These Thousand Hills

But except for one goddam blind-streaming, blind-screaming, goddam ground-blizzard day when a man had to feel his way back from taking a leak, the Indians kept going, the older ones hunched deep in their loose fittings of blankets and skins and two little ones riding in a skin hammock hung between skid poles hitched to a poor-as-dirt pony. Now and then the two nites that would make lice if they lived long enough poked their heads from under the Buffalo robes, silent and round-eyed, and ducked back under cover at the slash of the wind.