CHAPTER XI. IN THE QUICKSANDS.
"There," said Hugh, one afternoon as they rode over a low ridge, and down toward a stream flowing through a wide valley, "that's the Mussellshell!"
"Well," said Jack, "it don't look to me like much of a river."
"Well, no," said Hugh, "it ain't; there's a heap of valley and mighty little river. There ain't but one other river, that I know of, that's long like this one, that carries as little water."
"What one is that, Hugh?" said Jack.
"That's Milk River," was the reply. "We cross that, or at least, the heads of it after we get into the Piegan country. That stream don't rise in the mountains, but comes up out of a lot of springs and swamps on the prairie; so all the water it gets is what little melting snow drains into it in spring; and besides that, it flows through a gumbo country, and lots of the water soaks into the soil, so that by the middle of summer down near its mouth it is often plumb dry, or what water there is in it just stands in water holes; it don't run at all. Then, in spring, when the snow is melting and the rains are on, it often gets over its banks and floods the whole country."
"There don't seem to be much wood here, Hugh; where are you going to camp?"
"Well," said Hugh, "we'll have to camp by some patch of sage-brush, and use that and buffalo chips to cook with. There's plenty of wood up nearer to the mountains, but none down here."