It was an hour later, after we had eaten, that we left the bluff, and turned westward into the great woods. Barbeau led the way, moving along the bank of a small stream, and I followed, with De Artigny close behind. As we had nothing to carry, except the soldier's rifle and blanket, we made rapid progress, and in less than half an hour, we came to the Indian trail, which led southward from Green Bay to the head waters of the Des Plaines. It was so faint and dim, a mere trace through forest depths, that I would have passed it by unseen, but both my companions were woodsmen, and there was no sign their trained eyes overlooked. Once in the trail, however, there was no difficulty in following it, although it twisted here and there, in the avoiding of obstacles, ever seeking the easier route. Barbeau had passed this way before, and recalled many a land-mark, occasionally turning, and pointing out to us certain peculiarities he had observed on his journey north. Once he held us motionless while he crept aside, through an intervening fringe of trees to the shore of a small lake, coming back with two fine ducks dangling from his shoulder. Before dark we halted in a little opening, the grass green underfoot, and a bank of trees all about, and made night camp. There was water near at hand, and the fire quickly built gave cheer to the scene, as the men prepared supper. The adventures of the day had wearied me, and I was very content to lie on Barbeau's blanket, and watch them work. While the soldier cooked, De Artigny swiftly erected a shelter of boughs, within which I was to pass the night. After we had eaten, I retired at once, yet for a long time could not sleep, but lay looking out at the two men seated before the fire smoking. I could hear their voices, and scraps of conversation--De Artigny telling the tale of the exploration of the great river to its mouth in the salt sea, and Barbeau relating many a strange adventure in the wilderness. It was a scene long to be remembered--the black shadows all about, the silence of the great woods, the sense of loneliness, the red and yellow flames of the fire, and the two men telling tales of wild adventure amid the unknown. At last they grew weary also, and lay down, pillowed their heads on their arms, and rested motionless. My own eyes grew heavy, and I fell asleep. CHAPTER XXII WE MEET WITH DANGER It was late in the afternoon of the second day when we arrived at the forks of the Chicago river. There was a drizzle of rain in the air, and never saw I a more desolate spot; a bare, dreary plain, and away to the eastward a glimpse of the lake. A hut of logs, a mere shack scarcely fit for shelter, stood on a slight eminence, giving wide view in every direction, but it was unoccupied, the door ajar. Barbeau, in advance, stared at it in surprise, gave utterance to an oath, and ran forward to peer within. Close behind him I caught a glimpse of the interior, my own heart heavy with disappointment.