"We may be found any day."
But for many a day we were not found. We traveled westward day after
day, she upon the horse, I walking with the dog. We had a rude travois,
which we forced our horse to draw, and our little belongings we carried
in a leathern bag, slung between two lodge poles. The dog we did not yet
load, although the rubbed hair on his shoulders showed that he was used
to harness.
At times on these high rolling plains we saw the buffalo, and when our
dried meat ran low I paused for food, not daring to risk waste of our
scanty ammunition at such hard game as antelope. Once I lay at a path
near a water hole in the pocket of a half-dried stream, and killed two
buffalo cows. Here was abundant work for more than two days, cutting,
drying, scraping, feasting. Life began to run keen in our veins, in
spite of all. I heard her sing, that day, saw her smile. Now our worldly
goods were increasing, so I cut down two lodge poles and made a little
travois for the dog. We had hides enough now for a small tent, needing
only sufficient poles.
"Soon," said she to me, "we will be at Laramie."
"Pray God," said I to myself, "that we never may see Laramie!" I have
said that I would set down the truth.
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