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 moulder in the sun and rains of heaven. Some of them were lying scattered near by, upon our arrival, which were collected by the sympathizing voyageurs, who bestowed upon them those rites of sepulture they had been so long and cruelly denied.

The reader will naturally enquire, what became of the supposed murderer? His was a fearful retribution, —a mournful tale of suffering, worse than death, till death itself in pity came to his relief.

Soon after the melancholy incident previously related, the shallowness of the Platte river compelled the company to abandon their boat, and make the best of their way to the States on foot, —a distance of two hundred and fifty miles to the nearest inhabitants, either Indian or white.

Their provisions running short, and no game at hand, a separation was had about midway of their journey, and each one hurried to its termination as rapidly as possible. The murderer, being but an indifferent walker, was soon left far in the rear.

His comrades, on their arrival at the Pawnee village, sent two Indians to bring him in, and continued their course to Council Bluffs.

Nothing further was known of the subject of our sketch, till some eight or nine days subsequent, when a small party of engagés in the employ of the American Fur Company, on passing the Pawnee village, were met by the head-chief, who requested them to visit a white man lying sick at his lodge.

They went. He was the murderer, at the point of death. His story was briefly told.

The night succeeding the departure of his companions, in an attempt to light a fire with his pistol, to disperse by its smoke the myriads of musquetoes that swarmed around and nearly devoured him, an unknown charge it contained was lodged in his thigh-bone — severing it to a thousand pieces. In this condition he lay helpless. To walk was impossible;— he could scarcely move, far less dress his wounds in a proper manner. He managed, however, to affix a piece of red

flannel to an upright stick, to tell the transient traveller the site of his supposed last resting place, then, crawling with difficulty to the river-side, he remained six days and nights—tormented by musquitoes, reduced by pain, and wasted by continued hunger, till scarcely the wreck of manhood was left him.

It was then he longed for death to terminate his agony. Still he could not endure the thoughts of dying.

Early in the morning of the seventh day, his ear caught the indistinct murmur of sounds. Were they human voices? — No, he must be dreaming. He hears them again, It is no dream; — they are human voices!

They approach. Is it to his assistance?

O'erjoyed he beholds two Pawnees bending over him, with compassion pictured expressively upon their countenances. They gave him meat, they dressed his wounds, and did everything in their power to alleviate his misery.

Oh, say not there is no pity in the bosom of the red man!

Having constructed a rude litter of poles, and using their own robes for his bed, they carefully conveyed him upon their shoulders to the place he yet occupied. But the care of sympathizing attendants failed to atone for previous neglect.