Something like a faint, faint shadow appeared to glide in. It took gradually a more distinct outline. As she looked and looked, she began to discern the form and features of the Chief’s beautiful daughter, but it was long before she appeared like a reality, and took her place in the lodge like a thing of flesh and blood.

They kept the matter hid very close, for they would not for the world that the father or friends of the bride should know what had happened. Soon, however, it began to be rumored about that the chief’s beautiful daughter had returned to life, and was living in the Red Fox’s lodge. How it ever became known was a mystery, for, of course, the grandmother never spoke of it.

Be that as it may, the news created great excitement in the village. “This must never be,” said they all. “He barked her to death once, and who knows what he may do next time.”

The father took at once a decided part. “The Red Fox is not worthy of my daughter,” he said. “I had promised her to the Hart, the finest and most elegant among the animals. Now that she has returned to life, I shall keep my word.”

So the friends all went in a body to the lodge of the Red Fox. The bridegroom, the bride and the grandmother, made all the resistance possible, but they were overpowered by numbers, and the Hart having remained conveniently, waiting on the outside where there was no danger, the beautiful daughter of the chief was placed upon his back, and he coursed away through the forest to carry her to his own home. When he arrived at the door of his lodge, however, he turned his head, but no bride was in the place where he expected to see her. He had thought his burden very light from the beginning, but that he supposed was natural to spirits returned from the dead. He never imagined she had at the outset glided from her seat, and in the midst of the tumult slipped back, unobserved, to her chosen husband.

One or two attempts were made by the friends, after this, to repossess themselves of the young creature, but all without success. Then they said, “Let her remain where she is. It is true the Red Fox occasioned her death, but by his watchfulness and care he caressed her into life again; therefore she rightfully belongs to him.” So the Red Fox and his beautiful bride lived long together in great peace and happiness.

CHAPTER XXX

STORY OF SHEE-SHEE-BANZE

There was a young man named Shee-shee-banze (the Little Duck), paddling his canoe along the shore of the lake.

Two girls came down to the edge of the water, and seeing him, the elder said to the younger, “Let us call to him to take us a sail.”

It must be remarked that in all Indian stories where two or more sisters are the dramatis personæ, the elder is invariably represented as silly, ridiculous and disgusting—the younger, as wise and beautiful.

In the present case the younger remonstrated. “Oh! no,” said she, “let us not do such a thing. What will he think of us?”

But the other persevered, and called to him, “Ho! come and take us into your canoe.” The young man obeyed, and approaching the shore, he took them with him into the canoe.

“Who are you?” asked the elder sister.

“I am Way-gee-mar-kin,” replied he, “the great Chief.”

This Way-gee-mar-kin was something of a fairy, for when surrounded by his followers, and wishing to confer favors on them, he had a habit of coughing slightly, when there would fly forth from his mouth quantities of silver brooches, ear-bobs and other ornaments, for which it was the custom of his people to scramble, each striving, as in more civilized life, to get more than his share.

Accordingly, the elder sister said, “If you are Way-gee-mar-kin, let us see your cough.”

Shee-shee-banze had a few of these silver ornaments which he had got by scrambling, and which he kept stowed away in the sides of his mouth in case of emergency. So he gave some spasmodic coughs and brought forth a few, which the girl eagerly seized.

After a time, as they paddled along, a fine noble elk came forth from the forest, and approached the water to drink.

“What is that?” asked the spokeswoman; for the younger sister sat silent and modest all the time.

“It is my dog that I hunt with.”

“Call him to us, that I may see him.”

Shee-shee-banze called, but the elk turned and fled into the woods.

“He does not seem to obey you, however.”

“No, it is because you inspire him with disgust, and therefore he flies from you.”

Soon a bear made his appearance by the water’s edge.

“What is that?”

“One of my servants.”

Again he was requested to call him, and as the call was disregarded, the same reason as before was assigned.

Their excursion was at length ended. There had been a little magic in it, for although the young girls had supposed themselves to be in a canoe, there was, in reality, no canoe at all. They only imagined it to have been so.

Now Shee-shee-banze lived with his grandmother, and to her lodge he conducted his young friends.

They stood outside while he went in.

“Grandmother,” said he, “I have brought you two young girls, who will be your daughters-in-law. Invite them into your lodge.”

Upon this, the old woman called, “Ho! come in,” and they entered. They were made welcome and treated to the best of everything.

