The Indians suspected what was going on, and crept, serpent-like, as near the scene of action as possible, but a vigilant watch was kept up and no one was suffered to approach but those engaged in the affair. All the muskets not necessary for the command on the march were broken up and thrown in the well, together with bags of shot, flints, gun-screws and, in short, every weapon of offence. On the afternoon of the same day a second council was held with the Indians. They expressed great indignation at the destruction of the ammunition and liquor. Notwithstanding the precautions taken to preserve secrecy, the noise of knocking in the heads of the barrels had betrayed the operations, and so great was the quantity of liquor thrown into the river that the taste of the water next morning was, as one expressed it, "strong grog." (Wau-Bun narrative.) William Wells, with the courage and endurance of his red foster-parents, and the faithful, loving heart of his own race, heard in some way (at Fort Wayne, where he was stationed) of the proposed evacuation of Fort Dearborn and the perilous flight to Detroit--nearly three hundred miles through the lonely "oak openings" of Michigan. His friends were here--his girl-friend, his own brother's daughter, Rebekah Wells Heald, was here. The thought of their danger summoned him like the sound of a trumpet to share it. He came at the head of a band of thirty Miami Indians, to guide, guard, help in every way the forlorn hope. It was too late to change the fatal plan, even if he would have tried to do so. He was a soldier, and obedience to orders was a part of his training. Besides, he knew the Indians, and they knew and respected him, and an expedition which would be desperate without his presence, might be changed by his help to a reasonable undertaking. If the whites had any friends among the reds, he would be at the head of those friends to lead them against the unfriendly. How the hearts of the troubled little settlement must have bounded as they saw the help approaching! Fancy the scene! On Friday, August 14th, when the sun was sinking in the West, there came along the lake-shore, stretched out beside the yellow sand-hills that extended southward clear down to the oak woods now marking the suburb of Hyde Park, the band of mounted Indians, headed by the good and brave soldier who knew the Indians as well as they knew each other. They had tramped all the way from Fort Wayne, one hundred and fifty miles, charged with the kindly, dangerous task of escorting the entire Chicago community back along the pathless forest they themselves had just come through.