What had happened was this. Captain Van Alstyne, at the moment of the Indian alarm, had been picketing his horse at the extreme south side of the grove, which was, of course, the side farthest removed from the point of Black Hawk’s attack. As he hurried back, toward the scene of trouble, he was caught up in the frenzied rush of the frightened militia-men. For a few seconds the Captain stood as one paralyzed. He was completely dumbfounded at this unexpected cowardice of the volunteers. Great Caesar! hadn’t Major Stillman, not a half-hour since, vouched for these men as the bravest of the brave, able to whip their weight in wildcats! Then the stupefied officer sprang into action, his face ablaze with honest wrath. “Stop!” he cried. “Stop, you yellow-bellied cowards!” The infuriated man might as well have tried to stop a forest fire with a bucket of water. The volunteers, half-mad with fear, tore past him pell-mell, leaped on the backs of the nearest horses at hand, and streamed south across the prairie like startled deer. “Sorry, Cap’n,” sneered one insolent fellow, “but I got urgent bus’ness at Dixon’s Ferry. See you later!” Another quaking chap, wild-eyed with terror, whom the officer attempted to pull from his saddle, kicked him in the face; then galloped off crazily. The enraged Captain sped him on his way with a pistol ball that hummed by his ear like an angry wasp. Realizing, at length, that his efforts to rally the insane mob were useless, the disheartened Van Alstyne turned sadly about and headed for the northwest part of the timber, whence came the sound of heavy firing. This meant, he knew, that at least some of the whites were putting up a resolute defence. He had progressed perhaps one third of the way through the grove, when he unexpectedly came upon the deserter, Pat Fagan, whose presence, in the heat of the fray, he had completely forgotten. The desperate fellow, long since abandoned by his soldier guard, had worked free from the ropes that held his wrists; and was now striving frenziedly to loose his legs, also. Just as he did so, however, the Captain leaped forward and clapped his pistol muzzle to the ruffian’s back. “Forward, march!” he ordered sharply; and Fagan, choking with rage at this untimely turn of events, had no alternative but to obey. It was at this precise moment that the dangerous Prairie Wolf sped into view, astride his pony. His savage brain at once grasped the situation. This was the white renegade, ally of the Sacs, in the hands of the enemy. With a fierce whoop he pulled a gleaming war-hatchet from his belt, and sent it whizzing at Van Alstyne’s head. The unfortunate officer wheeled abruptly, as he heard the warning hoot. The whirling blade, keen as a razor, hit him full in the forehead with stunning force, and he fell motionless to the ground.