Late that
afternoon and from the east bank, as Goodnight and I were scanning the
opposite side of the river, a lone man, almost naked, emerged from a
cave across the channel and above us. Had it not been for his missing
arm it is doubtful if we should have recognized him, for he seemed
demented. We rode opposite and hailed, when he skulked back into his
refuge; but we were satisfied that it was Wilson. The other searchers
were signaled to, and finding an entrance into the river, we swam it
and rode up to the cave. A shout of welcome greeted us, and the next
instant Wilson staggered out of the cavern, his eyes filled with
tears.
He was in a horrible physical condition, and bewildered. We were an
hour getting his story. They had been ambushed by Indians and ran for
the brakes of the river, but were compelled to abandon their horses,
one of which was captured, the other escaping. Loving was wounded
twice, in the wrist and the side, but from the cover gained they had
stood off the savages until darkness fell. During the night Loving,
unable to walk, believed that he was going to die, and begged Wilson
to make his escape, and if possible return to the herd. After making
his employer as comfortable as possible, Wilson buried his own rifle,
pistols, and knife, and started on his return to the herd. Being
one-armed, he had discarded his boots and nearly all his clothing to
assist him in swimming the river, which he had done any number of
times, traveling by night and hiding during the day.
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