It Was The 17th Of July, Unless My Notebook Misleads Me.
At noon we stopped by some pools of rain-water, and in the afternoon
again set forward.
This double movement was contrary to the usual
practice of the Indians, but all were very anxious to reach the
hunting ground, kill the necessary number of buffalo, and retreat as
soon as possible from the dangerous neighborhood. I pass by for the
present some curious incidents that occurred during these marches and
encampments. Late in the afternoon of the last-mentioned day we came
upon the banks of a little sandy stream, of which the Indians could
not tell the name; for they were very ill acquainted with that part
of the country. So parched and arid were the prairies around that
they could not supply grass enough for the horses to feed upon, and
we were compelled to move farther and farther up the stream in search
of ground for encampment. The country was much wilder than before.
The plains were gashed with ravines and broken into hollows and steep
declivities, which flanked our course, as, in long-scattered array,
the Indians advanced up the side of the stream. Mene-Seela consulted
an extraordinary oracle to instruct him where the buffalo were to be
found. When he with the other chiefs sat down on the grass to smoke
and converse, as they often did during the march, the old man picked
up one of those enormous black-and-green crickets, which the Dakota
call by a name that signifies "They who point out the buffalo." The
Root-Diggers, a wretched tribe beyond the mountains, turn them to
good account by making them into a sort of soup, pronounced by
certain unscrupulous trappers to be extremely rich.
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