At the behest of Lieutenant Clark, Bill Brown, Bright Star and Tom Gordon went up the trail, scouting in the twilight. The three scouts came back, after a while, and reported that nothing could be found on the prairie to the north. There seemed no danger of a night attack, and the men could probably sleep undisturbed till the morning; although double guards would be posted as a precaution, now that they were in the very heart of the Indian domain. This first detail of guards had hardly begun its rounds, however, when one of them, on the down river side of camp, detected the sound of voices to the south. There was silence for a few moments, and then the anxious guard again heard a distant shout or two. He at once passed the word along to summon Lieutenant Clark. “What’s the trouble, Jones?” asked the officer tersely,--as he hurried up with Bill Brown, whom he had hastily aroused from sleep. “Voices down the trail to the south, sir,” said the guard. The three listened intently for a moment. Again there came a distant call, followed by an answering whoop from farther away. “Those are white men,” asserted Bill. “I’ll vouch fer that.” “I think so, Bill; but at any rate we’d best be cautious.” “Well spoken, Left’nant.” “Now, Jones,” went on the officer, “we’ll hold our tongues for the time being. When those fellows, whoever they be, advance within ten paces or so, challenge them. Is that clear?” “It is, sir. Yes, sir.” There was no further shouting down the trail, but, after a short interval, there was a noise near at hand, and a muttered imprecation as someone stumbled over a rough spot in the path. “Halt! who comes there?” abruptly barked the sentinel. There was a dead silence for a half-moment. Then came the gruff response out of the pitchy dark, “Who the blazes wants ter know?” “Who comes there?” again challenged the sentinel. “Keep yer shirt on!” was the answer. “We’re the ’rig’nal iron-jawed, brass-mounted, copper-bellied Injun chasers from the wilds o’ Sangamon County. Folks down that way call us ‘Sudden Death.’ So stand back an’ give us room to pass!” “Not till you properly identify yourselves,” cut in Lieutenant Clark grimly. “Say, feller, listen har! I take six rattle-snakes an’ a bar’l o’ whiskey fer breakfast, when I’m feelin’ my us’al self. Blood’s my fav’rite drink, an’ the moans o’ the dyin’ is soothin’ to my ears. But ef yer gwine ter git yer back up ’bout the matter, I’ll break down an’ state that my name is Pete Perkins.” “Pete Perkins!” burst out Bill Brown, unable to conceal his surprise. “Why, you double-dyed ol’ rascal, are you still pollutin’ the earth?” “Whoopee! that sounds powerful like ol’ Bill Brown, the Kaintock border-man with the petrified gizzard.” “You appear to know this party, Bill,” laughed Lieutenant Clark. “Let him come on, sentinel.”