“Give me some water!” he exclaimed, with more energy of voice and manner, than I had ever known him to exhibit.
I replied by a negative shake of the head.
“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.