In the meantime, the real Way-gee-mar-kin, the great chief, made preparations for a grand feast. When he was sending his messenger out with the invitations, he said to him, “Be very particular to bid Shee-shee-banze to the feast, for as he is the smallest and meanest person in the tribe, you must use double ceremony with him, or he will be apt to think himself slighted.”

Shee-shee-banze sat in his lodge with his new friends, when the messenger arrived.

“Ho! Shee-shee-banze,” cried he, “you are invited to a great feast that Way-gee-mar-kin is to give to-night, to all his subjects.”

But Shee-shee-banze took no notice of the invitation. He only whistled, and pretended not to hear. The messenger repeated his words, and finding that no attention was paid to them, he went his way.

The young girls looked at each other, during this scene, greatly astonished. At length the elder spoke.

“What does this mean?” said she. “Why does he call you Shee-shee-banze, and invite you to visit Way-gee-mar-kin?”

“Oh!” said Shee-shee-banze, “it is one of my followers that always likes to be a little impudent. I am obliged to put up with it sometimes, but you observed that I treated him with silent contempt.”

The messenger returned to the chief, and reported the manner in which the invitation had been received.

“Oh!” said the good-natured chief, “it is because he feels he is poor and insignificant. Go back again—call him by my name, and make a flourishing speech to him.”

The messenger fulfilled his mission as he was bid.

“Way-gee-mar-kin,” said he, pompously, “a great feast is to be given to-night, and I am sent most respectfully to solicit the honor of your company!”

“Did I not tell you?” said Shee-shee-banze to the maidens. Then nodding with careless condescension, he added, “Tell them I’ll come.”

At night, Shee-shee-banze dressed himself in his very best paint, feathers and ornaments—but before his departure he took his grandmother aside.

“Be sure,” said he, “that you watch these young people closely until I come back. Shut up your lodge tight, tight. Let no one come in or go out, and above all things, do not go to sleep.”

These orders given, he went his way.

The grandmother tried her best to keep awake, but finding herself growing more and more sleepy, as the night wore on, she took a strong cord and laced across the mat which hung before the entrance to the lodge, as the Indians lace up the mouths of their bags, and having seen all things secure and the girls quiet in bed, she laid down and soon fell into a comfortable sleep.

The young girls, in the meanwhile, were dying with curiosity to know what had become of Shee-shee-banze, and as soon as they were sure the old lady was asleep, they prepared to follow him, and see what was going on. Fearing, however, that the grandmother might awake and discover their absence, they took two logs of wood, and putting them under the blanket, so disposed them as to present the appearance of persons sleeping quietly. They then cut the cords that fastened the door, and, guided by the sounds of the music, the dancing, and the merry-making, they soon found their way to the dwelling of Way-gee-mar-kin.

When they entered, they saw the chief seated on a throne, surrounded by light and splendor. Everything was joy and amusement. Crowds of courtiers were in the apartment, all dressed in the most brilliant array. The strangers looked around for their friend Shee-shee-banze, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Now and then the chief would cough, when a shower of silver ornaments and precious things would fly in all directions, and instantly, a scramble would commence among the company, to gather them up and appropriate them. As they thus rushed forward, the brides elect saw their poor little friend crowded up into a corner, where nobody took any notice of him, except to push him aside, or step on him whenever he was in the way. He uttered piteous little squeaks as one and another would thus maltreat him, but he was too busy taking care of himself to perceive that those whom he had left snug at home in the lodge were witnesses of all that was going on.

At length the signal was given for the company to retire, all but the two young damsels, upon whom Way-gee-mar-kin had set his eye, and to whom he had sent, by one of his assistants, great offers to induce them to remain with him and become his wives.

Poor Shee-shee-banze returned to his lodge, but what was his consternation to find the door open!

“Ho! grandmother,” cried he, “is this the way you keep watch?”

The old woman started up. “There are my daughters-in-law,” said she, pointing to the two logs of wood. Shee-shee-banze threw himself on the ground between them. His back was broken by coming so violently in contact with them, but that he did not mind—he thought only of revenge, and the recovery of his sweethearts.

He waited but to get some powerful poison and prepare it, and then he stole softly back to the wigwam of Way-gee-mar-kin. All was silent, and he crept in without making the slightest noise. There lay the chief, with a young girl on each side of him.

