Henry Chatillon
Again Dispatched The Horse To The Village, With A Message To His
Squaw That She And Her Relatives Should Leave The Rest And Push On As
Rapidly As Possible To Our Camp.
Our daily routine soon became as regular as that of a well-ordered
household.
The weather-beaten old tree was in the center; our rifles
generally rested against its vast trunk, and our saddles were flung
on the ground around it; its distorted roots were so twisted as to
form one or two convenient arm-chairs, where we could sit in the
shade and read or smoke; but meal-times became, on the whole, the
most interesting hours of the day, and a bountiful provision was made
for them. An antelope or a deer usually swung from a stout bough,
and haunches were suspended against the trunk. That camp is
daguerreotyped on my memory; the old tree, the white tent, with Shaw
sleeping in the shadow of it, and Reynal's miserable lodge close by
the bank of the stream. It was a wretched oven-shaped structure,
made of begrimed and tattered buffalo hides stretched over a frame of
poles; one side was open, and at the side of the opening hung the
powder horn and bullet pouch of the owner, together with his long red
pipe, and a rich quiver of otterskin, with a bow and arrows; for
Reynal, an Indian in most things but color, chose to hunt buffalo
with these primitive weapons. In the darkness of this cavern-like
habitation, might be discerned Madame Margot, her overgrown bulk
stowed away among her domestic implements, furs, robes, blankets, and
painted cases of PAR' FLECHE, in which dried meat is kept.
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