Brown searched his son's eyes keenly.

"You will not betray me to my enemies?"

"I can't do that. You're my father."

He turned to Frederick.

"Nor you?"

The tears were streaming down the boy's face. He was hysterical from the
strain of the fight.

"You heard me, sir," the father stormed.

"What did you say?" Frederick stammered.

Oliver explained.

"He asked if you were going to betray his plans to those people on the
Pottawattomie."

A far-away expression came into his eyes.

"No--no--not that."

"Then you'll both follow and keep out of my way until we have finished
the work and then come back with me?"

"Yes," Oliver answered.

"Yes," Frederick echoed vaguely.

Townsley and Weiner were coming with the pair of grays to be hitched to
the wagon. Weiner led his own pony already saddled. When they reached
the wagon all signs of rebellion had passed.

"Are you ready?" Townsley asked.

"Ready." Brown's metallic voice rang.

The horses were hitched to the wagon, the provisions and equipment
loaded. Brown turned to his loyal followers:

"Arm yourselves."

Owen, Salmon, Henry Thompson, Theodore Weiner and John Brown each
buckled a loaded revolver about his waist, and seized a rifle and
cutlass.

Weiner mounted his pony as an outpost rider and the others climbed into
the wagon. Oliver and Frederick agreed to follow on foot. The expedition
moved toward the Southern settlement on Pottawattomie Creek.

Brown crouched low in the wagon as it moved slowly forward and a look of
cunning marked his grim face.

He was the Witch Hunter now. The chase was on. And the game was human.

As the sun was setting behind the Western horizon in a glow of orange
and purple glory the strange expedition drove down to the edge of the
timber between two deep ravines and camped a mile above Dutch Henry's
Crossing of the Pottawattomie.

The scene was one of serene beauty. The month of May--Saturday, the
twenty-third. Nature was smiling in the joy of her happiest hour. Peace
on earth, plenty, good will and happiness breathed from every bud and
leaf and song of bird.

The broad prairies of the Territory were fertile and sunny. They
stretched away in unbroken, sublime loveliness until the land kissed the
infinite of the skies. Unless one had the feeling for this suggestion of
an inland sea the view might be depressing and the eye of the traveler
weary.

The spot which John Brown picked for his camp was striking in its