What with his dismal predictions and my secret horror of Indians , I was beginning to feel anything but jubilant over our expedition . Kate , however , was as blithe and buoyant as usual . She knew no fear , being one of those enviable folk who can because they think they can . One hundred and twenty miles of half-flooded prairie trail -- camping out at night in the solitude of the Great Lone Land -- rain -- muskegs -- Indian guides -- nothing had any terror for my dauntless cousin . For the next three hours , however , we got on beautifully . The trail was fair , though somewhat greasy ; the sun shone , though with a somewhat watery gleam , through the mists ; and Peter Crow , coiled up on the folded tent behind the seat , slept soundly and snored mellifluously . That snore reassured me greatly . I had never thought of Indians as snoring . Surely one who did could n't be dreaded greatly . We stopped at one o'clock and had a cold lunch , sitting in our wagon , while Peter Crow wakened up and watered the ponies . We did not get on so well in the afternoon . The trail descended into low-lying ground where travelling was very difficult . I had to admit old Peter Crow was quite invaluable . He knew , as Kate had foretold , `` all the dry spots '' -- that is to say , spots less wet than others . But , even so , we had to make so many detours that by sunset we were little more than six miles distant from our noon halting place . `` We 'd better set camp now , before it gets any darker , '' said Kate . `` There 's a capital spot over there , by that bluff of dead poplar . The ground seems pretty dry too . Peter , cut us a set of tent poles and kindle a fire . '' `` Want my dollar first , '' said old Peter stolidly .
We had agreed XXXXX pay him a dollar a day for the trip , but none of the money was to be paid until we got to Bothwell .
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