Two days later, Whiteside and his force returned to Dixon’s Ferry, there to await the arrival of additional troops; also to give his raw recruits further drilling, before exposing them to the wiles of the resourceful Sacs; for the wary general wanted no repetition of the rout at Stillman’s Run. Meantime, there ensued a reign of terror on the border. Stories of Black Hawk and his savage cunning and cruelty spread like wild fire, carried by the fleeing volunteers. The name of the Sac chieftain became a household bugaboo. Nervous horror gripped farm and village across the wide breadth of the frontier. The rustle in the thicket of a prowling beast; the howl of a wolf on the prairie; the fall of a forest bough; the report of a hunter’s gun, were enough in this time of unreasoned panic to blanch the cheeks of the bravest men, and cause families to fly in the agony of fear for scores of miles, leaving all their most cherished possessions behind them. Black Hawk was using his camp, some ten miles north of Stillman’s Run, as a base of operations. For two or three days, his spirits were much elevated by his smashing triumph over the volunteers; but soon there came events that somewhat dampened his enthusiasm, and gave a darker outlook for the future. First, Indian runners came in from Mil-wa-ke, bringing tidings that the British had had a change of mind about meddling in Black Hawk’s war adventures. They now sent word, alas too late, advising the Sac chief not to take the war-path against the Americans. “Ugh!” said Black Hawk, in reproachful tone, to Ne-a-pope and the Prairie Wolf, “your advice was bad. We have driven the Big Knives (whites) headlong in flight and taken many scalps, yet the craven Fox and Winnebago do not come to our side.” “You were right, oh Black Hawk,” lamented the thin-faced Ne-a-pope. “Fox and Winnebago are old women. Their hearts are faint and their muscles weak.” “Let the stinking Fox and Winnebago sit in their lodges,” the Prairie Wolf cried, fairly clicking his teeth in rage, “squaw-men that they are. The Sacs are warriors! We will fight on! Death to the pale-face!” It was, indeed, death for the pale-face. Black Hawk, wild with hate and anger, sent out small bands of his red horsemen far and wide across the Illinois frontier. On the twenty-second of May, at the Davis farm, on Indian Creek, twelve miles north of Ottawa, fifteen settlers, men and women, were massacred by the marauding warriors. Taken captive were two girls, Sylvia and Rachel Hall, who were carried back to Black Hawk’s stronghold. Here they were sold for two thousand dollars to the White Crow, a Winnebago chief, who had been sent out by the whites to conduct negotiations for their return. Two days later, the Crow safely delivered the anguished girls into the hands of the military.