightly to the north. A few more miles and suddenly, upon coming over a low rise of ground, they saw before them the dark, wide, rapid waters of a sizable stream. “Rock River!” sang out Bill Brown. “Zounds, at last!” grumbled Van Alstyne. “The more I see of this God-forsaken country, the less I like it. If I ever get to Washington, I’m going to introduce a bill in Congress proposing that we give the whole miserable region back to the Indians. It would seem that--” “Look, Captain!” broke in Ben Gordon excitedly, “look up there, will you!” The stoutish officer turned awkwardly in his saddle, and gazed north along the river bank where the boy was pointing. “What of it, lad? what of it?” he asked waspishly. “I see nothing but a tumble-down cabin and barn, no doubt deserted by some poor settler who had his belly full of this detestable hole.” “Why, that’s Dixon’s place, Cap’n,” Bill Brown informed him, “er what’s left of it. John Dixon ’stablished a ferry an’ stoppin place here ’bout four years past, back in 1828. His buildin’s was sure ’nuff standin’ two weeks ago, when I come through on the way to Dearborn. ’Pears to me that Black Hawk an’ his Sac ruffians has been here since.” “Cabin burn. Ugh!” offered Bright Star, squinting his eyes upriver. “Very likely struck by lightning,” sniffed Van Alstyne. “You’ve all got Black Hawk on the brain. I still believe that the bally old chief is sitting before his lodge fire, over in Ioway, toasting his toes.” “No siree!” protested the scout sternly, “this is Injun doin’s. Let’s press on!”