Our guide was as much surprised to see me take
it in my hands, as he was to see me let it go unharmed.
Next morning, after a short hour's travel, we came again to Salt
River and proceeded to cross. Evidently Squirrel had selected the
wrong place, for the sticky mud seemed bottomless, and we came near
losing two of the horses.
After two hours we all got across and went on, but most of the horses
had shown up poorly, as spiritless creatures, not yet recovered
from the effects of a hard winter.
Our road now lay over the high upland of the Salt Mountain, among
its dry and beautiful woods. The trip would have been glorious but
for the awful things that I am not allowed to mention outside of
Chapter IX.
Pierre proved a pleasant and intelligent companion; he did his
best, but more than once shook his head and said: "Chevaux no good."
We covered 15 miles before night, and all day we got glimpses of
some animal on our track, 300 yards behind in the woods. It might
easily have been a Wolf, but at night he sneaked into camp a forlorn
and starving Indian dog. Next day we reached the long looked-for
Little Buffalo River. Several times of late Pierre had commented on
the slowness of our horses and enlarged on the awful Muskega that
covered the country west of the Little Buffalo.
