When we
parted so unexpectedly he had about half of the jerked wolf and mule
combined. I went north while he bore off in a northeasterly direction,
and after traveling for three days came to the river at a point above
where we lost our flat-boat. He struggled on up the river without road
or trail, and nothing to guide him except the little compass which he
still carried in his pocket.
Two days more and his last bit of jerk was gone, starvation began to
stare him in the face once more. He saw signs of Indians having crossed
his pathless course which gave him renewed courage. Soon after starting
out next morning he was delighted to see a pony in the distance grazing,
and on coming up to it found one of its front legs broken. This, he said
was another God-send. The poor pony seemed to fear him. It was probably
an Indian pony, had its leg broken and was left to die. He followed it
for some time and finally got close to it and fired his revolver at its
chest and wounded it, but it then left him with the blood flowing from
its wound. After resting for a time he followed on and soon found it
lying down, but not dead. He told me how innocent and helpless it
appeared, and looked at him as if pleading with him not to inflict any
more pain; but he felt that his life was in a balance with its, and
after a little meditation he put the revolver to its forehead and ended
its life and suffering. Then came the usual process of skinning, cutting
up and jerking which took the balance of that day and part of the next.
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