The corn and oats were all in and growing nicely, and the boys had promised that before haying should begin, they would accompany their Indian friend, Kalichigoogah, and his people, blueberrying, over across Iron Creek marsh, to the somewhat higher swales and little sandy islands of the Little Yellow river, where this luscious berry found its natural habitat.
This pilgrimage was an annual custom of the red men. Here, when the low bushes, growing luxuriantly in moist earth, were so heavily laden with great clusters, from a little distance it appeared as if a section of the sky had fallen upon the ground. Then the Indians would come and camp for a couple of weeks, while squaws and papooses—and sometimes the men, when they felt in the mood—would pick and spread the fruit out to dry in the hot sun, to be afterwards stored away in linden bark baskets, for their feasting in the lean months of snow and cold. So much of providence had the Indian learned from the white man.
Accompanying their red friends, the boys set forth one early morning. Their guns were reluctantly left at home, for they would have provision to last them a week to pack one way, and some heavy loads of the half dried berries, they hoped, on the return. The Indians shaped their course not due west, as the boys had supposed they would, to the Iron Creek marsh, but northwest, to where the timber belt came close down to the deep morass. It seemed to the boys a long way around, but it proved to be about the only way across. The rapid, swinging, half-trot soon brought them into a well-worn trail, leading in their desired direction. Whether this was a deer trail, or a path worn deep by generations of Indians passing this way, as was their custom, in single file, the boys could not tell. Probably men and beasts both had a part in the formation of this easily travelled, narrow road.
As they reached the place where the timber came down to the edge of the marsh they saw why the trail had led that way. The marsh was narrow at this point, and nearly across, at some time in the long ago, beavers had constructed a dam, which probably for centuries had resisted the force of flood and current, and held back the waters in a little lake. Along this grass-grown solid embankment the travellers passed dry-shod nearly to the further side of the swamp, where a break had been made, probably started by the hole-boring-crawfish.
Except in the highest stages of the spring flood, all the waters of the big marsh passed through this break. Dark and cold, and waist deep, the strong current was soon passed through, each of our boys, as well as the squaws, bearing upon their shoulders a big-eyed papoose, in addition to their packs of provision. The Indian braves carried their guns—and much dignity.
Above the dam were perhaps an hundred turf houses, resembling miniature Indian lodges, standing in the shallow water. “Beavers?” enquired Rob of his red friend. “Musquash,” replied the Indian boy. “Beaver go. Smell ’um white man—no like.” Whether muskrat or beaver, the boys determined to come that way trapping in the fall.
As they reached the western side of the marsh, a strange sight met their eyes. A long, flat bank—how long they could not tell—lay up against the shore, gleaming in colors of yellow, orange and red. There were tracks where some kind of animals had come down across to drink at the running current.
“Look at that, boys!” shouted Rob. “Did you ever hear such a thing? It’s a regular paint mine. There’s where our cows came, and they plastered themselves so well that the stuff didn’t all wash off when they waded through this water.”
Rob and Ed were for turning aside at once to investigate. “Why, there must be tons and tons of that stuff.” “How far do you suppose it extends toward the north?” “I wonder how deep the bed is.” “What is the stuff, any how?” “There’s enough of it in sight to paint the world.” “If we can get that to market our fortune’s made.” These were some of the eager exclamations of the boys.
However, the Indians seemed to be not in the least excited, but rather were anxious to reach their camping place, and refused to stop, pushing ahead at the steady, rapid pace. The trail led across a wide, sandy ridge covered with Norway pines. Here and there were depressions of from one to two acres in extent, already covered with a luxuriant growth of blue-joint grass, nearly waist high.