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 The next morning Watson and Sevier saw Jack depart by the daily stage for Fredericksburgh, the latter having promised to write immediately on his arrival there, and climbing into the stage, he waved good-bye, carrying with him the picture of whole-souled honesty clad in a hickory shirt.

The great boot was strapped over the baggage behind, everything stowed away, and the driver cracked his whip over the horses' heads as off they went. The Colorado River was not then bridged and must be forded. The horses were accustomed to it though, and even when the water reached their bellies, they still plunged on. Over the old stage road to Yuma, Arizona, they were going, and were soon climbing the bluffs west of the Colorado. From Austin, the road is one continuous rise, and by nightfall they were travelling over a rolling prairie. Jack's only companion was a German who neither spoke nor understood one word of English, but was well armed. His own six-shooter, presented to him by Watson, was handy and