This same rain, falling as it did from lowering gray clouds upon the outhouse in which he was confined, set Yellow Hair to pacing uneasily across the six feet of mud allowed him.
The roof was open in many places and dreary streams dropped through to form spreading puddles in the dirt. The muck was so soft that the tattered fragments of his moccasins were soon caked with the mire.
There was not one dry place in which he could lie down, and as evening came, the fluidity of the mud increased until even walking was rendered impossible.
Miserable and cold, he thought hungrily about White Fox’s tall lodge seventy days’ hard travel to the southwest. He remembered how the fire in the center sputtered and flared when rain fell through the small smoke hole. He wistfully recalled the softness of w
