In the summer of 1814 First Lieutenant Nathaniel Jurney and a dozen United States Rangers were stationed here, upon the broad Illinois prairie dotted with timber and cut by streams. Lieutenant Jurney had been captain in the Illinois Rangers raised for service upon the frontier; but a year ago he had been appointed first lieutenant in the Government Rangers, of the army. The Indians to be feared hereabouts were roving Sacs, Potawatomis and Winnebagos from the north; yes, and the Prairie Kickapoos from the Wabash River on the east. However, the block-house was not a very stirring place; and when in the evening of August 30 the Lieutenant Jurney men saw a bunch of Indians reconnoitering at a short distance out, they had high hopes of a little "brush" in the morning. They rode through the gate before daylight, to surprise the Indian camp; but ere sun-up they had been surprised, themselves, on the edge of some timber. At the first volley the lieutenant had been badly wounded, three of the men had fallen, and far out-numbered the six other men, taking the lieutenant, had raced madly for safety in the fort. The smoke hung so thickly in the still, damp air that they got away without trouble--all except Ranger Higgins. He had not gone far. Instead of making to the fort he had sprung from his horse and "treed" (the Kentucky way); and in the smoke cover he had stayed for "one more pull at the redskins." That was rash, but plucky. He had often said that he did not fear "trash" like the "beggarly Kickapoos, Saukees, and such." Kentucky was his home, and he had been reared on stories of the Shawnees, Wyandots and Miamis. So he waited, behind his tree, until the smoke thinned. Soon he glimpsed several Indians; he took aim, fired, killed one, reloaded, and leaped upon his horse. The Indians had not seen him; he would reach the fort and report that he had accomplished a little, anyway. Just as he tightened rein a voice stopped him. It seemed to come from underfoot. "Tom! Say, you aren't going to leave me?" That was Joe Burgess, a comrade, trying to crawl to him. "No, I won't. Come on, Joe. Get aboard. Quick! We'll make in, double." "Can't do it, Tom. Leg's busted." Joe's ankle had been broken by a bullet. Tom, a fine big fellow, was off in a second, picked Joe up bodily, carried him to the horse--and away the horse bolted, without either of them. It had smelled Indians. "By ginger, but that's a mean trick," Tom rapped. "Never mind. You make a three-legged crawl of it; keep to the tall grass and hug the ground like a snake. I'll cover your trail and fight the Injuns off." A brave man, he let Joe disappear in the tall grass of the prairie. First he thought that he'd follow. But that wouldn't do. The smoke was drifting slowly and clearing; the Indians would see him--would see the trail, anyway, and kill Joe if they didn't kill him, himself.