E-text prepared by Al Haines
A Tale of the Illinois Country
by
Author of "My Lady of the North"
A. L. Burt Company, Publishers
New York
Copyright by A. C. McClurg & Co.
1904
Published March 26, 1904
Second Edition, April 20, 1904
Third Edition, July 2, 1904
Fourth Edition, September 20, 1904
Fifth Edition, October 20, 1904
Sixth Edition, January 2, 1905
Seventh Edition, December, 1905
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
All Rights Reserved
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
Surely it was no longer ago than yesterday. I had left the scythelying at the edge of the long grass, and gone up through the rows ofnodding Indian corn to the house, seeking a draught of cool water fromthe spring. It was hot in the July sunshine; the thick forest on everyside intercepted the breeze, and I had been at work for some hours.How pleasant and inviting the little river looked in the shade of thegreat trees, while, as I paused a moment bending over the high bank, Icould s