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Jim and I touched our hats and said good-bye to Starlight and the other two, who went away to the crack hotel. We went and made a camp down by the creek, so that we might turn to and peg out a claim, or buy out a couple of shares, first thing in the morning.
They seemed, for a few minutes, to be leaving the battle, which was now at its height, the Southern artillery still holding the road and presenting an unbroken front. Dick saw a flash of water and then the whole troop thundered into the creek, almost without slackened rein. Up the bank they went, and with a wild shout charged upon the Southern infantry.
The bull gored him to death. The creek upon which this happened is now called Mato creek. A little way from our camp there was a log village of French Canadian half-breeds, but the two villages did not intermingle. In the middle of the night there was a firing of guns throughout their village.
After passing a sandstone ridge, I came to a creek, which went to the north-west, and which was supplied with water by the late thunder-showers. It was bounded on both sides by sandstone ridges, whose summits were covered with scrub and Acacia thickets; and by grassy slopes and flats bearing narrow-leaved Ironbark and Bastard-box.
"I suppose it was Sandy McQuarry, when he put the mill here." "How did he do it?" "He dammed the creek." "Oh, and who made the crick?" "It was always there." "Yes, but who made it in the first place?" No answer. "Was it God?" "I I suppose so." "Oh, ain't you dead sure? Who could it 'a' been, then?" Still silence. "Was it God?" "Yes." Tim looked surprised.
Hume had become impressed with an opinion, that the junction up which we had slept was no other than the Castlereagh itself; and that our position was on a creek, probably Morrisset's chain of ponds, flowing into it. As the cattle wanted a few days' rest, Mr.
The court-martialing and shooting of a private had a beneficial effect. With this disgruntled, unreliable, weary force, Jackson came, at length, to a great war camp of the Creek Indians at a loop of the Tallapoosa River called Horseshoe Bend. Here some ten hundred picked warriors had built defensive works which were worthy of the talent of a trained engineer.
At seven o'clock we were on our march to the ferry, crossing the East River at the foot of the main street of the small town of Brooklyn; then we took a road leading over a creek called Gowanus, and knew that we were marching to guard the right of the American line.
"Get some water from the creek yonder," said Jack, and Tom hastened up the road to where, beneath the small wooden bridge, there flowed a rivulet of water. He was soon back, with his handkerchief well soaked, and with an old can, that he had been lucky enough to find, filled with water. They bathed the man's wound and then bound it up as best they could. But he still lay senseless.
And at intervals he read from his favorite novel to the scout, who still questioned whether it was a true story. With Bob Scott to lead an occasional hunting trip, Bucks found the time go fast at Goose Creek and no excitement came again until later in the summer.
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