I can feel thongs cutting sharply
into my skin; and my back and shoulders press against some supporting
substance, that seems as hard as rock. I cannot tell what it is. I
cannot even see my own person--neither breast nor body--neither arms nor
legs--not an inch of myself. The fastening over my face holds it
upturned to the sky; and my head feels firmly set--as if the vertebral
column of my neck had become ossified into a solid mass!

And where am I in this stringent attitude? I am conscious that I am a
captive and bound--a captive to Indians--to Arapahoes. Memory helps me
to this knowledge; and furthermore, that I should be, if I have not been
carried elsewhere, in the valley of the Huerfano--by the Orphan Butte.
Ha! why should I not be _upon_ the butte--on its summit? I remember
going down to the plain; and there being struck senseless to the earth.
For all that, I may have been brought up again. The savages may have
borne me back to satisfy some whim? They often act in such strange
fashion with, their vanquished victims. I must be on some eminence:
since I cannot see the earth before me? In all likelihood, I am on the
top of the mound. This will account for my not having a view of the
ground. It will also explain the direction in which the voices are
reaching me. Those who utter them are below upon the plain?

The death-song ceases: and sounds of other import are borne upward to my
ears. I hear shouts that appear to be signals--words of command in the
fierce guttural of the Arapaho. Other sounds seem nearer. I
distinguish the voices of two men in conversation. They are Indian
voices. As I listen they grow more distinct. The speakers are
approaching me--the voices reach me, as if rising out of the ground
beneath my feet! They draw nigher and nigher. They are close to where
I stand--so close that I can feel them breathing upon my body--but still
I see them not. Their heads are below the line of my vision. I feel a
hand--knuckles pressing against my throat; the cold blade of a knife is
laid along my cheek; its steel point glistens under my eyes. I shudder
with a horrid thought. I mistake the purpose. I hear the "wheek" that
announces the cutting of a tight-drawn cord. The thong slackens, and
drops off from my cheeks. My head is free: but the piece of wood
between my teeth--it remains still gagging me firmly. I cannot get rid
of that.

I can now look below, and around me. I perceive the co