I dropped from the saddle as if dead, and rolled upon the ground at the horse’s feet.
When I recovered, I was clinging to a squaw, who, with looks of astonishment and alarm, was vainly endeavoring to extricate herself from my clutches.
With returning consciousness, I raised my eyes to the fearful sight that had almost deprived me of reason; it was gone.
The Indian had suspected the cause of my emotion, and removed it out of sight.
They placed me in the saddle once more, and not being able to control the horrible misery I felt, I protested wildly against their touch, imploring them to kill me, and frantically inviting the death I had before feared and avoided.
When they camped, I had not the power or reason to seek my own tent, but fell down in the sun, where the chief found me lying. He had been out at the head of a scouting party, and knew nothing of my sufferings.
Instantly approaching me, he inquired who had misused me. I replied, “No one. I want to see my dear mother, my poor mother, who loves me, and pines for her unhappy child.”
I had found, by experience, that the only grief with which this red nation had any sympathy was the sorrow one might feel for a separation from a mother, and even the chief seemed to recognize the propriety of such emotion.
On this account I feigned to be grieving solely for my dear widowed mother, and was treated with more consideration than I had dared to expect.
Leaving me for a few moments, he returned, bringing me some ripe wild plums, which were deliciously cooling to my fever-parched lips.