“I’m afeared not. You know, my thick skull is jest startin’ to percolate. Come to think, I crossed the Wisconsin once at this very place.” “You did?” inquired Ben surprisedly. “Yep, I did. The river is shaller at this p’int, an’ well broken with small islands. An’ all night long, whilst we been a huddlin’ here in the mist an’ fog, why them pesky Sacs has been fordin’ over in a steady parade.” “Suffering snakes,” exclaimed Ben, “do you really think so, Bill?” “Sartin of it, lad.” “Sun come, Sac all gone,” affirmed Bright Star, with an emphatic nod of his head. “Tell you what let’s do,” proposed Bill suddenly. “I’m all-fired tired o’ squattin’ here in the wet, like a dingbusted chicken what don’t know ’nuff to go in outen the rain. Let’s circle the bluff an’ scout ’round a bit, near the river, I’ll bet my wallet ther’s so few Injuns left on this side o’ the channel, that ther won’t be skeercely no risk to it.” “Very well, Bill,” grinned Tom Gordon, springing briskly to his feet, “but if I lose my curly red locks, you’ll be to blame.” The venturesome four found no difficulty in circling the great bluff. Beyond its towering bulk they entered a black forest that stretched away to the river’s edge below the ford. In the murk of early dawn the thick woods seemed full of mystery and terror; but theirs were no timid hearts. Far off, low thunder muttered, and now and then flashes of heat lightning drew a belt of coppery red along the dull gray horizon. The trees were weird and ghostly, and there was no other sound at all but the gentle drip, drip of the rain. After a half-hour of toilsome travel, the four found themselves nearing the river. Here, by the water, the vapors and mists seemed to be imprisoned by the boughs and verdant foliage, and the range of vision was very slight. The scouts were advancing in single file. Tom Gordon was in the lead, Bill Brown came just behind him, and then the other two somewhat to the rear. Using the greatest caution, now that the margin of the stream was at hand, the four crept forward, little by little, through the thickets. Suddenly a stick broke under Tom and he heard a shout in front of him. The shout was so fierce, so fully charged with hatred, that the boy stopped dead in his tracks, momentarily stunned by the shock. He stood face to face with Pat Fagan, the border bully and deserter, a wild and terrible figure, clothes in rags, bleeding from wounds, but driven now by a savage joy. His evil face blazed with triumph. Here, at last, was revenge! Fagan’s pistol was leveled at the astounded youth and the next second the fatal bullet would have sped, but with a mighty bound Bill Brown was upon him. The pistol barked spitefully, but the bullet went upward, and the two men writhed in a powerful embrace.