Accompanying the four Sacs, on their all-important mission, was a white man--none other than the giant deserter, Pat Fagan. Black Hawk had prevailed on the big renegade to act as an interpreter, not knowing whether or not the whites had one in their ranks. Fagan had at first refused pointblank, but when told that the whites were volunteer militia, and not regulars, he agreed to go along, albeit with some reluctance. He also foolishly beguiled himself with the idea that he would be safe under the white flag of truce, although a deserter; even if he were recognized, which appeared unlikely, as he had donned Sac raiment--including a feathered headdress--and rubbed his face and body with a dark stain. The Indians, with their white flag flying prettily in the light breeze, had progressed across the green prairie to within a mile of the volunteer camp, when they suddenly found themselves face to face with a little band of white horsemen who emerged from behind a thick grove of trees. With a sinking heart the renegade, Fagan, quickly discerned that one of the approaching whites was his old commander at Fort Dearborn, Captain Van Alstyne. A low cry of consternation came from the deserter’s lips, as he made the startling discovery. “You lyin’ red varmint!” he said hoarsely to the impassive Walking Cloud, who luckily did not understand the epithet. Walking Cloud, moreover, was innocent of the accusation. What had happened was that Van Alstyne and his party had reached the volunteer camp at a late hour, the previous evening, long after the Sac spies had scouted the place. Hence, the spies had seen no blue-coated regulars. A second later, Fagan’s alarm grew even more pronounced; for, at Van Alstyne’s side, he saw the trim figure of young Ben Gordon. At this, the agitated renegade drew a quick rein on his Indian pony; but then abruptly let the beast go forward again, as he saw that it was now too late, by far, to permit of withdrawal. Gritting his teeth in abject rage, he steeled himself for the ordeal, hoping against hope that neither the Captain nor young Ben would penetrate his Indian disguise. The two approaching parties, red and white, now slowed their mounts to a walk, meanwhile eyeing each other with the uttermost caution. At length, when they were not more than a few rods apart, Captain Van Alstyne threw up his hand in a gesture of warning. “Who comes here?” he challenged. “Messengers from Black Hawk,” mumbled Pat Fagan, trying hard to mask his voice. “What does the chief want?” “He demands you git out from the Injun lands.” “Ho, ho!” snorted Van Alstyne, “Black Hawk has a short memory. The United States Government bought these lands from the Indians thirty years ago.” “Black Hawk claims it a swindle,” went on Fagan, his words scarcely more than a mutter. “The red fraud is trying to crawl out of his bargain,” rejoined the Captain, with a contemptuous leer. “Return to him at once, and tell him that we ask his immediate surrender.”