My confidence was restored, and with it my powers of endurance. Sleep was out of the question. The night was bright and frosty; and there was not heat enough in my body to dry my flannel shirt. I made shift to pull up some briar bushes; and, piling them round me as a screen, got some little shelter from the light breeze. For hours I lay watching Alpha Centauri—the double star of the Great Bear’s pointers—dipping under the Polar star like the hour hand of a clock. My thoughts, strange to say, ran little on the morrow; they dwelt almost solely upon William Nelson. How far was I responsible, to what extent to blame, for leading him, against his will, to death? I re-enacted the whole event. Again he was in my hands, still breathing when I let him go, knowing, as I did so, that the deed consigned him living to his grave. In this way I passed the night.

Just as the first streaks of the longed-for dawn broke in the East, I heard distant cries which sounded like the whoops of Indians. Then they ceased, but presently began again much nearer than before. There was no mistake about them now,—they were the yappings of a pack of wolves, clearly enough, upon our track of yesterday. A few minutes more, and the light, though still dim, revealed their presence coming on at full gallop. In vain I sought for stick or stone. Even the river, though I took to it, would not save me if they meant mischief. When they saw me they slackened their pace. I did not move. They then halted, and forming a half-moon some thirty yards off, squatted on their haunches, and began at intervals to throw up their heads and howl.

My chief hope was in the coming daylight. They were less likely to attack a man then than in the dark. I had often met one or two together when hunting; these had always bolted. But I had never seen a pack before; and I knew a pack meant that they were after food. All depended on their hunger.

When I kept still they got up, advanced a yard or two, then repeated their former game. Every minute the light grew stronger; its warmer tints heralded the rising sun. Seeing, however, that my passivity encouraged them, and convinced that a single step in retreat would bring the pack upon me, I determined in a moment of inspiration to run amuck, and trust to Providence for the consequences. Flinging my arms wildly into the air, and frantically yelling with all my lungs, I dashed straight in for the lot of them. They were, as I expected, taken by surprise. They jumped to their feet and turned tail, but again stopped—this time farther off, and howled with vexation at having to wait till their prey succumbed.

The sun rose. Samson was on the move. I shouted to him, and he to me. Finding me thus reinforced the enemy slunk off, and I was not sorry to see the last of my ugly foes. I now repeated my instructions about our trysting place, waited patiently till Samson had breakfasted (which he did with the most exasperating deliberation), saw him saddle my horse and leave his camp. I then started upon my travels up the river, to meet him. After a mile or so, the high ground on both banks obliged us to make some little detour. We then lost sight of each other; nor was he to be seen when I reached the appointed spot.

Long before I did so I began to feel the effects of my labours. My naked feet were in a terrible state from the cactus thorns, which I had been unable to avoid in the dark; occasional stones, too, had bruised and made them very tender. Unable to shuffle on at more than two miles an hour at fastest, the happy thought occurred to me of tearing up my shirt and binding a half round each foot. This enabled me to get on much better; but when the September sun was high, my unprotected skin and head paid the penalty. I waited for a couple of hours, I dare say, hoping Samson would appear. But concluding at length that he had arrived long before me, through the slowness of my early progress, and had gone further up the river—thinking perhaps that I had meant some other place—I gave him up; and, full of internal ‘d—n’ at his incorrigible consistency, plodded on and on for—I knew not where.

Why, it may be asked, did I not try to cross where I had intended? I must confess my want of courage. True, the river here was not half, not a third, of the width of the scene of my disasters; but I was weak in body and in mind. Had anything human been on the other side to see me—to see how brave I was, (alas! poor human nature!)—I could have plucked up heart to risk it. It would have been such a comfort to have some one to see me drown! But it is difficult to play the hero with no spectators save oneself. I shall always have a fellow-feeling with the Last Man: practically, my position was about as uncomfortable as his will be.

One of the worst features of it was, what we so often suffered from before—the inaccessibility of water. The sun was broiling, and the and soil reflected its scorching rays. I was feverish from exhaustion, and there was nothing, nothing to look forward to. Mile after mile I crawled along, sometimes half disposed to turn back, and try the deep but narrow passage; then that inexhaustible fountain of last hopes—the Unknown—tempted me to go forward. I persevered; when behold! as I passed a rock, an Indian stood before me.

He was as naked as I was. Over his shoulder he carried a spear as long as a salmon rod. Though neither had foreseen the other, he was absolutely unmoved, showed no surprise, no curiosity, no concern. He stood still, and let me come up to him. My only, or rather my uppermost, feeling was gladness. Of course the thought crossed me of what he might do if he owed the white skins a grudge. If any white man had ever harmed one of his tribe, I was at his mercy; and it was certain that he would show me none. He was a tall powerful man, and in my then condition he could have done what he pleased with me. Friday was my model; the red man was Robinson Crusoe. I kneeled at his feet, and touched the ground with my forehead. He did not seem the least elated by my humility: there was not a spark of vanity in him. Indeed, except for its hideousness and brutality, his face was without expression.

