Done For

A WEEK ago to-day, when red-haired Sally DOWN to the sugar-camp came to see me, I saw her checked frock coming down the valley, Far as anybody’s eyes could see. Now I sit before the camp-fire, And I can’t see the pine-knots blaze, Nor Sally’s pretty face a-shining, Though I hear the good words she says. A week ago to-night I was tired and lonely, Sally was gone back to Mason’s fort, And the boys by the sugar-kettles left me only; They were hunting coons for sport. By there snaked a painted Pawnee, I was asleep before the fire; He creased my two eyes with his hatchet, And scalped me to his heart’s desire. There they found me on the dry tussocks lying, Bloody and cold as a live man could be; A hoot-owl on the branches overhead was crying, Crying murder to the red Pawnee. They brought me to the camp-fire, They washed me in the sweet white spring; But my eyes were full of flashes, And all night my ears would sing. I thought I was a hunter on the prairie, But they saved me for an old blind dog; When the hunting-grounds are cool and airy, I shall lie here like a helpless log. I can’t ride the little wiry pony, That scrambles over hills high and low; I can’t set my traps for the cony, Or bring down the black buffalo. I ’m no better than a rusty, bursted rifle, And I don’t see signs of any other trail; Here by the camp-fire blaze I lie and stifle, And hear Jim fill the kettles with his pail. It ’s no use groaning. I like Sally, But a Digger squaw would n’t have me! I wish they had n’t found me in the valley,— It ’s twice dead not to see!