The morrow came.  Plante and Roy had a bright fire and a nice pot of coffee for us.  It was our only breakfast, for, on shaking the bag and turning it inside out, we could make no more of our stock of bread than three crackers, which the rest of the party insisted I should put in my pocket for my dinner.  I was much touched by the kindness of Mr. Kellogg, who drew from his wallet a piece of tongue and a slice of fruit-cake, which he said “he had been saving for the lady since the day before, for he saw how matters were a going.”

Poor man! it would have been well if he had listened to Mr. Kinzie and provided himself at the outset with a larger store of provisions.  As it was, those he brought with him were exhausted early in the second day, and he had been boarding with us for the last two meals.

We still had the trail to guide us, and we continued to follow it until about nine o’clock, when, in emerging from a wood, we came upon a broad and rapid river.  A collection of Indian wigwams stood upon the opposite bank, and, as the trail led directly to the water, it was fair to infer that the stream was fordable.  We had no opportunity of testing it, however, for the banks were so lined with ice, which was piled up tier upon tier by the breaking-up of the previous week, that we tried in vain to find a path by which we could descend the bank to the water.

The men shouted again and again, in hopes some straggling inhabitant of the village might be at hand with his canoe.  No answer was returned, save by the echoes.  What was to be done?  I looked at my husband and saw that care was on his brow, although he still continued to speak cheerfully.  “We will follow this cross-trail down the bank of the river,” said he.  “There must be Indians wintering near, in some of these points of wood.”

I must confess that I felt somewhat dismayed at our prospects, but I kept up a show of courage, and did not allow my despondency to be seen.  All the party were dull and gloomy enough.

We kept along the bank, which was considerably elevated above the water, and bordered at a little distance with a thick wood.  All at once my horse, who was mortally afraid of Indians, began to jump and prance, snorting and pricking up his ears as if an enemy were at hand.  I screamed with delight to my husband, who was at the head of the file, “Oh, John!  John! there are Indians near—­look at Jerry!”

At this instant a little Indian dog ran out from under the bushes by the roadside, and began barking at us.  Never were sounds more welcome.  We rode directly into the thicket, and, descending into a little hollow, found two squaws crouching behind the bushes, trying to conceal themselves from our sight.

They appeared greatly relieved when Mr. Kinzie addressed them in the Pottowattamie language,—­

“What are you doing here?”

“Digging Indian potatoes”—­(a species of artichoke.)