yously, caressing the Europeans, according to their custom,
by rubbing their hands first over their own breasts and arms, and then
over the breasts and arms of their newly found friends.

Six or seven accompanied a party of the French back to their
encampment. La Salle, with the rest, accepted an invitation to visit
the Indian village, which they represented as distant about five miles.
Just as they were starting, La Salle turned his eyes toward the bay,
when he saw, much to his consternation, that their store-ship the
Aimable, which was left under the care of Captain Beaujeu, instead of
following the channel marked out by the stakes, was paying no regard to
them. He was greatly alarmed; but there was nothing which he could do
to repel the danger.

He therefore, though in great perturbation, followed the savages to
their village. It consisted of about fifty wigwams, erected upon an
eminence but slightly elevated above the level prairie. The huts were
built of mats or of the tanned skins of the buffalo. Just as they were
entering the village, a cannon was fired from one of the ships. The
savages were greatly terrified, and simultaneously threw themselves
upon the ground, burying their faces in the grass. But La Salle
reassured them, stating that it was merely a signal to him that one of
his ships had come to anchor.

Though La Salle was very vigilant to guard against any treachery, still
the hospitality manifested by the Indians seemed sincere and cordial.
The Indians feasted them abundantly with fresh buffalo steaks, and
jerked meat consisting of thin slices of flesh dried in the sun and
smoked. Their village was near the creek, and La Salle counted forty
large boats, made of logs hollowed out, such as he had seen on the
Mississippi.

Upon returning to the camp, La Salle found his worst fears realized.
The Aimable was driven aground, and under circumstances which rendered
it almost certain that it had been done through the treachery of
Captain Beaujeu. La Salle had marked out the channel by stakes, had
sent the vessel a pilot, whom Beaujeu had refused to receive, and had
stationed a man at the mast-head, who had given a loud warning, but
whose cry was entirely disregarded.

"Those who witnessed the manoeuvre," writes Joutel, "were convinced,
by irresistible evidence, that the vessel was wrecked by design, which
was one of the blackest and most detestable crimes which can enter into
the human heart."

The vessel