"The Lord knows; there's nobody at Horseshoe Creek."Shaw had gone back to the spot where we had encamped two days before, and finding nothing there but the ashes of our fires, he had tied his horse to the tree while he bathed in the stream.Something startled his horse, who broke loose, and for two hours Shaw tried in vain to catch him.Sunset approached, and it was twelve miles to camp.So he abandoned the attempt, and set out on foot to join us.The greater part of his perilous and solitary work was performed in darkness.His moccasins were worn to tatters and his feet severely lacerated.He sat down to eat, however, with the usual equanimity of his temper not at all disturbed by his misfortune, and my last recollection before falling asleep was of Shaw, seated cross-legged before the fire, smoking his pipe.The horse, I may as well mention here, was found the next morning by Henry Chatillon.
When I awoke again there was a fresh damp smell in the air, a gray twilight involved the prairie, and above its eastern verge was a streak of cold red sky.I called to the men, and in a moment a fire was blazing brightly in the dim morning light, and breakfast was getting ready.We sat down together on the grass, to the last civilized meal which Raymond and I were destined to enjoy for some time.
"Now, bring in the horses."
My little mare Pauline was soon standing by the fire.She was a fleet, hardy, and gentle animal, christened after Paul Dorion, from whom I had procured her in exchange for Pontiac.She did not look as if equipped for a morning pleasure ride.In front of the black, high-bowed mountain saddle, holsters, with heavy pistols, were fastened.A pair of saddle bags, a blanket tightly rolled, a small parcel of Indian presents tied up in a buffalo skin, a leather bag of flour, and a smaller one of tea were all secured behind, and a long trail-rope was wound round her neck.Raymond had a strong black mule, equipped in a similar manner.We crammed our powder-horns to the throat, and mounted.
"I will meet you at Fort Laramie on the 1st of August," said I to Shaw.
"That is," replied he, "if we don't meet before that.I think Ishall follow after you in a day or two."
This in fact he attempted, and he would have succeeded if he had not encountered obstacles against which his resolute spirit was of no avail.Two days after I left him he sent Delorier to the fort with the cart and baggage, and set out for the mountains with Henry Chatillon; but a tremendons thunderstorm had deluged the prairie, and nearly obliterated not only our trail but that of the Indians themselves.They followed along the base of the mountains, at a loss in which direction to go.They encamped there, and in the morning Shaw found himself poisoned by ivy in such a manner that it was impossible for him to travel.So they turned back reluctantly toward Fort Laramie.Shaw's limbs were swollen to double their usual size, and he rode in great pain.They encamped again within twenty miles of the fort, and reached it early on the following morning.Shaw lay serionsly ill for a week, and remained at the fort till I rejoined him some time after.
To return to my own story.We shook hands with our friends, rode out upon the prairie, and clambering the sandy hollows that were channeled in the sides of the hills gained the high plains above.If a curse had been pronounced upon the land it could not have worn an aspect of more dreary and forlorn barrenness.There were abrupt broken hills, deep hollows, and wide plains; but all alike glared with an insupportable whiteness under the burning sun.The country, as if parched by the heat, had cracked into innumerable fissures and ravines, that not a little impeded our progress.Their steep sides were white and raw, and along the bottom we several times discovered the broad tracks of the terrific grizzly bear, nowhere more abundant than in this region.The ridges of the hills were hard as rock, and strewn with pebbles of flint and coarse red jasper; looking from them, there was nothing to relieve the desert uniformity of the prospect, save here and there a pine-tree clinging at the edge of a ravine, and stretching out its rough, shaggy arms.Under the scorching heat these melancholy trees diffused their peculiar resinous odor through the sultry air.There was something in it, as I approached them, that recalled old associations; the pine-clad mountains of New England, traversed in days of health and buoyancy, rose like a reality before my fancy.In passing that arid waste Iwas goaded with a morbid thirst produced by my disorder, and Ithought with a longing desire on the crystal treasure poured in such wasteful profusion from our thousand hills.Shutting my eyes, I more than half believed that I heard the deep plunging and gurgling of waters in the bowels of the shaded rocks.I could see their dark ice glittering far down amid the crevices, and the cold drops trickling from the long green mosses.
When noon came, we found a little stream, with a few trees and bushes; and here we rested for an hour.Then we traveled on, guided by the sun, until, just before sunset, we reached another stream, called Bitter Cotton-wood Creek.A thick growth of bushes and old storm-beaten trees grew at intervals along its bank.Near the foot of one of the trees we flung down our saddles, and hobbling our horses turned them loose to feed.The little stream was clear and swift, and ran musically on its white sands.Small water birds were splashing in the shallows, and filling the air with their cries and flutterings.The sun was just sinking among gold and crimson clouds behind Mount Laramie.I well remember how I lay upon a log by the margin of the water, and watched the restless motions of the little fish in a deep still nook below.Strange to say, I seemed to have gained strength since the morning, and almost felt a sense of returning health.
