Silent Thoughts on a Forced March

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: We been on the trail since dawn, now, and strange to say, it's not as hard as it was yesterday.  Seem to be gettin' some muscles back in order.  Probably helps to be haulin' 200 pounds of deerskins on my shoulders.  Hey, what're captives for?!  Never thought I'd make that last ridge, though.  Up the mountain.  Down the mountain. Through the creeks. Over the rocks.  Under the bushes.  Up the cliffs.  Down the cliffs.  Phew!  At least my spare tire's not hangin' over my breechclout any more.  Guess that's somethin' to be grateful for.  

: Just wish I could stop thinkin' about Miss Marcia and picturin' her pretty face.  Probably never see that brilliant smile again - leastways, if these Hurons have their way with me when we get to the warparty's camp.  Wonder how it feels to - - forget it! - - not dwellin' on any such drastic ideas - - at least not yet.  Just keep thinkin' of what it was like sittin' on Miss Marcia's veranda on a warm summer evening sippin' somethin' cool and eatin fuu-uuuu-dge.  Ah's me, 'twas a sorry day when I realized it was muscles and loincloths that would win her heart.  Not a prayer for a poor old country sheriff built like a birch tree and trippin' over things all the time.

: Wonder if she thinks about me now I'm gone.  Probably not.  Just keep on awalkin'.  Up the mountain.  Down the mountain. . . . .

: Bent Twigg


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