The river is small, and very crooked; we crossed it many times within three days, and, at the end of that time, found ourselves in the mouth of a rocky canon, and after struggling for one whole day, we came to where the steep, high, stone walls closed the little river in on both sides, rendering it impossible for us to proceed any further.
We were now nearly out of food; the jerk was almost gone.

A council was held, and it was decided that we should return to the fort and take chances of being rescued, or scalped by some roving band of reds, or starving to death.

We at once set out on our return, full of disappointment and melancholy forebodings.
The next day found us without food: and now came into use the long, narrow strip of raw-hide which first bound together the old, rotting logs of which the raft was made, then to secure the mule of nights.

It was now almost as hard as bone, and nearly round, having been dragged through the hot sand while it was yet green and wet, closed up like a hollow tube with sand inside.

Two or three yards of it at a time, was cut into pieces about five inches long, the hair singed off, the sand scratched out, and these pieces were dropped into our camp kettle and cooked until the whole formed one mass of jelly or gluten which was, to us, quite palatable.