They were all sound asleep, the chief lying on his back, with his mouth wide open. Before he was aware of it, the poison was down his throat, and Shee-shee-banze had retreated quietly to his own lodge.

The next morning the cry went through the village that Way-gee-mar-kin had been found dead in his bed. Of course it was attributed to over indulgence at the feast. All was grief and lamentation. “Let us go and tell poor Shee-shee-banze,” said one, “he was so fond of Way-gee-mar-kin.”

They found him sitting on a bank fishing. He had been up at peep of day, to make preparation for receiving intelligence.

He had caught two or three fish, and, extracting their bladders, had filled them with blood, and tied them under his arm. When the friends of Way-gee-mar-kin saw him, they called out to him,

“Oh! Shee-shee-banze, your friend. Way-gee-mar-kin, is dead!” With a gesture of despair, Shee-shee-banze drew his knife and plunged it, not into his heart, but into the bladders filled with blood that he had prepared. As he fell, apparently lifeless to the ground, the messengers began to reproach themselves: “Oh! why did we tell him so suddenly? We might have known he would not survive it. Poor Shee-shee-banze! he loved Way-gee-mar-kin so.”

To their great surprise, the day after the funeral, Shee-shee-banze came walking toward the wigwam of the dead chief. As he walked, he sang, or rather chanted to a monotonous strain[AV] the following:

All the village was aroused. Everybody flew in pursuit of the murderer, but he evaded them, and escaped to a place of safety.

Soon after, he again made his appearance, mincing as he walked, and singing to the same strain as before.

It seemed a good idea, and the young women were recommended to go and entice the culprit into the village, so that the friends of the deceased could lay hold of him.

They went forth on their errand. Shee-shee-banze would suffer them to approach, then he would dance off a little now he would allow them to come quite near; anon he would retreat a little before them, all the time singing.

Thus he decoyed them on, occasionally using honied words and flattering speeches, until he had gained their consent to return with him to his lodge, and take up their abode with him.

The friends of the murdered chief were scandalized at such inconstancy, and resolved to punish all three, as soon as they could catch them.

They surrounded his lodge with cries and threatenings, but Shee-shee-banze and his two brides had contrived to elude their vigilance and gain his canoe, which lay in the river, close at hand.

Hardly were they on board, when their escape was discovered. The whole troop flew after them. Some plunged into the stream, and seized the canoe. In the struggle it was upset, but immediately on touching the water, whether from the magical properties of the canoe, or the necromantic skill of the grandmother, they were transformed into ducks, and flew quacking away.

Since that time, the water-fowl of this species are always found in companies of three—two females and a male.

The Canard de France, or Mallard, and the Brancheuse, or Wood Duck, are of different habits from the foregoing, flying in pairs. Indeed, the constancy of the latter is said to be so great that if he loses his mate he never takes another partner, but goes mourning to the end of his days.

CHAPTER XXXI

A VISIT TO GREEN BAY—MAU-ZHEE-GAW-GAW SWAMP

The payment over, and the Indians dispersed, we prepared ourselves to settle down quietly in our little home. But now, a new source of disturbance arose.

My husband’s accounts of disbursements as Agent of the Winnebagoes, which he had forwarded to the Department at Washington, had failed to reach there, of which he received due notice—that is to say, such a notice as could reach us by the circuitous and uncertain mode of conveyance by which intercourse with the eastern world was then kept up. If the vouchers for the former expenditures, together with the recent payment of $15,000, annuity money, should not be forthcoming, it might place him in a very awkward position, so he decided to go at once to Washington, and be the bearer himself of his duplicate accounts.

“Should you like to go and see your father and mother,” said he to me, one morning, “and show them how the west agrees with you?”

It was a most joyful suggestion after a year’s separation, and in a few days all things were in readiness for our departure.

There was visiting us, at that time, Miss Brush, of Detroit, who had come from Green Bay with Mr. and Mrs. Whitney and Miss Frances Henshaw, on an excursion to the Mississippi.[92] Our little india-rubber house had contrived to expand itself for the accommodation of the whole party during the very pleasant visit they made us.

The arrival of two young ladies, was, as may be imagined, quite a godsend to the unmarried lieutenants, and when, tired of the journey, or intimidated by the snow which fell eight inches on the 4th of October, Miss Brush determined to give up the remainder of her excursion, and accept our pressing invitation to remain with us, until the return of her friends, we were looked upon as public benefactors. She was now to accompany us to Green Bay, and possibly to Detroit.

