“Now,” said Caleb, “northwest of here there is a river called the Beaver, that runs into Black River.  I want one of you to locate that.  It’s thirty or forty feet wide and easy to know, for it’s the only big stream in the swamp.  Right north there is an open stretch of plain, with a little spring creek, where there’s a band of Injuns camped.  Somewhere northeast they say there’s a tract of Pine bush not burned off, and there is some Deer there.  None of the places is ten miles away except, maybe, the Injuns’ camp.  I want ye to go scoutin’ and report.  You kin draw straws to say who goes where.”

So the straws were marked and drawn.  Yan drew the timber hunt.  He would rather have had the one after the Indians.  Sam had to seek the river, and Wesley the Indian camp.  Caleb gave each of them a few matches and this parting word: 

“I’ll stay here till you come back.  I’ll keep up a fire, and toward sundown I’ll make a smoke with rotten wood and grass so you kin find your way back.  Remember, steer by the sun; keep your main lines of travel; don’t try to remember trees and mudholes; and if you get lost, you make two smokes well apart and stay right there and holler every once in awhile; some one will be sure to come.”

So about eleven o’clock the boys set out eagerly.  As they were going Blackhawk called to the others, “First to carry out his job wins a grand coup!”

“Let the three leaders stake their scalps,” said the Woodpecker.

“All right.  First winner home gets a scalp from each of the others and saves his own.”

“Say, boys, you better take along; your hull outfit, some grub an’ your blankets,” was the Medicine Man’s last suggestion.  “You may have to stay out all night.”

Yan would rather have had Sam along, but that couldn’t be, and Peetweet proved a good fellow, though rather slow.  They soon left the high ground and came to the bog—­flat and seemingly endless and with a few tall Tamaracks.  There were some Cedar-birds catching Flies on the tall tree-tops, and a single Flycatcher was calling out:  “Whoit—­whoit—­whoit!” Yan did not know until long after that it was the Olive-side.  A Sparrow-hawk sailed over, and later a Bald Eagle with a Sparrow-hawk in hot and noisy pursuit.  But the most curious thing was the surface of the bog.  The spongy stretch of moss among the scattering Tamaracks was dotted with great masses of Pitcher Plant, and half concealed by the curious leaves were thousands of Droserae, or fly-eating plants, with their traps set to secure their prey.

The bog was wonderful, but very bad walking.  The boys sank knee-deep in the soft moss, and as they went farther, steering only by the sun, they found the moss sank till their feet reached the water below and they were speedily wet to the knees.  Yan cut for each a long pole to carry in the hand; in case the bog gave way this would save them from sinking.  After two miles of this Peetweet wanted to go back, but was scornfully suppressed by Little Beaver.