EightThe tented village sprawled across the land in ordered rows, white canvas sparkling like new fallen spots of snow. He wished it was snow, for then he might find something to drink. To reinforce his despair, he lifted his final canteen to his ear and shook it. Empty. Perhaps some kind soul below would allow him a mouthful of water. Down in the camp. Down in the gathering of armed men settling around Fort Bridger.
Simms entered the camp at a measured pace, leading his horse, trying his best to ignore the many upturned faces of the curious soldiers. Guards stopped him, and when he presented his papers, they waved him on, bored, apathetic. They appeared drained, the heat making every movement an effort.
He tended to his horse first, as every good traveler should. A trough, hewn out of a
