“My brother has a fine gun,” he said in the Indian tongue, endeavoring to lay his hand upon the weapon. But Little Fox tore it away from him in drunken wrath. “Wagh! It is the gun of the white man, and the Sacs will fall before it as the leaves when they are yellow,” he said. “My brother is very rich. He must have taken much fur to buy so fine a gun,” said the young Indian, who already showed the qualities which afterward gave him a leading place in the tribe. “Little Fox is the friend of the white man, and he can get a gun for nothing,” was the reply. “When Black-Hawk comes with his warriors he will find the white men ready.” “Has my brother told the white men what Black-Hawk is doing?” said the young Sac, vailing his rage. “Little Fox can speak or Little Fox can be silent,” replied the Pottawatomie. “Look: to-morrow he is to have enough rum to last him a whole moon, because he is the friend of the white man.” “Fire-water is good,” said the Sac. “Has my brother a canoe to carry it across the river?” The Indian shook his head, and a sort of hazy idea passed through his clouded brain that he had already said as much as he ought concerning the affair. “I have a fine canoe,” continued the son of Black-Hawk. “Let my brother bring the rum to the Point, and I will help him carry it away.” The Pottawatomie nodded gravely, and went on his sinuous way, while the young chief darted into the forest, and taking a circuitous course, reached his father’s village at early morning. The old chief was in his lodge, in an attitude of the deepest dejection, for he had not sought a quarrel with the whites. Near him, seated upon a pile of skins, and with a look of deep malice on his face, sat Black Will, holding his rifle in his brown right hand. “Ha! here comes Na-she-eschuck,” he said. “Now, Black-Hawk, let your great heart awake and listen to the words of your son. Speak, Na-she-eschuck; what are the white men doing?” “They go about among the lodges they have built above our fathers’ graves and laugh because they have insulted Black-Hawk,” replied the young Sac, fiercely. “Their ears are stopped to all thoughts of peace, and they long for war. Let them get what they seek, since they will have it so.” “What did I tell you, Black-Hawk?” said Black Will. “The scoundrels do not care for your great name, and they throw mud at you as if you were a common Pottawatomie, and not the head chief of a great nation. Will you bear this tamely?” “Black-Hawk is an Indian,” replied the proud old man, drawing up his stalwart form to its full hight. “But he does not seek for war. If the white men will let us rest where we now are, I will send the warriors back, and we will be friends.” “Friends! Friends with the men who threw mud in your face and beat you like a dog?” cried Black Will. “Come, I have been mistaken in you. I thought you were a man ready to revenge your injuries, but the white men have cowed you until you dare not lift a hand against them.”