“Well, why not?” protested Ben. “Maybe, if he’d send a batch of troopers into western Illinois, it’d cool off the Hawk’s war fever.” “Bless you, Ben, the Cap’n ’ll never heed me. He’ll say it’s all a mess o’ gossip.” “But why?” “Because he’s a macaroni.” “A macaroni?” “Yep, a macaroni, meanin’ a dude sojur. He thinks that all he has to do is strut the parade ground in that Fancy Dan uniform o’ his, an’ every painted Injun this side o’ the Rocky Mount’ins ’ll be struck dumb with fear.” The trio was now approaching the vicinity of Fort Dearborn, the log walls of which loomed up less than a half-mile ahead. At this point, the muddy path led between a swamp, on one hand, and the door of a squatty log structure, known to the garrison of the fort as the “Mud Turtle,” on the other. The Turtle was nothing more than a grog-shop and gambling dive, much frequented by the rougher element among the troopers. It was also known as a rendezvous for fur poachers, Indian renegades, white border ruffians, and, in fact, every sort of frontier riffraff of the worst stamp. “Stay away from the neighborhood o’ this robbers’ roost after dark,” called back Bill Brown, who was in the lead, as they wound single-file along the narrow path, “er you may git yer heads caved in an’ yer pockets picked.” “I hear it’s a good place to steer clear of,” agreed Tom. “Yep, it’s the wust dadbusted dive this side o’ Natchez-under-the-Hill.” As the big frontiersman swung past the Turtle and continued east along the muddy path, the towering figure of a soldier suddenly lurched from the tavern door. This soldier was clearly in a half-drunken state. He was a large man, dark of face and with piggy, close-set eyes. His faded uniform was torn and unkempt. Catching sight of Bill Brown’s back, some ten feet ahead in the path, the tousled fellow stopped short, then wiped the back of his brawny hand across his bleary eyes. A hoarse mutter came from his throat. His mighty frame fairly trembled with rage. He began to creep stealthily up the trail, soft-stepping as a cat, meanwhile drawing a knife from a sheath in his belt. It was now plain as print that he was stalking Bill Brown! For a split second, Tom and Ben Gordon were stupefied with amazement. Then they reacted, swiftly and sharply. “Stop him, Tom!” rasped Ben to his brother, who was several paces nearer than he to the creeping knife-wielder. With a quick cry of alarm, Tom Gordon sprang forward, as if propelled by a strong, steel spring. He was upon the crouching soldier before the latter could be more than vaguely aware of his intent. With a mighty shove he sent the burly fellow reeling from the narrow path. He staggered for a moment, tried desperately to retrieve his balance, and then lost his footing in the slippery mud at the swamp edge. Into the slimy, reed-grown water he pitched, a snarl of helpless wrath coming from his lips. “Bully for you, Tom!” sang out the exultant Ben.