The Sergeant, staring about, felt that he had never looked upon a more depressing spectacle than this gloomy landscape, desolate and wind-swept, still over-arched with low-lying storm clouds, black and ominous.
They advanced thus for two hours, making no attempt to force their animals, and scarcely exchanging a word, both men watchful of the snow underfoot in search of a possible trail, when the character of the country began to change.

The level plain broke into a series of ridges of irregular formation, all evidently heading toward some more southern valley.

In the depressions the snow lay banked in deep drifts, and, after plunging desperately through two of these, unable to judge correctly in the dim light where to ride, Hughes turned more to the south, skirting along the bare slope of a ridge, trusting some turn lower down would yield them the necessary westerning.
"It's over the ponies' heads down thar, Sergeant," he said, pointing sideways into the dark hollow, "an' we 're bound to strike a cross-ridge afore we come to the bluffs." "What bluffs?
The Canadian ?" "Yep; it 's badly broken kintry a long ways west o' yere.

Bad lands, mostly, an' a hell o' a place for cattle to hide out." "Hughes, do you know where Black Kettle's camp is ?" "Well, no, not exactly.

Las' winter the Cheyennes was settled 'bout opposite the mouth o' Buffalo Creek, an' thar 're down thar somewhar now.