Monday, 9th—We remained in camp all day.[1] It rained most of the day. No news of any importance.
[1] I had been suffering with the doc tor some days when on this day it became so bad that I made up my mind to go to the doctor and have the tooth extracted. I arrived at the doctor’s tent, he directed me to an ancient chair and asked me to show him the tooth. I pointed out the exact tooth, he hooked on, at the same time telling me to hold on to the chair, and pulled. He succeeded in bringing the tooth, but it was not the aching one. I however, concluded that one tooth at a time was enough, even it it was the wrong one, and returned to my rancho with the hope that it would soon quit aching. But the last state of that tooth was worse than the first.—A. O. D.