Our voyage down the river was without incident, and we reached Green Bay just as all the place was astir in the expectation of the arrival of one of Mr. Newberry’s schooners. This important event was the subject of interest to the whole community, from Fort Howard to “Dickenson’s.” To some its arrival would bring friends, to some supplies—to the ladies, the fashions, to the gentlemen, the news, for it was the happy bearer of the mails, not for that place alone, but for all the “upper country.”

In a few days the vessel arrived. She brought a mail for Fort Winnebago, which in the winter season only was carried by land to that place, via Niles Settlement and Chicago.

In virtue of his office as Post Master, my husband opened the mail-bag, and took possession of his own letters. One informed him of the satisfactory appearance of the missing accounts, but oh! sad disappointment, another brought the news that my parents had gone to Kentucky for the winter—not to any city or accessible place, but up “the Sandy,” and over among the mountains of Virginia, hunting up old land claims belonging to my grandfather’s estate.

It was vain to hope to follow them. We might hardly expect to find them during the short period we could be absent from home—not even were we to receive the lucid directions once given my father by an old settler during his explorations through that wild region.

“You must go up Tug,” said the man, “and down Troublesome, and fall over on to Kingdom-come.”[AW]

We did not think it advisable to undertake such an expedition, so we made up our minds to retrace our steps to Fort Winnebago.

No boats were in readiness to ascend the river. Hamilton Arndt promised to have one in preparation at once, but time passed by, and no boat was made ready.

It was now the beginning of November. We were passing our time very pleasantly with the Irwins and Whitneys, and at the residence of Colonel Stambaugh, the Indian agent,[93] but still this delay was inconvenient and vexatious.

I suggested undertaking the journey on horseback. “No, indeed,” was the answer I invariably received. “No mortal woman has ever gone that road, unless it was on foot, nor ever could.”

“But suppose we set out in the boat and get frozen in on the way. We can neither pass the winter there, nor possibly find our way to a human habitation. We have had one similar experience already. Is it not better to take it for granted that I can do what you and others of your sex have done?”

Dr. Finley, the post-surgeon at Fort Howard, on hearing the matter debated, offered me immediately his favorite horse Charlie. “He was very surefooted,” the Doctor alleged, “and capital in a marsh or troublesome stream.”

By land, then, it was decided to go, and as soon as our old Mee-no-mo-nee friend, “Wish-tay-yun,” who was as good a guide by land as by water, could be summoned, we set off, leaving our trunks to be forwarded by Hamilton Arndt, whenever it should please him to carry out his intention of sending up his boat.

We waited until a late hour on the morning of our departure for our fellow-travellers, Mr. Wing, of Monroe,[AX] and Dr. Philleo, of Galena; but finding they did not join us, we resolved to lose no time, confident that we should all meet at the Kakalin in the course of the evening.

After crossing the river at what is now Despere,[94] and entering the wild, unsettled country on the west of the river, we found a succession of wooded hills, separated by ravines so narrow and steep that it seemed impossible that any animals but mules or goats could make their way among them.

Wish-tay-yun took the lead. The horse he rode was accustomed to the country, and well trained to this style of road. As for Charlie, he was perfectly admirable. When he came to a precipitous descent, he would set forward his fore-feet, and slide down on his haunches in the most scientific manner, while my only mode of preserving my balance was to hold fast by the bridle, and lay myself almost flat upon his back. Then our position suddenly changed, and we were scaling the opposite bank, at the imminent risk of falling backward into the ravine below.

It was amusing to see Wish-tay-yun, as he scrambled on ahead, now and then turning partly round to see how I fared. And when, panting and laughing, I at length reached the summit, he would throw up his hands, and shout with the utmost glee, “Mamma Manitou!” (My mother is a spirit).

Our old acquaintances, the Grignons, seemed much surprised that I should have ventured on such a journey. They had never taken it, although they had lived so long at the Ka-kalin,[95] but then there was no reason why they should have done so. They could always command a canoe or a boat when they wished to visit “the bay.”

As we had anticipated, our gentlemen joined us at supper. “They had delayed to take dinner with Col. Stambaugh—had had a delightful gallop up from the bay—had seen no ravines, nor anything but fine smooth roads—might have been asleep, but if so, were not conscious of it.” This was the account they gave of themselves, to our no small amusement.