I now proceeded to make a drawing, with my finger, in the sand, of a mule in the water; while I imitated by pantomime the struggles of the drowning. I then pointed to myself; and, using my arms as in swimming, shook my head and my finger to signify that I could not swim. I worked an imaginary paddle, and made him understand that I wanted him to paddle me across the river. Still he remained unmoved; till finally I used one argument which interested him more than all the rest of my story. I untied a part of the shirt round one foot and showed him three gold studs. These I took out and gave to him. I also made a drawing of a rifle in the sand, and signified that he would get the like if he went with me to my camp. Whereupon he turned in the direction I was going; and, though unbidden by a look, I did not hesitate to follow.

I thought I must have dropped before we reached his village. This was an osier-bed at the water’s side, where the whole river rushed through a rocky gorge not more than fifty to sixty yards broad. There were perhaps nearly a hundred Indians here, two-thirds of whom were women and children. Their habitations were formed by interlacing the tops of the osiers. Dogs’ skins spread upon the ground and numerous salmon spears were their only furniture. In a few minutes my arrival created a prodigious commotion. The whole population turned out to stare at me. The children ran into the bushes to hide. But feminine curiosity conquered feminine timidity. Although I was in the plight of the forlorn Odysseus after his desperate swim, I had no ‘blooming foliage’ to wind περὶ χροῒ μήδεα φωτός. Unlike the PhÆacian maidens, however, the tawny nymphs were all as brave as Princess Nausicaa herself. They stared, and pointed, and buzzed, and giggled, and even touched my skin with the tips of their fingers—to see, I suppose, if the white would come off.

But ravenous hunger turned up its nose at flirtation. The fillets of drying salmon suspended from every bough were a million times more seductive than the dark Naiads who had dressed them. Slice after slice I tore down and devoured, as though my maw were as compendious as Jack the Giant Killer’s. This so astonished and delighted the young women that they kept supplying me,—with the expectation, perhaps, that sooner or later I must share the giant’s fate.

While this was going on, a conference was being held; and I had the satisfaction of seeing some men pull up a lot of dead rushes, dexterously tie them into bundles, and truss these together by means of spears. They had no canoes, for the very children were amphibious, living, so it seemed, as much in the water as out of it. When the raft was completed, I was invited to embark. My original friend, who had twisted a tow-rope, took this between his teeth, and led the way. Others swam behind and beside me to push and to pull. The force of the water was terrific; but they seemed to care no more for that than fish. My weight sunk the rush bundles a good bit below the surface; and to try my nerves, my crew every now and then with a wild yell dived simultaneously, dragging the raft and me under water. But I sat tight; and with genuine friendliness they landed me safely on the desired shore.

It was quite dark before we set forth. Robinson Crusoe walked on as if he knew exactly where my camp was. Probably the whole catastrophe had by this time been bruited for miles above and below the spot. Five other stalwart young fellows kept us company, each with salmon spear in hand. The walk seemed interminable; but I had shipped a goodly cargo of latent energy.

When I got home, instead of Samson, I found the camp occupied by half a dozen Indians. They were squatted round a fire, smoking. Each one, so it seemed, had appropriated some article of our goods. Our blankets were over their shoulders. One had William’s long rifle in his lap. Another was sitting upon mine. A few words were exchanged with the newcomers, who seated themselves beside their friends; but no more notice was taken of me than of the mules which were eating rushes close to us. How was I, single-handed, to regain possession? That was the burning question. A diplomatic course commanded itself as the only possible one. There were six men who expected rewards, but the wherewithal was held in seisin by other six. The fight, if there were one, should be between the two parties. I would hope to prove, that when thieves fall out honest men come by their own.

There is one adage whose truth I needed no further proof of. Its first line apostrophises the ‘Gods and little fishes.’ My chief need was for the garment which completes the rhyme. Indians, having no use for corduroy small clothes, I speedily donned mine. Next I quietly but quickly snatched up William’s rifle, and presented it to Robinson Crusoe, patting him on the back as if with honours of knighthood. The dispossessed was not well pleased, but Sir Robinson was; and, to all appearances, he was a man of leading, if of darkness. While words were passing between the two, I sauntered round to the gentleman who sat cross-legged upon my weapon. He was as heedless of me as I, outwardly, of him. When well within reach, mindful that ‘de l’audace’ is no bad motto, in love and war, I suddenly placed my foot upon his chest, tightened the extensor muscle of my leg, and sent him heels over head. In an instant the rifle was mine, and both barrels cocked. After yesterday’s immersion it might not have gone off, but the offended Indian, though furious, doubtless inferred from the histrionic attitude which I at once struck, that I felt confident it would. With my rifle in hand, with my suite looking to me to transfer the plunder to them, my position was now secure. I put on a shirt—the only one left to me, by the way—my shoes and stockings, and my shooting coat; and picking out William’s effects, divided these, with his ammunition, his carpet-bag, and his blankets, amongst my original friends. I was beginning to gather my own things together, when Samson, leading my horse, unexpectedly rode into the midst of us. The night was far advanced. The Indians took their leave; and added to the obligation by bequeathing us a large fresh salmon, which served us for many a day to come.

As a postscript I may add that I found poor Mary’s address on one of her letters, and faithfully kept my promise as soon as I reached pen and ink.