He told me, poor fellow, that two days before, as he was returning from prospecting up towards the back ranges, his horse got away, and he _couldn't_ catch him.

No: he tried with all his might and main, for in his swag, which was strapped to the D's of his saddle, was not only his blanket, but his baccy, and tea, and damper, and a glass o' grog.

The curious thing, too, was that the horse didn't bolt right away, as they generally do: he jest walked a-head, knowing his master was bound to follow wherever he led, for in coorse he had hopes to catch him every moment.

That ere brute, he never laid down nor rested,--jest kep slowly moving on, as if he was a Lunnon street-boy, with a bobby at his heels.
Through creeks and rivers and swamps he led that poor fellow.

His boots got chuck full o' cold water, and when the sun went down it friz into solid hice; and that misfortnit man he felt his legs--which was his life, you see, ma'am--gradially dyin' under him.