The men pursued their journey, following the devious windings of Clark’s Fork to its junction with the Snake River, and thence on to Lewiston,—a tract of country at that time more disastrous for winter travel than perhaps any other equal portion of the continent. There were no roads, and the solitary Indian trail leading over the mountains, through cañons, and across large rivers, for much of the distance was obscured by snow, and in many places difficult and dangerous of passage. Had their object been anything less than to avenge the death of their friend, they would have turned back, and consoled themselves with the reflection that it was not worth the risk and exposure needful to win it; but, with that in view, they welcomed privation and danger while a single hope remained of its accomplishment. At Lewiston, Coburn remained on the lookout, while Thompson continued the pursuit farther west. At the hotel in Walla Walla, Thompson found Kelley’s name upon the register. He learned, on inquiring of the clerk, that he had told him he came from the Beaverhead mines. The barber who shaved him remembered him, because he paid him an extra price for the service. Kelley had purchased a new suit of clothes, of which Thompson procured a sample. With these clews Thompson hastened to Portland, and ascertained that Kelley had spent nine days there, and left by steamer for San Francisco. In fact, on the day that Thompson arrived at Portland, Kelley entered the harbor of San Francisco. Thompson telegraphed the chief of police to arrest and detain him until he arrived. He had taken the precaution to obtain requisitions from the Governor of Idaho on the Governors of Oregon, California, and Washington, and a commission as special deputy United States marshal. Chief Burke, on receipt of the telegram, called at the hotel where Kelley had taken quarters, and, not finding him, gave no further attention to the matter. Learning on his return that he had been inquired after, Kelley, suspicious of the object, left the city at once, taking with him an overcoat and pistol belonging to a fellow boarder. Thompson found, on his arrival at San Francisco, that the bird had flown, but in what direction he was unable to ascertain. After spending some time in fruitless inquiry, he returned home with nothing better than his labor for his pains. It was a sore disappointment, but none the less demonstrative as an illustration of personal devotion and attachment.