No rain fell, however. The storm that had been threatening for so long was working around to the north. The rumblings of thunder grew fainter, the lightning flashes less bright. Before dawn they had ceased altogether. A fresh, cool breeze sprang up, billowing the grass and putting new life into the tired boys, as they plodded on, carrying their heavy muskets. They no longer tried to run, but they kept up a steady walking pace.
Dawn showed a line of trees ahead that did not appear to be much over a half mile away. Those trees, the boys felt sure, must mark the course of the Bois des Sioux. It was from one of the groves on its bank that the stream took its name. The foot travelers had lost the horse track some time before, but Neil and Raoul had managed, with the aid of the stars, to keep a general course towards the east. The rest of the party were nowhere in sight. Probably they had crossed the river long ago.
Though the trees seemed such a short distance away, the sun was rising above them before the lads reached the river. Wet, marshy ground had forced a detour. The stream, where they came out upon it, proved larger and wider than they had expected.
“If we cross here we will have to swim,” said Neil, as he looked down at the muddy water. “I think we are too far down. See there.” He pointed to the opposite shore up stream. “Either the river makes a sharp bend there, or another one comes in.”
“It is the Ottertail,” suggested Raoul. “That must be where the two come together to make the Red.”
“It looks like it,” Walter agreed. “Anyway this doesn’t seem to be a good place to cross. We know nothing about the current. We had better go on up and look for a ford.”
The boys did not have to go far along the west bank of the united rivers to convince themselves that the stream coming in from the east was indeed the Ottertail. They could see plainly enough that it was larger than the branch from the south. Single file, with Walter in the lead, they were making their way along the bank opposite the mouth of the Ottertail, when from the willows directly in front of them an Indian appeared.
“Bo jou,” he said, and added a few words in his own language.
Walter, startled, had half raised his musket, but Raoul, who was close behind him, seized his arm.
“That’s a Saulteur, not a Sioux,” the younger boy whispered, then answered the man in his own tongue.