“I think,” declared Colonel Dodge worriedly, “that I will make a visit to the village of White Crow. The matter of the Crow and his nervous Winnebagoes has been on my mind all day. Perhaps a solemn talk with the chief will make him more firm in keeping his peace pact with us.” “The Crow’s village is at the head of Fourth Lake, isn’t it?” queried Captain Hamilton. “Yes, only an hour’s trip. There’s a well-beaten Indian trail connecting all the lakes.” To accompany him on the mission, Dodge named Bill Brown, Tom and Ben Gordon, Bright Star, the Pottawattomee, who knew some Winnebago tongue, and six of the stoutest and strongest of his own rangers. After three-quarters of an hour of easy travel--for the trail was fully as good as the Colonel had prophesied--the party of horsemen reached the foot of the Fourth Lake. Up its timbered western bank they made their way, skirting several patches of bog that rimmed the water at various inlets. After passing the last of these bogs, they came to a place where the trail followed the high, sheer bank very closely for an interval. A short distance ahead, on a point known as Fox’s Head, they could see the village of the famed White Crow. Suddenly, Bright Star, who was riding at the rear of the column with the other scouts, drew rein on his pony and pointed out into the lake. A canoe, with three paddlers, was shooting down the surface, heading south, a long quarter of a mile away. “Prairie Wolf!” asserted the keen-eyed young brave. “No?” barked Tom Gordon incredulously. “By golly, it looks like the Wolf,” nodded Bill, after a swift, but searching, look. “Wonder who’s with him?” spoke up Ben, voicing the silent thoughts of the others. “One pale-face, one redman,” Bright Star declared, gazing lakeward with renewed intensity, as the bark-canoe sped away down the shimmering water. “That scoundrel of a Fagan, I’ll bet a million!” burst out Tom. Before the surprised scouts had much further chance to talk over this unexpected glimpse of the burly Sac chief and the white renegade, the party came to the edge of the Winnebago village. And a striking sight it was, in the soft rays of the setting sun! The matted lodges, with the blue smoke curling from their tops--the trees and shrubs a radiant green--the lake, at the very door, glinting and sparkling--the savages, in their wild, colorful raiment, all added up to make a picture that Tom and Ben Gordon never forgot. As the horsemen came in among the lodges, a number of squaws and half-naked, coppery urchins ran out to greet them, shouting: “Hee-nee-karray-kay-noo?” (how do you do?)