LETTER VI. 83 



LETTER VI. 



Camp of the Winds. 

 DEAR PAT, 



When I finished my last letter,, we were 

 all sitting miserably disconsolate in Cactus Camp, 

 the heavy rain-clouds threatening to drown us, 

 and no news of a guide for the morrow. 1 . The 

 only Indian in the village was sitting in his 

 miserable hut watching his little daughter die, 

 because there was no medical aid in reach, and 

 his small stock of remedies had long since failed 

 before the dread disease of which she lay dying. 

 While the stars were still in the sky, old S. 

 saddled his horse and rode away ; and at about 

 nine he came riding back, with a quaint little 

 figure on a flea-bitten gray by his side. In 

 another minute the first gleam of returning sun- 

 light entered the camp along with my trusty 

 ' gunner ' and his captive, the typical Indian, 

 whose name was ' Tommy ' Toma, his friends 

 and relations call him and if he is not a chief, he 



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