“I fully agree with you,” he replied soberly.  “But Governor Clark is the only one who senses the situation.  However, I learned last night from the commander of the Wanderer that troops were being gathered at Jefferson Barracks.  I’ll probably get a load of them coming back.  What is your regiment, Knox?”

“The Fifth Infantry.”

“The Fifth!  Then you do not belong here?”

“No; I came up with dispatches, but have not been permitted to return.  What troops are at Jefferson—­did you learn?”

“Mostly from the First, with two companies of the Sixth, Watson told me; only about four hundred altogether.  How many warriors has Black Hawk?”

“No one knows.  They say his emissaries are circulating among the Wyandottes and Potawatamies, and that he has received encouragement from the Prophet which makes him bold.”

“The Prophet!  Oh, you mean Wabokieshiek?  I know that old devil, a Winnebago; and if Black Hawk is in his hands he will not listen very long even to White Beaver.  General Atkinson passed through here lately; what does he think?”

I shook my head doubtfully.

“No one can tell, Captain; at least none of the officers here seem in his confidence.  I have never met him, but I learn this:  he trusts the promises of Keokuk, and continues to hold parley.  Under his orders a council was held here three days since, which ended in a quarrel between the two chiefs.  However, there is a rumor that dispatches have already been sent to Governors Clark and Reynolds suggesting a call for volunteers, yet I cannot vouch for the truth of the tale.”

“White Beaver generally keeps his own counsel, yet he knows Indians, and might trust me with his decision, for we are old friends.  If you can furnish me with a light, I’ll start this pipe of mine going.”

I watched the weather-beaten face of the old riverman, as he puffed away in evident satisfaction.  I had chanced to meet him only twice before, yet he was a well-known character between St. Louis and Prairie du Chien; rough enough to be sure, from the very nature of his calling, but generous and straightforward.

“Evidently all of your passengers are not miners, Captain,” I ventured, for want of something better to say.  “Those two standing there at the stern, for instance.”

He turned and looked, shading his eyes, the smoking pipe in one hand.

“No,” he said, “that big man is Judge Beaucaire, from Missouri.  He has a plantation just above St. Louis, an old French grant.  He went up with me about a month ago—–­my first trip this season—­to look after some investment on the Fevre, which I judge hasn’t turned out very well, and has been waiting to go back with me.  Of course you know the younger one.”

“Never saw him before.”

“Then you have never traveled much on the lower river.  That’s Joe Kirby.”

“Joe Kirby?”