When Porter saw all hope was lost, he paroled three of the four prisoners he had kept; but Andrew Allsman was held, and from that day all authentic news of him ceases.[11] [Footnote 11: It is claimed by friends of Porter that he also paroled Allsman, and that he had nothing to do with his disappearance.] Porter did not rally his band; he collected as many as he could and fled south into Arkansas, where he held a commission as colonel in a regiment of provisional troops. Owing to this pursuit six days had elapsed before Harry could get back to Palmyra. During this period the thought of Bruno keeping his lonely watch over that blanket caused Harry many a sharp pain. More than once he thought of deserting and going to the relief of the animal. Those of the officers who knew the story laughed at Harry's fears, saying no dog would stay and watch a blanket until he starved, but Harry knew better. Upon reaching Palmyra he rode with all haste to the fair grounds where he had left Bruno. He found the dog lying with his head and forepaws on the blanket, his eyes closed. So still he lay, so gaunt he looked, that Harry's heart gave a great bound; he feared he was dead. But the moment Harry's footsteps were heard, Bruno gave a hoarse growl and staggered to his feet, every hair on his back bristling. But no sooner did he see who it was than he gave a joyful bark and attempted to spring forward to meet him, but fell from weakness. In a moment Harry's arms were around his neck and he was weeping like a child. The dog licked his hands and his face in an ecstasy of joy. "Bruno, Bruno, to love me like this, after I left you to starve and die," sobbed Harry, "but I couldn't help it, if the guerrillas had seen you they would never have let you live. They would rather have your life than mine, and Bruno you are worth a dozen of me." If ever a dog was cared for and fed tidbits, it was Bruno, and in a few days he showed no signs of his fast. The taking of Palmyra was a humiliating affair to General McNeil. That the town in which he made his headquarters should be raided, every Union citizen in it captured, one shot down and another carried off, and in all probability murdered, was a bitter pill for him to swallow. He had often declared that if any more murders were committed in his district he would shoot ten guerrillas for every man murdered. Had the time come for him to make that threat good? McNeil was not naturally a cruel man; to his friends he was one of the kindest and most generous of men, but to his foes he was relentless. He believed that the guerrillas of Missouri had broken every law of civilized warfare, and were entitled to no mercy. But now that the time had come for him to make his threats good, he hesitated. He arose and paced his room. "No, no," he murmured, "I cannot do it. There must be some way out of it."