CHAPTER

      I. A Message from the West
     II.  The Call of Duty
    III.  A New Acquaintance
     IV.  Captain Wells of Fort Wayne
      V. Through the Heart of the Forest
     VI.  From the Jaws of Death
    VII.  A Circle in the Sand
   VIII.  Two Men and a Maid
     IX.  In Sight of the Flag
      X. A Lane of Peril
     XI.  Old Fort Dearborn
    XII.  The Heart of a Woman
   XIII.  A Wager of Fools
    XIV.  Darkness and Surprise
     XV.  An Adventure Underground
    XVI.  “Prance wins, Monsieur!”
   XVII.  A Contest of Wits
  XVIII.  Glimpses of Danger
    XIX.  A Conference and a Resolve
     XX.  In the Indian Camp
    XXI.  A Council of Chiefs
   XXII.  The Last Night at Dearborn
  XXIII.  The Death-Shadow of the Miamis
   XXIV.  The Day of Doom
    XXV.  In the Jaws of the Tiger
   XXVI.  The Field of the Dead
  XXVII.  A Ghostly Vision
 XXVIII.  An Angel in the Wilderness
   XXIX.  A Soldier of France
    XXX.  The Rescue at the Stake
   XXXI.  A Search, and its Reward
  XXXII.  The Pledge of a Wyandot
 XXXIII.  An Intervention of Fate
  XXXIV.  A Stumble in the Dark
   XXXV.  The Battle on the Shore
  XXXVI.  In the New Gray Dawn

  “I saw a dot upon the map, and a housefly’s filmy wing—­
  They said ’twas Dearborn’s picket-flag, when Wilderness was King.

* * * * * *

  I heard the block-house gates unbar, the column’s solemn tread,
  I saw the Tree of a single leaf its splendid foliage shed
  To wave awhile that August morn above the column’s head;
  I heard the moan of muffled drum, the woman’s wail of fife,
  The Dead March played for Dearborn’s men just marching out of life;
  The swooping of the savage cloud that burst upon the rank
  And struck it with its thunderbolt in forehead and in flank,
  The spatter of the musket-shot, the rifles’ whistling rain,—­
  The sandhills drift round hope forlorn that never marched again.”

  —­Benjamin F. Taylor.

When Wilderness Was King

CHAPTER I

A MESSAGE FROM THE WEST

Surely it was no longer ago than yesterday.  I had left the scythe lying at the edge of the long grass, and gone up through the rows of nodding Indian corn to the house, seeking a draught of cool water from the spring.  It was hot in the July sunshine; the thick forest on every side intercepted the breeze, and I had been at work for some hours.  How pleasant and inviting the little river looked in the shade of the great trees, while, as I paused a moment bending over the high bank, I could see a lazy pike nosing about among the twisted roots below.