It was queer gray stuff, shaped like miniature trees,
and had the appearance of being able to get along with very
little rain.
Toward night we found ourselves winding down among the hills
to the Cheyenne River. They were strange-looking hills, most
of them utterly barren on their sides, which were nearly
perpendicular, the hard soil standing almost as firm as rock.
They were ribbed and seamed by the rain--in fact, they were not
hills at all, properly speaking, but small bluffs left by the
washing out of the ravines by the rain and melting snows. Just as
the sun was sinking among the distant hills we came to the river.
It was shallow, only four or five yards wide, and we easily
forded it and camped on the other side. The full moon was just
rising over the eastern hills. There was not a sound to be heard
except the gentle murmur of the stream and the faint rustle of
the leaves on a few cottonwood-trees. There was plenty of
driftwood all around, and after supper we built up the largest
camp-fire we had ever had. The flame leaped up above the
wagon-top, and drifted away in a column of sparks and smoke,
while the three horses stood in the background with their heads
close together munching their hay, and the four of us (counting
Snoozer) lay on the ground and blinked at the fire.
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