This country was neither pleasant nor healthful by contrast with the cool forests and open savannahs we had known, and we were pestered unmercifully by a plague of gnats. But on the other hand we were never at a loss for fresh meat. We knocked over squirrels with sticks and dragged the wild turkeys from their roosts at night. There was a kind of partridge, too, that plumped up under our feet, a stupid bird easily to be slain with the tomahawk. And one time a black bear barred our path and stood growling at us. We let him go, for we needed no meat and we must husband our powder.
The third day we waded knee-deep through a flooded forest-tract and came without warning upon the margin of a wide, brown stream. I hailed it for the Mississippi, at last; but Tawannears asserted it to be the Illinois, a tributary, which flowed down from the vicinity of the Lake of the Michigans and entered the Mississippi opposite to and a short distance above the Missouri. This knowledge was valuable, inasmuch as it told us approximately where we were, and we turned back to nominally dry ground and headed southwest, following the general trend of the Illinois. But our progress was slower than ever, for the luxuriance of the undergrowth in those moist lowlands baffles description. Briars tore our skin; creepers tripped us; bushes grew so thickly that we had to hack our way step by step, taking turns at trail-breaking.
The next day we won to higher ground, a ridge from which we caught occasional glimpses of the Illinois; and in mid-afternoon we stumbled unawares upon a trail that led from the northeast and straddled the saddle of the ridge.
"Back!" hissed Tawannears, as we smashed carelessly through the brushwood into the grooved slot.
Ostensibly, the trail was deserted. A lightning glance revealed it a vacant, green-walled tunnel. But appearances meant nothing in the Wilderness, and we slid behind a fallen trunk, straining our ears for sounds of other men. Bees buzzed over us in the soft yellow light. We heard water running somewhere. Birds sang in the tree-tops. That was all. Minute by minute, we waited for the purr of an arrow, the crash of a shot, the yell of the war-whoop. But nothing happened, and at last Tawannears motioned for us to crawl after him to a position offering ready access to the choked lands on the river side of the ridge. There he left us, to scout the neighborhood alone. An hour passed, as Peter and I knelt back to back in the underbrush, our eyes roaming the woods on every side. Another hour, and I became restless. Evening was darkening when the hoot of an owl announced Tawannears' approach. He crawled into our lair, and dropped a worn moccasin in Peter's lap.
"Chippewa," he murmured.
Peter nodded confirmation, slowly turning the footgear in his pudgy hands.
"A war-party," continued Tawannears. "They were going across the Father of Waters. Their footprints all point toward the river."
"Der trail is fresh?" queried Corlaer.
"I found the ashes of a fire two days old," returned the Seneca. "It is my counsel that we lie here until morning. I think the Chippewas are planning to cross the Great River to hunt for Dakota scalps and buffalo robes. The Dakota are my brothers. They are brave warriors, but they have no muskets. The Chippewas are allies of the French. They have muskets, and it is easier for them to steal furs from the Dakota than to hunt the wild creatures themselves. Let us give them time to cross the river. Afterward we will follow them and carry a warning to the Dakota."