Often, Even To This Hour,
That Scene Will Rise Before My Mind Like A Visible Reality:
The tall
white rocks; the old pine trees on their summits; the sandy stream
that ran along their bases and half encircled the village; and the
wild-sage bushes, with their dull green hue and their medicinal odor,
that covered all the neighboring declivities.
Hour after hour the
squaws would pass and repass with their vessels of water between the
stream and the lodges. For the most part no one was to be seen in
the camp but women and children, two or three super-annuated old men,
and a few lazy and worthless young ones. These, together with the
dogs, now grown fat and good-natured with the abundance in the camp,
were its only tenants. Still it presented a busy and bustling scene.
In all quarters the meat, hung on cords of hide, was drying in the
sun, and around the lodges the squaws, young and old, were laboring
on the fresh hides that were stretched upon the ground, scraping the
hair from one side and the still adhering flesh from the other, and
rubbing into them the brains of the buffalo, in order to render them
soft and pliant.
In mercy to myself and my horse, I never went out with the hunters
after the first day. Of late, however, I had been gaining strength
rapidly, as was always the case upon every respite of my disorder. I
was soon able to walk with ease.
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