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.
We built our fire. Night came, and the wolves began to howl. One deep voice commenced, and it was answered in awful responses from the hills, the plains, and the woods along the stream above and below us. Such sounds need not and do not disturb one’s sleep upon the prairie. We picketed the mare and the mule close at our feet, and did not wake until daylight. Then we turned them loose, still hobbled, to feed for an hour before starting. We were getting ready our morning’s meal, when Raymond saw an antelope at half a mile’s distance, and said he would go and shoot it.
“Your business,” said. I, “is to look after the animals. I am too weak to do much, if anything happens to them, and you must keep within sight of the camp.”