Soon afterward, a band of eleven Sacs killed and scalped five white men at Spafford’s farm, on the Pecatonica River, a western tributary of the Rock. Neighboring settlers formed a posse of thirty men, however, and gave quick chase. They overtook the roving warriors in a swamp, and in a pitched battle lasting but a few minutes, killed all eleven savages; while of the pursuers only three were slain and one wounded. On the next day, Black Hawk himself, with a party of picked braves, made a desperate attack on Apple River fort, a small, stockaded post in the northwest corner of the state. The little garrison sustained a heavy siege for upwards of four hours. Great courage was displayed by the whites. Women and girls moulded bullets, loaded fire-arms, cared for the wounded, and in general proved themselves true border heroines. The thwarted redmen retired with some loss, after laying waste by fire the neighboring cabins and fields. En route home, this same war party attacked, with singular ferocity, a battalion of whites, one hundred and fifty strong, at Kellogg’s Grove, sixteen miles to the east. After a fierce encounter, the Indians were routed, losing twenty braves killed, while the whites counted but ten. At Plum River fort, Burr Oak, Sinsiniwa, and Blue Mound, hard skirmishes were likewise fought. Bloodshed, flame, pillage and torture swept the whole northern border. Black Hawk and his feathered warriors were on the loose. CHAPTER 14 A Thrilling Rescue “Yip-ee!” yowled Pete Perkins, as he burst unceremoniously into the tent occupied by Bill Brown and the Gordon twins, in the camp at Dixon’s Ferry. “Watch out! I’m the bloodiest son of a wildcat alive!” “Howdy, Pete,” smiled big Bill. “Ain’t seen you fer days. What’s doin’?” “Drill, drill, drill,” complained the grizzled fellow, “nothin’ but drill. In the last week I vum I’ve marched nigh ez fur ez from Rock River ter the Pacific Ocean.” “Well, set down an’ rest yer feet, you ol’ hoptoad. They prob’ly need it.” “Is all that drill doing you any good?” grinned Tom Gordon. “Or are you just raising a crop of corns and bunions?” “Say! I’m a tellin’ ye that our Sangamon County volunteers is gittin’ ter be the fanciest bunch o’ sojurs in this hull kemp. Ther ain’t a braver passel o’ volunteers--” “Please, Pete, please,” begged Ben. “Easy on the bragging. Remember, I was at Stillman’s Run.” Pete Perkin’s face turned a brick-red. He began to bristle. His enormous chest seemed to grow larger, and his buckskin jacket strained at the seams. “Now, younker,” he protested, “our Sangamon County boys ain’t cut from the same cloth ez them white-livered skunks that run away. They wuz a disgrace ter the great state of Illinois.” “Oh, your company looks like a bunch of fighters, sure enough,” praised the boy, afraid that he had hurt Pete’s feelings. “I saw you drilling this morning.”