southern end was the outlet of a shining stream that was known as the
River of the Fox. The bay was thirty leagues long by eight broad, and
had tides like the ocean. Five tribes dwelt around it: the
Pottawatamies at its mouth, the Malhominis halfway down on its western
shore, and the Sacs, the Chippewas, and the Winnebagoes scattered at
different points in more transitory camps. To the east the bay was
separated from Lake Illinois by a long peninsula that lay like a
rough-hewn arrow with its point to the polestar. It was goodly land, I
had been told, rich in game, and splashed with ponds, but since it was
too small to support the hunting of a tribe it was left comparatively
unoccupied. All of the five tribes, and sometimes the Miamis, fished
there at intervals; it was neutral ground. I told all this to the
woman as our canoes swept toward the sunset.

She sat with her back to the west, and the sun, that dazzled my eyes,
shone red through her brown hair, and I scorned myself that I should
have believed for a moment that such soft, fine abundance ever framed a
man's forehead. I talked to her freely; talked of winds and tides and
Indians, and was not deterred when she answered me but sparingly. I
could not see her face distinctly, because of the light, but there was
something in the gentleness and intentness of her listening poise that
made me feel that she welcomed the safeguard of my aimless speech, but
that for the moment she had no similar weapons of her own.

So long as daylight lasted, we traveled swiftly toward the southwest,
but when the sunset had burned itself to ashes, and the sky had blurred
into the tree line, I told the men to shift their paddles, and drift
for a time. The last twenty-four hours had hardened them to surprise.
They obeyed me as they did Providence,--as a troublesome, but
all-powerful enigma.