"Inhuman wretch!" he angrily cried out. "Do you refuse? Refuse to give
a dying man a drop of water!"
I once more endeavoured to convince him, that there would be danger in
his drinking any more water--that there was yet a chance for him to
live; but, while talking to him, I perceived a change suddenly stealing
over his features. He partly raised himself into a sitting position;
and then commenced cursing me, in the most horrible language I had ever
heard from the lips of a dying man!
After continuing at this for several minutes he sank back upon the
grass, and lay silent and motionless.
Allowing a short interval to elapse, I approached the prostrate form,
and gently laid my hand upon his forehead. I shall never forget the
sensation that thrilled through me, as I touched his skin. It was
already cold and clammy--convincing me that my prospecting companion had
ceased to live!
I passed the whole of the following day in trying to recover the mules.
Had I succeeded, I would have taken the body to some camp of diggers,
and buried it in a Christian manner.
As this was not possible, with my lame hands, I scooped out a shallow
grave; and buried the body as I best could.
Having completed my melancholy task, I started afoot to rejoin my
partners on the Yuba--where I arrived--after several days spent in
toilsome wandering--footsore and dispirited.
The adventure had taught me two lessons. Never to refuse any one a
drink of water when I could give it; and to be ever after careful in
interpreting the language of others--lest some wrong might be fancied,
where none was intended.
Volume One, Chapter XX.