“The great Sac chief?” “Yep, that’s the feller.” “What about him, Bill?” “Jest this. I’m back from a scoutin’ trip, ’cross the Mississippi River, an’ I’m comin’ out flat-footed an’ statin’ that the big chief is gittin’ purty nigh ready to hit the war trail.” “Black Hawk! Across the Mississippi?” questioned Tom, in a puzzled way. “Why, I thought Black Hawk and his Sacs lived here in Illinois.” “They once did, lad. For untold years, the Sac tribe hunted an’ fished in the valley o’ the Rock River, which is a branch o’ the Mississippi in nor’western Illinois. There they tilled the rich prairie soil. In the time o’ the fallin’ leaves an’ Injun summer, they would pile high the harvest corn in ther little villages. An’ ther would us’lly be many days o’ songs, dances an’ prayers, as they thanked the Great Spirit, Man-ee-do, fer a good corn year.” “How did they happen to give up their lands?” Ben asked, as the tall borderer paused. “’Way back in the year 1804, the Sacs signed a treaty, sellin’ their tribal lands to the United States Guv’ment. Then they took ther horses, squaws, papooses, an’ assorted dogs an’ moved ’cross the Mississippi.” “Did they like their new home?” said Tom. “Were they satisfied with the deal?” added Ben. “Not fer sour apples. An’ who could expect ’em to. The Rock River country was the land o’ ther stories, ther corn-plantin’ an’ harvest, ther fav’rite huntin’ an’ fishin’ places, the battle-ground an’ buryin’-ground o’ ther fathers, who had fit hard to gain it an’ keep it from other hostile tribes.” “And now Black Hawk aims to recover it?” inquired Ben. “Aye, he feels the Great Spirit, Man-ee-do, tellin’ him to git back ’cross the Mississippi, an’ chase off the hated settlers what have put up cabins ther.” “That will mean bloody war, sure enough,” pondered Tom Gordon, “because then the soldiers will come.” “Black Hawk knows that,” explained Bill Brown, “but he reckons he’s so strong an’ cunnin’ that he kin ambush an’ rub out all the pale-face fighters what is sent agin him.” “But the Sacs duly sold the land to the U. S. Government,” mused Ben. “The Hawk says not, lad. He reasons that the land couldn’t be legally sold. The Great Spirit gave it to his forefathers to live on. They had an eternal right to the soil. The way he figgers, the treaty is a fraud; fer nothin’ could be rightfully sold, ’cept such things as could be carried away.” “Look here, Bill,” broke in Tom, with sudden inspiration, “have you told Captain Van Alstyne at the fort what you discovered on your scouting trip, I mean that you think Black Hawk is about ready to dig up the hatchet?” “No. I ain’t had time.” “You just got to Chicago?” “Only today. But I aim to see the Cap’n in the mornin’. That is,” he added sarcastically, “if he’s dressed to receive vis’ters.” “He should be grateful for your warning.” “No, I don’t calc’late he’ll do anythin’ ’bout it.”