Field, as you probably remember, always kept his face cleanly shaved.

Even while we were starving he would shave almost every day.

The ox was tired and worn out and so was Field; but he got the razor ready and soon had hold of that tail again.
Off went the ox, the keen razor was applied, soon the tendons parted and down went the ox.

But only half the victory was won, for the ox would raise up on his front feet and show fight; but after resting awhile the would-be victor rushed up, caught the poor beast by the horns, pushed him over on his side, held him down and cut his throat.
After a long, much needed rest he cut out a piece of the poor beef, broiled and ate it, and then spent the remainder of the day in hunting out the small, lean muscles that still remained between the skin and bones of the poor old ox.

The poor beef was jerked and put into the sack which on the following morning was thrown upon the back of its owner, and from which he fed for the next six days, at the end of which he arrived at Fort Bridger.