The first two days and nights of the journey southward were devoid of any special interest or adventure.  The lonely river, wrapped in the silence of the wilderness, brought to me many a picture of loveliness, yet finally the monotony of it all left the mind drowsy with repetition.  Around each tree-crowned bend we swept, skirting shores so similar as to scarcely enable us to realize our progress.  In spite of the fact that the staunch little Warrior was proceeding down stream, progress was slow because of the unmarked channel, and the ever-present danger of encountering snags.  The intense darkness and fog of the first night compelled tying up for several hours.  The banks were low, densely covered with shrubbery, and nothing broke the sameness of the river scene, except the occasional sight of an Indian canoe skimming across its surface.  Towns there were none, and seldom even a sign of a settlement greeted the eye on either shore.  The only landings were made at Yellow Banks, where there was a squalid group of log huts, and Fort Madison, where I spent a pleasant hour with the officers of the garrison.  Occasionally the boat warped in against the bank to replenish its exhausted supply of wood, the crew attacking the surrounding trees with axes, while the wearied passengers exercised their cramped limbs ashore.  Once, with some hours at our disposal, we organized a hunt, returning with a variety of wild game.  But most of the time I idled the hours away alone.

No one aboard really attracted my companionship.  The lead miners were a rough set, boasting and quarrelsome, spending the greater part of their time at the bar.  They had several fights, in one of which a man was seriously stabbed, so that he had to be left in care of the post-surgeon at Madison.  After the first day Kirby withdrew all attention from me, and ceased in his endeavor to cultivate my acquaintance, convinced of my disinclination to indulge in cards.  This I did not regret, although Beaucaire rather interested me, but, as the gambler seldom permitted the Judge out of his sight, our intimacy grew very slowly.  Thockmorton, being his own pilot, seldom left the wheelhouse, and consequently I passed many hours on the bench beside him, gazing out on the wide expanse of river, and listening to his reminiscences of early steam-boating days.  He was an intelligent man, with a fund of anecdote, acquainted with every landmark, every whispered tale of the great stream from New Orleans to Prairie du Chien.  At one time or another he had met the famous characters along the river banks, and through continual questioning I thus finally became possessed of the story of the house of Beaucaire.