“Why, this must be Indian Slough!” said Carl, looking up and down the marsh.
“What’s that?” Alice inquired.
“A historical spot. I thought I had spoken of it. The driver of my wagon told me about it when I was coming out from Morton, but I didn’t think it was so near us.
“The story is that a war-party of Iroquois, during the great Indian raids on Canada in the French days, tried to land somewhere hereabouts, and was swallowed up bodily by this morass. It used to be called Marais aux Iroquois on account of that event, and that has been Englished into Indian Slough.”
“Ugh!” shuddered Alice. “I don’t like it. It looks as if it had swallowed up hundreds of men. Very likely it has, in its time.”
“I’m sure the mosquitos would swallow anybody piecemeal, if he stayed long here,” Carl returned. “Let’s move on.”
The trail led around the edge of the marsh, and they had followed it for scarcely twenty rods farther, when, to their amazement, they came suddenly upon the edge of a clearing.
It was only three or four acres fronting the marsh. It was dotted with stumps, and among them stood a log house and barn much like their own. A few hens scratched about a worn-down haystack. A hog lay stretched in the sun by the barn; and as they came in sight a hound dashed into view and set up a noisy baying.
“Neighbors!” exclaimed Alice. “Who’d have expected it? And why on earth should anybody live in this feverish, mosquitoey, swampy place.”
“Probably that marsh is full of muskrats,” Carl suggested. “The owner here may be a trapper, and likes to live near his work.”