“There is no difficulty,” said he, “if you keep a little to the north, and strike the great Sauk trail.  If you get too far to the south, you will come upon the Winnebago Swamp, and, once in that, there is no telling when you will ever get out again.  As for the distance, it is nothing at all to speak of.  Two young men came out here from Chicago, on foot, last fall.  They got here the evening of the second day; and, even with a lady in your party, you could go on horseback in less time than that.  The only thing is to be sure and get on the great track that the Sauks have made, in going every year from the Mississippi to Canada, to receive their presents from the British Indian Agent.”

The following morning, which was a bright and lovely one for that season of the year, we took leave of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon, in high spirits.  We travelled for the first few miles along the beautiful, undulating banks of the Rock River, always in an easterly direction, keeping the beaten path, or rather road, which led to Fort Clark, or Peoria.  The Sauk trail, we had been told, would cross this road at the distance of about six miles.

After having travelled, as we judged, fully that distance, we came upon a trail bearing northeast, and a consultation was held as to the probability of its being the one we were in search of.

Mr. Kinzie was of opinion that it tended too much to the north, and was, moreover, too faint and obscure for a trail so much used, and by so large a body of Indians in their annual journeys.

Plante was positive as to its being the very spot where he and “Piche” in their journey to Port Winnebago, the year before, struck into the great road.  “On that very rising-ground at the point of woods, he remembered perfectly well stopping to shoot ducks, which they ate for their supper.”

Mr. Kellogg was non-committal, but sided alternately with each speaker.

As Plante was “the guide,” and withal so confident of being right, it was decided to follow him, not without some demurring, however, on the part of the bourgeois, who every now and then called to halt, to discuss the state of affairs.

“Now, Plante,” he would say, “I am sure you are leading us too far north.  Why, man, if we keep on in this direction, following the course of the river, we shall bring up at Kosh-ko-nong, instead of Chicago.”

“Ah! mon bourgeois,” would the light-hearted Canadian reply, “would I tell you this is the road if I were not quite certain?  Only one year ago I travelled it, and can I forget so soon?  Oh, no—­I remember every foot of it.”

But Monsieur Plante was convinced of his mistake when the trail brought us to the great bend of the river with its bold rocky bluffs.

“Are you satisfied now, Plante?” asked Mr. Kinzie.  “By your leave, I will now play pilot myself.”  And he struck off from the trail, in a direction as nearly east as possible.