He did not directly accuse himself; he had done as well as he could; he blamed "things," and said to himself, "it's my luck," by which he meant to express a profound feeling of dejection and weakness as of one in the grasp of inimical powers.

By the working of unfriendly forces he was lying there under the pines, hungry, tired, chilled, and lone as a wolf.
Jack was far away, Mary lost forever to him, and the officers of the law again on his trail.

It was a time to make a boy a man, a bitter and revengeful man.
The night grew chill, and he was forced to walk up and down, wrapped in his saddle blanket to keep warm.

Fuel was scarce, and his small fire sufficed only to warm him in minute sections, and hunger had thinned his blood.

He was tired and sleepy, too, but dared not lie down for fear of being chilled.