About a half-mile beyond the Wolf’s encampment, where the path dipped into a shallow hollow, near the river edge, there was a low rustling of the bushes, beside the trail. Shouldering into the thicket, Bill Brown found two squaws crouching in the greenery, trying hard to conceal themselves from sight. They were greatly relieved when the stalwart scout addressed them in the Pottawattomee tongue. “What are you doing here?” he questioned. “Digging Indian potatoes”--(a species of artichoke.) “Are you from the camp of Shaubena?” “Yes.” “Where does he pitch his tepee?” “On the other side of river.” “’Cross the river? Hm! that’s bad.” “Maybe they have a canoe,” put in Tom hopefully. “Have you a canoe?” asked the veteran borderer, turning again to the squaws. “Yes, we have canoe; but canoe is very small.” They thereupon conducted the three whites down the hollow to the water’s edge, where the canoe was drawn up. “Small canoe is right,” chuckled Bill, as he looked at the dugout. “Durndest runt of a boat I ever seed.” He then explained to the Indians that one of them would have to take the whites across one at a time. And in this way the three eventually got to the opposite bank dryshod. Safely over, the big scout took from his knapsack a piece of blue cloth, a present which made the two, wide-eyed squaws clap their hands with childlike delight. What with these delays, it was nearly sundown when the trio arrived at the Pottawattomee camp. Here they found the friendly Bright Star awaiting their coming. Bill Brown at once left them, to search out a brave by the name of Little Fox, who had been his companion on a scouting foray, some years before; but the two boys were ushered into the spacious tepee of Shaubena and seated cross-legged about a tempting array of food and drink. There was roast wild-turkey, hominy, strawberries and a large pot of steaming black tea, very strong, in the Indian manner. After the conclusion of the savage banquet, the visitors lolled back on fur rugs, and there was much animated conversation for upwards of an hour. Among other things, Bright Star was told of the war-dance in the camp of the Prairie Wolf. “Bad!” he said. “Ugh! scalping-knife soon red with blood.” Bill Brown now made his appearance; and the two boys took their leave of Bright Star and prepared to turn back toward the distant fort. “Listen, lads,” said the scout perplexedly, “I’m in a purty sort of a pickle.” “How come, Bill?” “Little Fox is so plumb tickled to see me, that he’s invited me to spend the night in his tepee.” “Go ahead. That’s fine.” “Not so fine as you think, mebbe. His tepee is chock-full o’ fleas. Not jest them ord’nary, little everyday fleas, but pesky sand-fleas,--big as butterflies, I vum.” “Well, good scratching Bill,” chuckled Tom. “Maybe we can pick you up a package of flea powder somewhere in the village,” hooted Ben.