From the Ka-kalin to the Butte des Morts,[96] where now lived a man named Knaggs, was our next day’s stage. The country was rough and wild, much like that we had passed through the spring before, in going from Hamilton’s diggings to Kellogg’s Grove, but we were fortunate in having Wish-tay-yun, rather than Mr. H., for our guide, so that we could make our way with some degree of moderation.

We had travelled but forty miles when we reached Knaggs', yet I was both cold and fatigued, so that the sight of the cosy little room in which we found Mrs. Knaggs, and the bright fire, were most cheering objects; and as we had only broken our fast since morning, with a few crackers we carried in our pockets, I must own we did ample justice to her nice coffee and cakes, not to mention venison-steaks and bear’s meat, the latter of which I had never before tasted, and which, truth to tell, I never wished to taste again.

Our supper over, we looked about for a place of repose. The room in which we had taken our meal was of small dimensions, just sufficient to accommodate a bed, a table placed against the wall, and the few chairs on which we sat. There was no room for any kind of a “shake down.”

“Where can you put us for the night?” inquired my husband of Mr. Knaggs, when he made his appearance.

“Why, there is no place that I know of, unless you can camp down in the old building outside.”

We went to look at it. It consisted of one room, bare and dirty. A huge chimney, in which a few brands were burning, occupied nearly one side of the apartment. Against another was built a rickety sort of bunk. This was the only vestige of furniture to be seen. The floor was thickly covered with mud and dirt, in the midst of which, near the fire, was seated an old Indian with a pan of boiled corn on his lap, which he was scooping up with both hands, and devouring with the utmost voracity.

We soon discovered that he was blind. On hearing footsteps and voices, he instinctively gathered his dish of food close to him, and began some morose grumblings; but when he was told that it was “Shaw-nee-aw-kee” who was addressing him, his features relaxed into a more agreeable expression, and he even held forth his dish and invited us to share its contents.

“But are we to stay here?” I asked. “Can we not sleep out of doors?”

“We have no tent,” replied my husband, “and the weather is too cold to risk the exposure without one.”

“I could sit in a chair all night, by the fire.”

“Then you would not be able to ride to Bellefontaine to-morrow.”

There was no alternative. The only thing Mr. Knaggs could furnish in the shape of bedding was a small bearskin. The bunk was a trifle less filthy than the floor, so upon its boards we spread first the skin, then our saddle-blankets, and with a pair of saddle-bags for a bolster, I wrapped myself in my cloak, and resigned myself to my distasteful accommodations.

The change of position from that I had occupied through the day, probably brought some rest, but sleep I could not. Even on a softer and more agreeable couch, the snoring of the old Indian and two or three companions who had joined him, and his frequent querulous exclamations as he felt himself encroached upon in the darkness, would have effectually banished slumber from my eyes.

It was a relief to rise and prepare for the journey of the day. Where our fellow-travellers had bestowed themselves I knew not, but they evidently had fared no better than we. They were in fine spirits, however, and we cheerfully took our breakfast and were ferried over the river to continue on the trail from that point to Bellefontaine, twelve miles from Fort Winnebago.

The great “bug-bear” of this road, Mau-zhee-gaw-gaw Swamp, was the next thing to be encountered. We reached it about nine o’clock. It spread before us a vast expanse of morass, about half a mile in width, and of length interminable, partly covered with water, with black knobs rising here and there above the surface, to afford a precarious foothold for the animals in crossing it. Where the water was not, there lay in place of it, a bed of black oozy mud, which threatened to give way under the foot, and let it, at each step, sink into an unknown depth.

This we were now to traverse. All three of the gentlemen went in advance of me, each hoping, as he said, to select the surest and firmest path for me to follow. One and another would call, “Here, madam, come this way!” “This is the best path, wifie—follow me,” but often Charlie knew better than either, and selected a path according to his own judgment, which proved the best of the whole.

Once he went picking his way so slowly and cautiously, now pausing on one little hillock, now on another, and anon turning aside to avoid a patch of mud that seemed more than usually suspicious, that all the company had got some little distance ahead of me. On raising my eyes, which had been kept pretty closely on my horse’s footsteps, I saw my husband on foot, striving to lead his horse by the bridle from a difficult position into which he had got, Mr. Wing and his great white floundering animal, lying sideways in the mud, the rider using all his efforts to extricate himself from the stirrups, and Dr. Philleo standing at a little distance from his steed, who was doing his best to rise up from a deep bog into which he had pitched himself. It was a formidable sight! They all called out with one accord,

“Oh! do not come this way!”

