thee streamside companion & angler's frequent respite

treatise, pomes, fine etchings & lyrics re. and not re. flyfishing (with an angle)

Thursday, March 30, 2006

Dog town

Rowed nine hours today, with two hours when we come by for the nooner. Passed a Mizzou Injun town what was filled only with ghosts. Three hundred houses painted bloody red, and not one bloody red injun to be found. Gives me the unease, as I ain’t never laid eyes upon an Injun town so extensive, let alone one lonely as this. They poles is bare, they firepits is grey blots and not a sound comes from thum, just the wind living there now.
Paddy says the pox got thum. Big John says they was waring with the Saukees and that be what snuffed thum. But I can’t scope no graves. Likesay, just the wind living there now. French boys was a shooting at the dogs running through the town, but they didn’t knock any over, of which I is glad. Prospecting a dead dog lying in the middle of that Injun town jest might send me to praying or to crying.


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