And that night,
when I reached to her for my belt that we might again make our fire, she
went pale and cried aloud that she had lost it, and that now indeed we
must die!
I could hardly comfort her by telling her that on the morrow I would
certainly find it. I knew that in case I did not our plight indeed was
serious. She wept that night, wept like a child, starting and moaning
often in her sleep. That night, for the first time, I took her in my
arms and tried to comfort her. I, being now a savage, prayed to the
Great Spirit, the Mystery, that my own blood might not be as water, that
my heart might be strong--the old savage prayers of primitive man
brought face to face with nature.
When morning came I told her I must go back on the trail. "See, now,
what this dog has done for us," I said. "The scratches on the ground of
his little travois poles will make a trail easy to be followed. I must
take him with me and run back the trail. For you, stay here by the water
and no matter what your fears, do not move from here in any case, even
if I should not be back by night."
"But what if you should not come back!" she said, her terror showing in
her eyes.
"But I will come back," I replied.
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