Deerfoot was a Pottowattomie Indian, friendly to the white settlers and to the Halls in particular. He had taught Joseph and Robert much of what they knew of woodcraft and that he was a skillful teacher was attested by the prowess the two boys had acquired.
“Is it serious?” demanded Robert anxiously. He had been removing weeds from the newly sprouted cornfield and he leaned on his hoe as he waited for his brother’s reply.
“Deerfoot says it is,” replied Joseph. “He says that Black Hawk is very angry and means business this time.”
“But what’s it all about?” Robert insisted.
“The same old trouble. Black Hawk doesn’t want to leave this side of the Mississippi and doesn’t intend to either, if he can help it.”
“He signed a treaty nearly thirty years ago saying he would go, didn’t he?”
“I know it,” said Joseph. “According to Deerfoot, though, Black Hawk thinks he was deceived at that time and that the treaty doesn’t bind him. I think that if he had been made to leave at the time he signed that treaty down at St. Louis, everything would have been all right. They told him, however, that he could stay on until this country was thrown open for settlement and now that they want him to go he refuses. At least that’s what father thinks.”
“Is he going to fight?” exclaimed Robert.
“Deerfoot says so. He told me we’d better get to some safe place, too.”
“I did, but he laughed at me. You know how he is; he said he wasn’t afraid of all the Indians in North America.”
“So do I,” agreed Joseph. “Black Hawk and his warriors may be right around here now as far as we know. They’ll start by making war on the settlers, too; you know they always do that. They blame the settlers for taking their land away from them.”
“How about Keokuk?” demanded Robert. “He is the head of the Sac tribe, while Black Hawk is only a smaller chief. What is Keokuk going to do?”
“He is already across the Mississippi, I understand. He evidently was willing to go, or at least he thought that would be the wisest thing to do. He is not a fighter like Black Hawk.”
“I should say not,” exclaimed Robert. “Old Black Hawk has been fighting nearly all his life, I guess.”
“Ever since he was fifteen years old, so Deerfoot told me this morning. He is about sixty-five now, so you see he has been on the warpath off and on for fifty years. He must be a great old warrior if all Deerfoot told me is true.”