“Listen, you chicken-hearts,” he hooted, “I can whip the whole pack of you, if you give me ten minutes between fights!” Two of the Shawneetown men surged menacingly forward, fists clenched; but Mike Mitchell jumped to his feet and shoved them away. Then he shook Lincoln’s hand. “Lay off, boys!” he commanded. “Linkin beat me fair an’ square. He’s got sand in his craw. He’s the best feller in a rasslin’ match I ever seed.” The big bout being over, the four scouts returned straightway to their tents, highly pleased at the victory of Captain Abe. They had been there only a few moments, however, when an orderly hurried up with a message from General Atkinson, requesting them to proceed at once to his headquarters, which he had established in a big wall-tent, about a quarter-mile up river. At Atkinson’s tent, the scouts, somewhat to their surprise, found the officer alone with a pair of dusky Indians. It was apparent, right off, that these strange braves were known to the young Pottawattomee, Bright Star, for he immediately engaged them in an animated conversation. From this, the others correctly surmised that the savage visitors were Pottawattomees, too. “I want your young Indian companion to interpret for me with these two Pottawattomee chiefs, who are friendly to the whites,” said Atkinson, a steely-eyed man of spare build and nervous, jerky manners. “They have only a very meager store of English; but I’ve been able to make out that they bring news of some sort regarding the movements of the Sac Chieftain, Black Hawk. Their tidings may possibly be of some importance.” Young Bright Star, on being apprised of the general’s wish, introduced the Indian sachems as Maunk-suck, or Big Foot, and Running Elk. Both savages were tall and gaunt of figure. Big Foot had a hideous scar running diagonally across his face, memento of a bygone brawl with the Sacs, a fact which helped explain his undying animosity toward them. “What brings you to the lodge of White Beaver?” asked Bright Star, White Beaver being the name which the Indians of the region had bestowed on General Atkinson. “Ugh!” rasped Big Foot, with a fierce grimace, “the madcap Sac, Black Hawk, has departed from his camp above Sycamore Creek.” “Which way has he gone?” “To the north.” “Why so, oh Maunk-suck?” “He fears the great army of White Beaver.” “Ho! and whither is he bound?” “The big swamps of Koshkonong, by the headwaters of Rock River, where Black Hawk thinks the Big Knives cannot find him.” “Ho!” commended Bright Star, “the White Beaver gives thanks for your words. He orders that one blanket, one knife, three pounds of tobacco, one piece of blue cloth and one piece of red cloth be given to each of you. He wishes you well on your homeward journey.” “Hm!” mused Atkinson, when the two towering, raw-boned chiefs had left the tent, “the great marshes of Koshkonong! That is bad, very bad.” “It ain’t good,” assented Bill Brown grimly.