“Indeed,” cried I, “I have no thought of it. Charlie and I know better”—and trusting to the sagacious creature, he picked his way carefully along, and carried me safely past the dismounted company. I could not refrain from a little triumphant flourish with my whip, as I looked back upon them, and watched their progress to their saddles once more.

Three hours had we been thus unpleasantly engaged and yet we were not over the “Slough of Despond.” At length we drew near its farthest verge. Here ran a deep stream of some five or six feet in width. The gentlemen, as they reached it, dismounted, and began debating what was to be done.

“Jump off, jump off, Madam,” cried Mr. Wing, and “Jump off, jump off,” echoed Dr. Philleo—“we are just consulting how we are to get you across.”

“What do you think about it?” asked my husband. “Charlie will show you,” replied I. “Come, Charlie,” and as I raised his bridle quickly, with a pat on his neck and an encouraging chirp, he bounded over the stream as lightly as a deer, and landed me safe on terra firma.

Poor Mr. Wing had fared the worst of the company; the clumsy animal he rode seeming to be of opinion when he got into a difficulty that he had nothing to do but to lie down and resign himself to his fate; while his rider not being particularly light and agile, was generally undermost, and half imbedded in the mire before he had quite made up his mind as to his course of action.

It was therefore a wise movement in him, when he reached the little stream, to plunge into it, and wade across, thus washing out, as much as possible, the traces of the morning’s adventures, from himself and his steed, and the other gentlemen, having no alternative, concluded to follow his example.

We did not halt long on the rising ground beyond the morass, for we had a long stretch before us to Bellefontaine, forty-five miles, and those none of the shortest.

Our horses travelled admirably the whole afternoon, Charlie keeping a canter all the way, but it was now growing dark, and there were no signs of the landmarks which were to indicate our near approach to the desired haven.

"Can we not stop and rest us for a few moments under one of the trees?" inquired I, for I was almost exhausted with fatigue, and to add to our discomfort, a cold November rain was pouring upon us.

“If it were possible, we would,” was the reply, “but see how dark it is growing. If we should lose our way, it would be worse than being wet and tired.”

So we kept on. Just at dark we crossed a clear stream. “That,” said my husband, “is, I think, two miles from Bellefontaine. Cheer up—we shall soon be there.” Quite encouraged we pursued our way more cheerfully. Mile after mile we passed, but still no light gleamed friendly through the trees.

“We have certainly travelled more than six miles now,” said I.

“Yes—that could not have been the two mile creek.” It was eight o’clock when we reached Bellefontaine.[97] We were ushered into a large room made cheerful by a huge blazing fire. Mr. Wing and Dr. Philleo had arrived before us, and there were other travellers, on their way from the Mississippi. I was received with great kindness and volubility, by the immense hostess, “la grosse Americaine,” as she was called, and she soon installed me in the arm-chair, in the warmest corner, and in due time set an excellent supper before us.

But her hospitality did not extend to giving up her only bed for my accommodation. She spread all the things she could muster on the hard floor before the fire, and did what she could to make me comfortable; then, observing my husband’s solicitude lest I might feel ill from the effects of the fatigue and rain, she remarked in tones of admiring sympathy, “How kind your companion is to you!” An expression which, as it was then new to us, amused us not a little.

Our travelling companions started early in the morning for the fort, which was but twelve miles distant, and they were so kind as to take charge of a note to our friends at home, requesting them to send Plante with the carriage to take us the rest of the distance.

We reached there in safety, and thus ended the first journey by land that any white woman had made from Green Bay to Fort Winnebago.

CHAPTER XXXII

COMMENCEMENT OF SAUK WAR

Late in the autumn, after our return, my husband took his mother to Prairie du Chien for the benefit of medical advice from Dr. Beaumont[98] of the U. S. Army. The journey was made in a large open boat down the Wisconsin river, and it was proposed to take this opportunity to bring back a good supply of corn for the winter’s use of both men and cattle.

The ice formed in the river, however, so early, that after starting with his load, he was obliged to return with it to the Prairie, and wait until the thick winter’s ice enabled him to make a second journey, and bring it up in sleighs—with so great an expense of time, labor, and exposure, were the necessaries of life conveyed from one point to another, through that wild and desolate region!

