“The Hawk laughs in yer face,” replied the renegade. “It’ll be bloody war now.” “Ha!” taunted Van Alstyne scornfully, “the red blather-skite is afraid to fight. This is nothing but bluff on his part. We’re on to his game.” Meantime, Ben Gordon had been studying the Indian interpreter with increasing suspicion. The voice, the carriage, the very manner of the burly brave had a familiar note. For a few moments the boy was puzzled; but abruptly it came to him. His keen eyes pierced the savage disguise. This was none other than Pat Fagan, the border bully, who had sworn his vengeance! And now, as the Sac messengers turned their horses to depart, Ben gave quick spur to his nimble pony. With three or four long bounds he was at the side of the astounded renegade, who suddenly found the muzzle of a rifle in his very face. “Hold, boy!” shouted Van Alstyne hotly, likewise spurring his mount forward. “Put down that rifle! These Indians are miserable scoundrels, but nevertheless they are under a flag of truce.” “This one is no Indian, sir,” declared Ben firmly, the barrel of his rifle not moving a jot. “No Indian! why, the red villain looks the part.” “I repeat, sir, that he is no Indian.” “Then, by the sun and moon and stars, lad, who is he?” “Pat Fagan, deserter from the garrison at Fort Dearborn!” “Fagan, the deserter? Are you sure, lad?” “Dead sure! He has--” As Ben Gordon spoke, he turned his head a bit, to look the officer directly in the face. With the speed of a striking rattler, Fagan knocked up the rifle barrel and wheeled away on his fleet Indian pony, his body bent low over the beast’s neck. Like a flash, his four Sac companions were also away. Instantly, Ben Gordon’s gun sprang to his shoulder, and he sent a bullet humming after the fleeing renegade. Three or four others of the party likewise fired, at the same time urging forward their mounts in pursuit. “Spare the savages!” cried Van Alstyne, in consternation. “Honor their flag of truce! But get Fagan!” Alas! the warning came too late. An ill-aimed shot from a soldier musket struck one of the flying Sacs. For a moment, it seemed that the brave would retain his saddle. He swayed desperately, then caught at the mane of his mount. A second afterward, however, he threw up his hands, raised a quavering death-song, and toppled heavily to the earth, not a breath of life in his coppery body. As the pursuit continued, it began to look as if the big deserter would make good his escape. The Sac ponies were proving to be faster steppers than the mounts of the military. The gap between the two parties started to widen, almost imperceptibly at first, then more rapidly. Fagan rose in his stirrups, turned about and gave voice to a loud yell of defiance. “Wahoo!” he cried.