“Why, the cook--this’ll give yuh cramps--greased the leetle animule. She slips loose from anybody what tries ter hold her. We’re savin’ her, ourselves, fer a nice, juicy roast-pig feed, when ol’ Black Hawk fin’ly gits it in the neck.” It was only the next afternoon, following Pete Perkin’s visit, that Tom and Ben Gordon had a chance to observe big Abe Lincoln in action. It came about this way. The boys were fishing for suckers at the river bank, when Jim Martin hurried up, his face tense and pale from anxiety. “Come quick!” he called. “They mean to hang Bright Star!” “No?” exclaimed Ben, as if not crediting his ears. “Who does?” cried Tom wrathfully, as the two flung aside their poles and raced toward the camp. “A bunch of volunteers! They’re half-drunk an’ howlin’ for Injun blood!” The anguished boys sped across the prairie at their utmost speed, heading for a clump of trees near the burned buildings, where they could see that a small knot of men had collected. As they got nearer, they could make out that the young Pottawattomee was standing beneath the spreading limb of a big elm, his hands tied securely behind his back and a noose about his neck. One of the dozen yelping whites, who ringed him around, was trying to throw the other end of the rope over the limb above. “Git that rope up thar, yuh clumsy pie-face!” roared a pot-bellied, black-bearded volunteer. “I’m cur’ous tuh find out how fur this redskin’s neck’ll stretch.” “Yah,” mumbled another thickly, “let’s git the red imp dancin’ on air.” The three racing lads, panting heavily from their hard run, had now reached the ring of men. Pushing their way through the crowd, they quickly reached the foot of the tree. The white ruffian with the rope had by now succeeded in casting it over the big limb. With a sharp cry of anger Tom Gordon reached out, grabbed the line, and with a sudden jerk pulled it down again. He had scarcely done so, however, when a thickset fellow directly to his rear punched him hard in the back of the head, sending him half-senseless to the ground. Other strong hands clutched Ben and Jim Martin, holding them so fiercely that the two lads could barely move, strong and active as both of them were. “Git that rope up thar ag’in!” bellowed the man with the pot-belly, his tone full of menace. “I’ll kick the brains outen the next feller that sticks his nose in!” Before the man with the rope had a chance to move, a tall, gangling form shot through the crowd, and Captain Abe Lincoln jumped to the side of the young Bright Star, who all the while had stood rigid and expressionless, with the inborn stoicism of his race. “Men,” said Lincoln, his face hard as flint, “you can’t do this! It’s nothing but murder!” “Now, Abe,” cried the ruffian with the fat paunch, “don’t go buttin’ in har! I swore I’d kick the brains outen the next feller who stuck his nose in.” “You won’t kick my brains out, Jeb Whipple!” replied Captain Abe, not batting an eyelash.