and small squeaking voices yelping at us as we passed along.  The noses of the inhabitants would be just visible at the mouth of their holes, but no sooner was their curiosity satisfied than they would instantly vanish.  Some of the bolder dogs—­though in fact they are no dogs at all, but little marmots rather smaller than a rabbit—­would sit yelping at us on the top of their mounds, jerking their tails emphatically with every shrill cry they uttered.  As the danger grew nearer they would wheel about, toss their heels into the air, and dive in a twinkling down into their burrows.  Toward sunset, and especially if rain were threatening, the whole community would make their appearance above ground.  We would see them gathered in large knots around the burrow of some favorite citizen.  There they would all sit erect, their tails spread out on the ground, and their paws hanging down before their white breasts, chattering and squeaking with the utmost vivacity upon some topic of common interest, while the proprietor of the burrow, with his head just visible on the top of his mound, would sit looking down with a complacent countenance on the enjoyment of his guests.  Meanwhile, others would be running about from burrow to burrow, as if on some errand of the last importance to their subterranean commonwealth.  The snakes were apparently the prairie dog’s worst enemies, at least I think too well of the latter to suppose that they associate on friendly terms with these slimy intruders, who may be seen at all times basking among their holes, into which they always retreat when disturbed.  Small owls, with wise and grave countenances, also make their abode with the prairie dogs, though on what terms they live together I could never ascertain.  The manners and customs, the political and domestic economy of these little marmots is worthy of closer attention than one is able to give when pushing by forced marches through their country, with his thoughts engrossed by objects of greater moment.

On the fifth day after leaving Bisonette’s camp we saw late in the afternoon what we supposed to be a considerable stream, but on our approaching it we found to our mortification nothing but a dry bed of sand into which all the water had sunk and disappeared.  We separated, some riding in one direction and some in another along its course.  Still we found no traces of water, not even so much as a wet spot in the sand.  The old cotton-wood trees that grew along the bank, lamentably abused by lightning and tempest, were withering with the drought, and on the dead limbs, at the summit of the tallest, half a dozen crows were hoarsely cawing like birds of evil omen as they were.  We had no alternative but to keep on.  There was no water nearer than the South Fork of the Platte, about ten miles distant.  We moved forward, angry and silent, over a desert as flat as the outspread ocean.