The ragged shackles knitting at his breast.
And so the boatman won a winter’s rest
Among the Mandan traders: but for Hugh
There yet remained a weary work to do.
Across the naked country west by south
His purpose called him at the Big Horn’s mouth—
Three hundred miles of winging for the crow;
But by the river trail that he must go
‘Twas seven hundred winding miles at least.
So now he turned his back upon the feast,