It was truly a rough and wild journey, full enough of hardship, and without adventure to give zest to the ceaseless toil. I know now that we made a wide detour to the southward, trusting thus to avoid any possible contact with prowling bands of either Pottawattomies or Wyandots, whom our friendly Miamis seemed greatly to dread. This took us far from the regular trail, rough and ill-defined as that was, and plunged us into an untrodden wilderness; so that there were times when we fairly had to cut our way through the twisted forest branches and tangled brakes of cane with tomahawks and hunting-knives. We skirted rocky bluffs, toiled painfully over fallen timber, or waded ankle deep in softened clay, in the black gloomy shadows of dense woods which seemed interminable, meeting with nothing human, yet constantly startling wild game from the hidden coverts, and feeling more and more, as we advanced, the loneliness and danger of our situation,--realizing that each league we travelled only added to the length and peril of our retreat if ever disaster came or Fort Dearborn were found deserted. Captain Wells, naturally grave and silent from his long training among savages, grew more and more reticent and watchful as we progressed, riding often at my side for hours without uttering a word, his keen eyes warily searching the dark openings upon every hand as if suspecting that each spot of gloom might prove the chosen place for an ambuscade. Our Indian allies moved like shadows, gliding over the ground noiselessly; and the occasional outbursts of merriment from De Croix and his equally reckless companion grew gradually less frequent, and appeared more forced. The constant and never-ending toil of our progress, the depressing gloom of the sombre primeval forest on every side of us, the knowledge of possible peril lurking in each league of this haunted silence, weighed upon us all, and at last closed the lips of even the most jovial of our number.