The arrival of my brother Arthur from Kentucky, by way of the Mississippi, in the latter part of April, brought us the uncomfortable intelligence of new troubles with the Sauks and Foxes. Black Hawk had, with the flower of his nation, recrossed the Mississippi, once more to take possession of their old homes and cornfields.[AY]

It was not long before our own Indians came flocking in, to confirm the tidings, and to assure us of their intention to remain faithful friends to the Americans. We soon heard of the arrival of the Illinois Rangers in the Rock River country, also of the progress of the regular force under Gen. Atkinson, in pursuit of the hostile Indians, who, by the reports, were always able to elude their vigilance. It not being their custom to stop and give battle, the Sauks soon scattered themselves through the country, trusting to some lucky accident (and they arrived, alas! only too often), to enable them to fall upon their enemies unexpectedly.

The experience of the pursuing army was, for the most part, to make their way, by toilsome and fatiguing marches to the spot where they imagined the Sauks would be waiting to receive them, and then to discover that the rogues had scampered off to quite a different part of the country.

Wherever these latter went, their course was marked by the most atrocious barbarities, though the worst had not, at this time, reached our ears. We were only assured that they were down in the neighborhood of the Rock river, and Kishwaukee, and that they lost no opportunity of falling upon the defenceless inhabitants, and cruelly murdering them.

As soon as it became certain that the Sauks and Foxes would not pursue the same course they had on the previous year, that is, retreat peaceably across the Mississippi, Mr. Kinzie resolved to hold a council with all the principal chiefs of the Winnebagoes, who were accessible at this time. He knew that the Sauks would use every effort to induce their neighbors to join them, and that there existed in the breasts of too many of the young savages a desire to distinguish themselves by “taking some white scalps.” They did not love the Americans—why should they? By them they had been gradually dispossessed of the broad and beautiful domains of their forefathers, and hunted from place to place, and the only equivalent they had received in exchange had been a few thousands annually in silver and presents, together with the pernicious example, the debasing influence, and the positive ill-treatment of too many of the new settlers upon their lands.

With all these facts in view, therefore, their “father” felt that the utmost watchfulness was necessary, and that the strongest arguments must be brought forward, to preserve the young men of the Winnebagoes in their allegiance to the Americans. Of the older members he felt quite sure. About fifty lodges had come at the commencement of the disturbances, and encamped around our dwelling, saying, that if the Sauks attacked us, it must be after killing them; and, knowing them well, we had perfect confidence in their assurances.

But their vicinity, while it gave us a feeling of protection, likewise furnished us with a channel of the most exciting and agitating daily communications. As the theatre of operations approached nearer and nearer, intelligence was brought from one of their runners—now, that “Captain Harney’s head had been recognized in the Sauk camp, where it had been brought the day previous,” next, “that the Sauks were carrying Lieut. Beall’s head on a pole in front of them as they marched to meet the whites.” Sometimes it was a story which we afterwards found to be true, as that of the murder of their agent, Mr. St. Vrain, at Kellogg’s Grove, by the Sauks themselves, who ought to have protected him.

It was after the news of this last occurrence, that the appointed council with the Winnebagoes was to be held at the Four Lakes, thirty-five miles distant from Fort Winnebago.

In vain we pleaded and remonstrated against such an exposure. “It was his duty to assemble and talk to them,” my husband said, “and he must run the risk, if there were any. He had perfect confidence in the Winnebagoes. The enemy, by all he could learn, were now far distant from the Four Lakes—probably at Kosh-ko-nong. He would set off early in the morning with Paquette, hold his council, and return to us the same evening.”

It were useless to attempt to describe our feelings during that long and dreary day. When night arrived the cry of a drunken Indian, or even the barking of a dog, would fill our hearts with terror.

As we sat, at a late hour, at the open window, listening to every sound, with what joy did we at length distinguish the tramp of horses—we knew it to be Griffin and Jerry ascending the hill, and a cheerful shout soon announced that all was well. They had ridden seventy miles that day, besides holding a long “talk” with the Indians.

The Winnebagoes in council had promised to use their utmost endeavors to preserve peace and good order among their young men. They informed their father that the bands on the Rock river, with the exception of Win-no-sheek’s were all determined to remain friendly, and keep aloof from the Sauks. To that end, they were all abandoning their villages and cornfields, and moving north, that their Great Father, the President, might not feel dissatisfied with them. With regard to Win-no-sheek and his people, they professed themselves unable to answer.

