“I’ve done with the Prophet’s dillydallying; I’ll treat him as an enemy. Recall Captain Dubois and his men, and order the entire army to advance at a brisk pace. If the Indians don’t come out to treat with me, I’ll attack their town at once.” In a few minutes Dubois and his comrades had rejoined the command. An animated scene presented itself to their gaze. Orderlies were galloping hither and thither; officers were giving hurried commands; and regulars and militiamen were exchanging oaths and jokes, as they stood in line, awaiting the order to advance. Every man thought an engagement imminent—and was depressed or elated at the prospect, according to his temperament. “Forward!” The compact lines moved. But scarcely were they in motion ere they were met by a deputation of three chiefs—including the Prophet’s chief councilor—who had come from the village to meet the commander and confer with him. Again the army halted. Officers swore and privates grumbled. Why should they listen to such tardy envoys? Why not make prisoners of them—and proceed to the attack? But Harrison gave no heed to the stormy protests of his staff, nor to the sullen mutterings of the rank and file. He had resolved to give the chiefs an audience. He did so; and received from them the information that the Prophet was desirous for peace—that he wished to know why so large a force of armed men was approaching his town. Also, they said the Prophet had sent back the Pottawatomie and Miami chiefs—whom the governor had dispatched from Fort Harrison—with a pacific message, but the friendly emissaries had made their return journey on the south side of the Wabash, and for that reason had missed the army. All this seemed so fair and candid that the commander agreed to an armistice and told the chiefs to inform the Prophet, that he—Harrison—would hold a council with him the next day. Once more the columns moved forward. The commander intended to camp on the low ground near the village, which occupied a slight eminence overlooking the wet bottoms. But not finding the place to his liking, he sent Major Waller and Taylor to select a more suitable location. The site the officers chose was an elevated piece of dry ground, a short distance northeast of the Indian town and directly facing it. Toward this spot the army proceeded. As the lines of soldiers filed past the village, numbers of armed warriors sallied forth, and appeared ill-humored and threatening. When the troops were nearing the chosen site of the encampment, an incident occurred that created a momentary ripple of excitement. Ben, the negro ox-driver, suddenly threw down his whip and, leaving his companions, ran off at full speed toward the Indian town. A number of braves—as though expecting him—met him and conducted him within the walls. The other drivers hooted in derision, and flung curses at the woolly head disappearing within the gate of the palisade surrounding the village.