The country was still wilder
and lonelier than that we had seen, and not a single habitation lay
upon our route. All had been burnt by the Indians. We followed at some
distance the right bank of the North Platte, all day over a barren
country of low hills and scattered pines, bounded by a range of
whitish bluffs beyond the river. We halted a few moments at Warm
Spring, where a clear basin of tepid water bubbled and boiled and
overflowed into a good-sized brook. Then on to Big Bitter Cottonwood,
where we had our nooning among the trees on the wide sandy bed of the
stream, which had sunk under ground for many miles, as is the custom
of rivers here. It gushed forth near by, however, in copious springs,
which gave us abundance of water and supported quite a luxuriant
growth of vegetation. Wild currants delighted the children, clematis
twined its white blossoms among the scarlet buffalo-berries, graceful
osiers waved in the wind, and wild flowers were plentiful. It was a
pleasant place among the wilds, and had perhaps been a happy home, for
here were the ruins of a ranch burnt by the Indians.
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