The same bush wiggled again, this time more noticeably. Tom Gordon sank down a little lower and fairly drilled the thicket with his sharp glance. Now he saw the shadowy outline of a red face. Then the whole head and shoulders of an Indian appeared. He was looking across the glade with the keenest of scrutiny. The muzzle of the rifle that had been thrust forward was raised now, and taking quick aim, Tom fired. A wild and terrible cry rang through the forest. The Sac brave plunged forward from the thicket, spun crazily about, and then fell headlong among the thick grasses of the glade. The fearsome cry came back in a score of maniacal echoes, the screams of enraged warriors who knew now that there was to be no ambush of the oncoming rangers. Their war-whoops swelled in volume, fierce and menacing, but Tom Gordon and his fellow scouts were already running back upon the main body, sounding the alarm; and the troopers, eager for the fray, raised a great shout of defiance. “What is it?” cried Colonel Dodge, hurrying to the fore. “Sac warriors!” answered Tom, half breathlessly. “Must be the Hawk’s rear guard!” observed Bill Brown. “They aim to stall us off, till the others git a longer lead.” “This is only the rear guard!” shouted the commander. “Give them a volley or two, men, and then charge!” There was the deafening crash of a hundred rifles and muskets, as the black barrels spat jets of fire. A hail of lead whistled across the glade and into the thicket. It seemed incredible that a single Indian could escape alive, so furious was the gunfire. In answer, however, a few challenging whoops arose, followed by scattering shots. The troops swiftly reloaded and sent in another thunderous volley. “Press on!” bellowed Dodge hoarsely. “Dig out the red knaves!” The hardy rangers sent up a shout of triumph and dashed into the thicket, ready for hand-to-hand combat. But not a single redskin, living or dead, was to be found. The Indian warriors had withdrawn westward into the forest, carrying their slain fighters with them. “Fiddle-sticks!” declared Bill Brown. “This delayin’ skirmish ain’t improved Black Hawk’s sitchiation one jot.” True words! The Hawk’s harried band had again increased its lead over the pursuing soldiers to perhaps three miles; but the position of the Sacs seemed actually worse, due to the fact that immediately ahead of the fleeing braves lay the wide channel of the Wisconsin River, a big stream that flowed straight down from the trackless forests of the north, and then swept eastward in a great bend to join the mighty tide of the Mississippi, some eighty miles beyond. It was now mid-afternoon, and the harassed Black Hawk called a hasty council of his sub-chiefs. “Our cause is lost,” spoke up Ne-a-pope bluntly. “We could not fight the Big Knives alone,” snarled the surly Prairie Wolf. “The accursed Foxes--”