The command of Melton was an independent one, composed principally of bordermen and scouts, selected for their known valor and knowledge of the country. As usual in such cases they were despised by the dandy regiments until two or three rough bouts between the men had taught them a lesson. They were very popular with the masses, however, and in a bush fight, were capable of doing more work than any body of men in the service. Two or three couriers were dispatched in various directions, and then the party camped outside, while the captain entered the house, where he was received by Mrs. Wescott and the daughter. The elder lady had just returned from a visit down the river. “This is Charley Melton, my prince of borderers, the best scout captain in the territories,” said Wescott. “Captain, my daughter Sadie.” “I met Miss Wescott early in the evening when in chase of a desperate gambler who had shot a man over a card-table. And indeed we met twice in the village.” “I hope you caught him, captain,” said Wescott. “Sorry to say I did not. How the fellow managed to slip away I don’t know, but when we got to the bend, all trace of them was lost. He had a man in his company whom I want to see, for I believe he is stirring up the Indians against us.” “You mean Black Will Jackwood, I’ll bet,” said Joe Bent. “Yes; what made you think that?” “’Cause I see the bloody cuss at Rock Island, whisperin’ round old Black-Hawk, and it looked bad to me, somehow. It will be a ’markably good thing when he is hung up out of harm’s way.” “That good thing will be very likely to happen if we have the good luck to catch them. Ha! What Indian girl is that?” “Minneoba, the daughter of Black-Hawk,” replied the girl, coming forward. “Let not Loud Tempest fear that she will speak the words she hears in the lodge of her white father in the ear of the Sacs. Minneoba is not a creeping serpent, and will not betray her friends.” “Loud Tempest, eh? Poetical name the Sacs have given me, though for what cause I do not know. What have you there, Dix?” An orderly had appeared at the door and saluted. “Caught a Pottawatomie, just now, who claims that he has something to say.” “Who is he?” “Little Fox.” “Pah! I don’t think much can be made out of _him_. However, bring him in, and let us hear what he has to say.” The orderly turned and beckoned, and an Indian, greasy and smoke-begrimed, with a face which bore evident signs of hard potations, appeared in the doorway. This “lord of the forest” was very drunk. His eyes rolled in their sockets, and he found it easiest to stand by the aid of the door-post. CHAPTER IV. LITTLE FOX—NA-SHE-ESCHUCK.