The next morning poor Halliwell braced himself for the fearful struggle of another day. Boone had learned from the Indians that they expected to reach their town at the close of the third full day’s march. This prospect alone gave the fever-stricken man the courage to proceed. Boone carried Halliwell’s pack in addition to his own and the sick man’s comrades took turns in supporting his tottering steps. Many a sinister glance was cast by the nearby savages at the evidently exhausted captive, but Boone was ever ready to avert the impending doom. He tramped along carelessly, almost jauntily, under his double load and constantly kept the neighboring redskins entertained--now he joked with them, offering to match himself against any squaw in their tribe at carrying a pack; now he pointed to the faint trace of some game animal that had lately passed that way and started a discussion of the best manner of tracking it. Anon he gave them a description of one of the great coast towns of the “Long Knives,” of which he knew only by hearsay. Again he sang a song or started a contest in mimicry with some brave, each being required to imitate the cries of certain beasts and birds. And so the weary day drew to a close and Halliwell, almost carried by one of his companions, reached the night’s camp. The sick man was in a sorry plight. He had neither the will nor the power to make the slightest effort for himself. He dropped almost inanimate and so lay until Boone and another made his bed and rolled him in the blankets. A large stone was then heated in the fire and placed at his feet, with the object of producing a sweat. He was with difficulty induced to swallow a little broth, and then lay for hours in a semi-comatose condition, groaning feebly. Towards midnight Halliwell awoke from a brief and restless slumber and turned to Boone, who was watching him. “Captain,” said the sick man, in feeble tones--“Captain, you’ve done all you could for me and more than I had a right to expect, but I’m afraid it’s no use. I’ve shot my bolt, Captain.” The last words were uttered with an air of the deepest despair. A moment after, ashamed at the show of weakness, he continued, with a pitiful attempt at bravado: “I’m half minded to ask you to whip my scalp off, Captain, so as to cheat these red devils.” “You’ve got to make a better stand than that, Steve,” replied Boone. “If I’d had any idea of letting you lose your scalp, I shouldn’t have gone to the trouble of carrying your pack to-day. We haven’t got to to-morrow yet. Now you go to sleep and don’t worry until worrying can do you some good, which’ll be never. If it’ll give you any satisfaction, I’ll say this much. No Indian shall raise your hair whilst I can raise a hand to prevent it.” This assurance evidently cheered the wretched man. With a sigh of relief, he composed himself to sleep, whilst Boone rearranged his coverings.