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For there was both wonder and glory in these countless miles running ahead and drifting behind, and the miracle of northward-sweeping life. The days were long. Night, as Mary Standish had always known night, was gone. On the twentieth of June there were twenty hours of day, with a dim and beautiful twilight between the hours of eleven and one.
Through a gap in the northward-sweeping prairie-fire a gap fought out and kept open by a line of men were coming the women of Clothes-Pin Row, each carrying a child and dragging a second by the hand. Behind them scuttled the papoose-cumbered squaws from the scouts' huts.
In a clump of willows lay another body, that of a pinto pony, hardly cold, while the soft, sandy shores were cut by dozens of hoof tracks shoeless. The tracks of the mules and wagon lay straight away across the stream bed up the opposite bank and out on the northward-sweeping bench beyond.
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