As we received intimation on the forenoon of the second day that we were drawing near this spot, I must confess that "we held our breath for awe."
The three Winnebagoes were in the bow of the boat. Old Smoker, the chief, squatted upon his feet on the bench of the foremost rowers. We looked at him. He was gazing intently in the direction of the wooded point we were approaching. Our eyes followed his, and we saw three Indians step forward and stand upon the bank. We said in a low voice to each other, "If they are Sauks, we are lost, for the whole body must be in that thicket." The boat continued to approach; not a word was spoken; the dip of the paddle, and perhaps the beating hearts of some, were the only sounds that broke the stillness. Again we looked at the chief. His nostrils were dilated--his eyes almost glaring.
Suddenly, with a bound, he sprang to his feet and uttered his long, shrill whoop.
"Hoh! hoh! hoh! Neechee (friend) _Muh-no-mo-nee!_"
All was now joy and gladness. Every one was forward to shake hands with the strangers as soon as we could reach them, in token of our satisfaction that they were Menomonees and not Sauks, of the latter of whom, by the way, they could give us no intelligence.
By noon of that day we considered ourselves to be out of the region of danger. Still, caution was deemed necessary, and when at the mid-day pipe the boat was pushed ashore under a beautiful overhanging bank, crowned with a thick wood, the usual vigilance was somewhat relaxed, and the young people, under the escort of Arthur and Mâtâ, were permitted to roam about a little, in the vicinity of the boat.
They soon came back, with the report that the woods were "alive with pigeons,"--they could almost knock them down with sticks; and earnestly did they plead to be allowed to shoot at least enough for supper. But no--the enemy might be nearer than we imagined--the firing of a gun would betray our whereabouts--it was most prudent to give no notice to friend or foe. So, very reluctantly, they were compelled to return to the boat without their game.
The next morning brought us to Powell's, at the Butte des Morts. Sad were the faces of the poor Frenchmen at learning that not a loaf of bread was to be had. Our own store, too, was by this time quite exhausted. The only substitute we could obtain was a bag of dark looking, bitter flour. With this provision for our whole party, we were forced to be contented, and we left the Hillock of the Dead, feeling that it had been indeed the grave of our hopes.
