We were possibly a hundred yards from the southern front of the stockade, when I glanced forward and saw the level ground between a seething mass of savage forms, so densely wedged together as to block further progress.  I could see hundreds of brown sinewy arms uplifted from a sea of faces to brandish weapons of every description, and marked how the Miamis cowered like whipped curs behind the protection of Wells’s horse, while close beside him stood Jordan, erect and silent as it on parade, a rifle grasped in his hands, his head bare, a great welt showing redly across his white forehead.

A little party, hardly more than twenty infantry-men, marched steadily out from the open gateway of the Fort.  The first file bore bayonets fixed upon their guns, and the naked savages fell slowly back before the polished steel.  It was smartly done, and it thrilled my blood to note with what silent determination that small band of disciplined men pressed their way onward, passing through the threatening mass of redskins as indifferently as if they had been forest trees.  A young, smooth-faced fellow, wearing a new officer’s uniform, led them, sword in hand, a smile of light contempt upon his lips.

“Clear the space wider, Campbell!” he said sternly, to the big corporal at his side.  “Swing your files to left and right, and push the rabble out of the way.”

They did it with the butts of their guns, laughing at the brandished knives and tomahawks and the fierce painted faces that scowled at them, paying no apparent heed to the taunts and insults showered from every side.  There were some stones thrown, a few blows were struck, but no rifle-shot broke the brief struggle.  The young officer strode forward down the open space, and fronted our advance.

“I presume this is Captain Wells, from Fort Wayne?” he said, lifting his cap as he spoke.

“It is,” was the reply, “and I am very glad to find that you still hold Fort Dearborn.”

The other’s frank and boyish face darkened slightly, as if at an unpleasant memory.

“’T is no fault of some,” he muttered hastily; then he checked himself.  “We are glad to greet you, Captain Wells,” he added, in a more formal tone, glancing about upon us, “and your party.  I am Ensign Ronan, of the garrison; and if you will kindly pass between my guard lines, you will find Captain Heald awaiting you within.”

Thus we rode freely forward, with the guarding soldiery on either side of us, their faces to the howling savages; we passed in at the great southern gate, and halted amid the buildings of old Fort Dearborn.

CHAPTER XI

OLD FORT DEARBORN

It makes my old head dizzy to recall the events of that hour across the years that have intervened.  Possibly I, as I write these words, am the only person living who has looked upon that old stockade and taken part in its tragic history.  What a marvellous change has less than a century witnessed!  Once the outermost guard of our western frontier, it is now the site of one of the great cities of two continents.  To me, who have seen these events and changes, it possesses more than the wonderment of a dream.