Time went on, and brought with it stories of fresh outrages. Among these were the murders of Auberry, Green, and Force, at Blue Mound, and the attack on Apple Fort. The tidings of the latter were brought by old Crély,[99] the father of Mrs. Paquette, who rode express from Galena, and who averred that he once passed a bush behind which the Sauks were hiding, but that his horse smelt the sweet-scented grass with which they always adorn their persons when on a war-party, and set out on such a gallop that he never stopped until he arrived at the Portage.

Another bearer of news was a young gentleman named Follett, whose eyes had become so protruded, and set, from keeping an anxious lookout for the enemy, that it was many days after his arrival at a place of safety, before they resumed their accustomed limits and expression.

Among other rumors which at this time reached us, was one that an attack upon the fort was in contemplation among the Sauks. That this was certainly in no state of defence, the Indians very well knew. All the effective men had been withdrawn, upon a requisition from General Atkinson, to join him at his newly-built fort at Kosh-ko-nong.[100]

Fort Winnebago was not picketed in—there were no defences to the barracks or officers' quarters, except slight panelled doors and Venetian blinds—nothing that would long resist the blows of clubs or hatchets. There was no artillery, and the Commissary’s store was without the bounds of the fort, under the hill.

Mr. Kinzie had, from the first, called the attention of the officers to the insecurity of their position, in case of danger, but he generally received a scoffing answer.

“Never fear,” they would say—“the Sauks are not coming here to attack us.”

One afternoon we had gone over on a visit to some friends in the garrison, and several officers being present, the conversation, as usual, turned upon the present position of affairs.

“Do you not think it wiser,” inquired I, of a blustering young officer, “to be prepared against possible danger?”

“Not against these fellows,” replied he, contemptuously—“I do not think I would even take the trouble to fasten the blinds to my quarters.”

“At least,” said I, “if you some night find a tomahawk raised to cleave your skull, you will have the consolation of remembering that you have not been one of those foolish fellows who keep on the safe side.”

He seemed a little nettled at this, and still more so when sister Margaret observed:

“For my part, I am of Governor Cass' opinion. He was at Chicago during the Winnebago war. We were all preparing to move into the fort on the first alarm. Some were for being brave and delaying, like our friends here. ‘Come, come,’ said the Governor, ‘hurry into the fort as fast as possible—there is no merit in being brave with the Indians. It is the height of folly to stay and meet danger which you may by prudence avoid.’”

In a few days our friends waked up to the conviction that something must be done at once. The first step was to forbid any Winnebago coming within the garrison, lest they should find out what they had known as well as ourselves for three months past—namely, the feebleness of the means of resistance. The next was to send “fatigue-parties” into the woods, under the protection of a guard, to cut pickets for enclosing the garrison.

There was every reason to believe that the enemy were not very far distant, and that their object in coming north was to break away into the Chippewa country, where they would find a place of security among their friends and allies. The story that our Indian runners brought in most frequently was, that the Sauks were determined to fall upon the whites at the Portage and Fort, and massacre all, except the families of the Agent and Interpreter.

Plante and Pillon with their families had departed at the first word of danger. There only remained with us Manaigre, whose wife was a half-Winnebago, Isidore Morrin, and the blacksmiths from Sugar Creek, Mâtâ, and Turcotte.

At night we were all regularly armed and our posts assigned us. After every means had been taken to make the house secure, the orders were given. Sister Margaret and I, in case of attack, were to mount with the children to the rooms above, while my husband and his men were to make good their defence as long as possible against the enemy. Since I had shown my sportsmanship by bringing down accidentally a blackbird on the wing, I felt as if I could do some execution with my little pistols, which were regularly placed beside my pillow at night, and I was fully resolved to use them, if necessity required it, and I do not remember to have had the slightest compunction at the idea of taking the lives of two Sauks, as I had no doubt I should do, and this explains to me what I had before often wondered at, the indifference of the soldier on the field of battle to the destruction of human life. Had I been called upon, however, to use my weapons effectually, I should no doubt have looked back upon it with horror.

Surrounded as we were by Indian lodges, which seldom became perfectly quiet, and excited as our nerves had become by all that we were daily in the habit of hearing, we seldom slept very soundly. One night, after we had as much as possible composed ourselves, we were startled at a late hour by a tap upon the window at the head of our bed, and a call of “Chon! Chon!”[AZ] (John! John!)