“I once skirted those swampy fastnesses, two years ago on a trip into the Wisconsin forests,” went on Atkinson. “I can very well see where the wily Black Hawk would consider them an impregnable position.” “It’ll be a hard job, General,” nodded Bill, “to root the Injuns out o’ them orful bogs.” “Well, that will be all for now, men,” declared Atkinson, suddenly popping to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, “but I have something in mind that may develop into a scouting trip for the four of you. Brown, you drop back in the morning, say about ten o’clock. If I make up my mind about the matter, I’ll give you definite instructions at that time.” This news of an impending scouting foray was most welcome to the four. Not only the three whites were weary of the long stay at Dixon’s Ferry; but even Bright Star, possessed of the interminable patience of his race, was beginning to show signs of restlessness. Accordingly, at mid-morning, right on the dot, Bill Brown took off again for Atkinson’s headquarters. He didn’t get back until nearly noon. Upon his return, he found Ben and Tom Gordon sitting outside their tent, fairly chewing their nails in suspense. The hawk-eyed Bright Star stood at one side, skillfully flipping his gleaming knife at a wooden tent-peg. “Git yer travelin’ bags packed, boys,” chuckled the stalwart scout, as he approached. “You aren’t spoofin’, Bill?” answered Ben suspiciously. “No, I ain’t,” responded Brown, stretching his powerful frame on the soft turf. “That’s straight from the shoulder.” “Whoopee!” yelled Tom; and the Pottawattomee raised a ringing war-cry that made several soldiers pop out of their nearby tents like scared gophers. “Durn you, chief,” howled one of them, “you scared me outen seven years growth! Save that dingbusted war-whoop of yourn fer the pesky Sacs.” “I spent more’n an hour with the White Beaver,” began Bill, with a twinkle in his eye. “You see, I rigged out a plan fer him to end the Sac war.” “Yah!” scoffed Tom, “Bill Brown, greatest military strategist since Napoleon.” “Well, you doutin’ Thomases, let’s put it thisaway, then,” continued the scout. “The White Beaver an’ me got our heads together an’ cooked up a scheme to bag ol’ Black Hawk fer keeps.” “How?” burst out Ben. “Where do we come in?” Tom wanted to know. “Now jest a minnit. Let me git organized.” He opened his shirt at the throat, reached in his pocket, pulled out a big bandanna handkerchief, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. It was a scorching-hot June day, warmest of the summer thus far. “The four of us start nor’west fer the lead diggin’s tomorrer mornin’,” he then stated, his tone very sober and his face very serious. “Northwest to the lead diggings!” remonstrated Tom. “Why, I thought Black Hawk was heading northeast for the Koshkonong Swamps?” “Yah,” gloomed Ben, “we want to be in on the big chase.” “You will be,” Bill Brown reassured them. “Don’t look much like it,” said Tom grumpily.