My pen fails me as I try to tell the feelings and thoughts of this trying hour.
I can never hope to do so, but if the reader can place himself in my place, his imagination cannot form a picture that shall go beyond reality.
We were some seven or eight miles along the road when I stopped to fix my moccasin while Rogers went slowly along.

The little mule went on ahead of both of us, searching all around for little bunches of dry grass, but always came back to the trail again and gave us no trouble.
When I had started up again I saw Rogers ahead leaning on his gun and waiting for me, apparently looking at something on the ground.

As I came near enough to speak I asked what he had found and he said--"Here is Capt.

Culverwell, dead." He did not look much like a dead man.

He lay upon his back with arms extended wide, and his little canteen, made of two powder flasks, lying by his side.