The village itself was not far off, and sufficiently illustrated the
condition of its unfortunate and self-abandoned occupants. Fancy to
yourself a little swift stream, working its devious way down a woody
valley; sometimes wholly hidden under logs and fallen trees, sometimes
issuing forth and spreading into a broad, clear pool; and on its banks
in little nooks cleared away among the trees, miniature log-houses
in utter ruin and neglect. A labyrinth of narrow, obstructed paths
connected these habitations one with another. Sometimes we met a stray
calf, a pig or a pony, belonging to some of the villagers, who usually
lay in the sun in front of their dwellings, and looked on us with cold,
suspicious eyes as we approached. Farther on, in place of the log-huts
of the Kickapoos, we found the pukwi lodges of their neighbors, the
Pottawattamies, whose condition seemed no better than theirs.

Growing tired at last, and exhausted by the excessive heat and
sultriness of the day, we returned to our friend, the trader. By this
time the crowd around him had dispersed, and left him at leisure. He
invited us to his cottage, a little white-and-green building, in
the style of the old French settlements; and ushered us into a neat,
well-furnished room. The blinds were closed, and the heat and glare
of the sun excluded; the room was as cool as a cavern. It was neatly
carpeted too and furnished in a manner that we hardly expected on the
frontier. The sofas, chairs, tables, and a well-filled bookcase would
not have disgraced an Eastern city; though there were one or two little
tokens that indicated the rather questionable civilization of the
region. A pistol, loaded and capped, lay on the mantelpiece; and through
the glass of the bookcase, peeping above the works of John Milton
glittered the handle of a very mischievous-looking knife.

Our host went out, and returned with iced water, glasses, and a bottle