human
Jerked-beef, I suppose, our Plains-men would call it. A flock of sheep had also been given them, and the squaws were now busy
gpt
these, as we happened along. A few refractory ewes refused to enter the corral--a slight enclosure of brush--and these were being hotly pursued by the boy-braves and dogs. The dogs headed them off on all sides, while the boys lassoed them one after another, until the squaws came up and caught them. It was fine practice for the lasso, and the youngsters seemed to enjoy it greatly. Dogs abounded everywhere. Each wigwam seemed to have a goodly supply, and the village at large a brigade besides. They were small wolfish-looking curs, as a rule, and the most vociferous and incessant yelpers I ever listened to. They had no regular bark--only a wild yelp, like their savage ancestors, the cayotes of the Plains. It is only the civilized dog, that
human
--that has a full, open
gpt
--and this he loses when he relapses to savagery again. There was no moving anywhere about the village, without having a score or more of them yelping at your heels; but this seemed to be the extent of their hostile intentions. When they became rather noisier than usual, some passing squaw would dash at them with a stick and a shower of
human
God dams, and that would scatter them for the time. Most of our Indians have all learned to swear the rough oaths of the Border, and always swear in English, as they have no corresponding words in their own language. In describing cavalry, they put the thumb and forefinger of one hand on the palm of the other, and then move them along in imitation of a gallop. In speaking of ox-trains, they stretch out their arms, and say,
gpt
Whoa-Haw! Git! But when they come to mule-teams, they invariably speak of them as
human
God dams! Go 'long! because of the copious oaths our teamsters hurl at them. Indeed, the average Indian always speaks of the donkey, as a
gpt
God dam,