“Captain Oliver,” he said solemnly, “you know the strait in which we’re placed. If re-enforcements don’t arrive within a few days this place, with all its stores, will inevitably fall into the hands of the British. Such an event would be an incalculable disaster. It mustn’t happen. But we must have help. General Green Clay is on his way hither, with a regiment of Kentucky militia. I have received word that he’s coming by way of the Auglaize. At the present time he must be near Fort Winchester. I’ve decided to send a dispatch to him, apprising him of the condition of affairs and urging him to hasten to our aid; and I’ve chosen you to perform the perilous mission. Your brother officers approve my plan—and my choice of messenger. Are you willing to venture upon the hazardous undertaking, Captain Oliver?” The assembled officers craned their necks, and listened breathlessly for the young commissary’s reply. It was not long in coming. Firm and clear his voice rang out: “I’ll go, General—willingly and gladly. I’ll deliver your dispatch into General Clay’s hands—or die on the way.” “Thank you, Captain,” Harrison murmured, his voice soft with emotion. Then quickly: “How soon can you start?” “At once, General.” “Very well—the sooner the better. You should be beyond reach of our enemies before they invest the fort. Make your preparations and return in a half hour. I’ll have the dispatch ready for you. By the way, how many men do you want?” “One, General—a guide.” “Hadn’t you better take a score?” “They’d be of no use to me, General—and you need them here,” was the firm reply. “True,” the commander returned reflectively. “Well, come back in half an hour. I’ll have everything in readiness.” Captain Oliver bowed and withdrew. Just outside of the tent he encountered Farley, Bright Wing, and a number of soldiers. Awkwardly lifting his cap, the whimsical Joe stepped forward and asked: “Are we goin’ to have a brush with the Britishers an’ redskins, Cap’n?” “More than a brush, I imagine,” answered the commissary, edging his way through the crowd. “An’ what’re we goin’ to do?” Farley inquired. “Fight,” was the curt response. Joe was nettled. “Any fool’d know that,” he muttered; “’specially if he’d been in the fight o’ Tippecanoe with the ol’ Gener’l——” Captain Oliver stopped suddenly and, wheeling around, interrupted: “You were with General Harrison at Tippecanoe, my friend?” “I was,” Farley answered proudly. “Me an’ Bright Wing, here, was both there.” “From your dress and general appearance, I judge you are a woodman—a hunter.” “I am—what ther’ is left o’ me, which ain’t very much sence the danged Winnebagoes sp’iled my beauty.” “You’ve been a prisoner among the Indians?” “Yes—both of us, ever sence the battle o’ Tippecanoe. We jest escaped—jest got in here yisterday.” “Does the commander know you?” “He used to—but I don’t s’pose he would now. The danged Winnebagoes——” Captain Oliver impatiently interrupted: