We were going down what was called the Ridge
Road, along the divide between Elk and Elder creeks, and hoped to
reach the crossing of the Cheyenne at Smithville Post-office that
evening, and get on the Reservation the next morning. In half an
hour we passed some trees which marked the site of the Washday
Springs, but there was no house there, nor had we seen one at
eleven o'clock. We met an Indian on foot, and Jack said to him:
"Where can we get some water?"
The Indian shook his head. "Cheyenne River," he replied.
"Isn't there any this side?"
"No," with another jerk of the head. Then he stalked on.
"Yes, and the Indian's right, I'll warrant," exclaimed Jack.
"'Blenty raters,' indeed! Why, that Dutchman doesn't know enough
to ache when he's hurt."
"Well, we're in for it," said I. "We can't go back. Maybe
it'll rain," though there was not a cloud in sight, and there was
more danger of an earthquake than of a shower.
So we went on, and a little after dark wound down among the
black baked bluffs to the crossing, without any of us having had
a drop to drink since before sunrise.
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