The Devil's Own


CHAPTER I

AT OLD FORT ARMSTRONG

It was the early springtime, and my history tells me the year was 1832,
although now that seems so far away I almost hesitate to write the
date. It appears surprising that through the haze of all those
intervening years--intensely active years with me--I should now be able
to recall so clearly the scene of that far-off morning of my youth, and
depict in memory each minor detail. Yet, as you read on, and realize
yourself the stirring events resulting from that idle moment, you may
be able to comprehend the deep impression left upon my mind, which no
cycle of time could ever erase.

I was barely twenty then, a strong, almost headstrong boy, and the far
wilderness was still very new to me, although for two years past I had
held army commission and been assigned to duty in frontier forts. Yet
never previously had I been stationed at quite so isolated an outpost
of civilization as was this combination of rock and log defense erected
at the southern extremity of Rock Island, fairly marooned amid the
sweep of the great river, with Indian-haunted land stretching for
leagues on every side. A mere handful of troops was quartered there,
technically two companies of infantry, yet numbering barely enough for
one; and this in spite of rumors daily drifting to us that the Sacs and
Foxes, with their main village just below, were already becoming
restless and warlike, inflamed by the slow approach of white settlers
into the valley of the Rock. Indeed, so short was the garrison of