“I succeeded in getting it there, but it would not remain. It was too stiff to bend over, and there was no way to steady it.
“Besides, the horse became greatly excited, at sight of the strange load he was being called upon to carry.
“After several attempts, I saw I could not succeed.
“I was about to give up the idea, when another occurred to me—one that promised better. It was suggested by a remembrance of something I had read, relating to the Gauchos of South America. When one dies, or is killed by accident, in some remote station of the Pampas, his comrades carry his corpse to their distant home—strapped in the saddle, and seated in the same attitude, as though he were still alive.
“Why should I not do the same with the body of Henry Poindexter?
“I made the attempt—first trying to set him on his own horse.
“But the saddle being a flat one, and the animal still remaining restive, I did not succeed.
“There was but one other chance of our making the home journey together: by exchanging horses.
“I knew that my own would not object. Besides, my Mexican saddle, with its deep tree, would answer admirably for the purpose.
“In a short while I had the body in it, seated erect,—in the natural position. Its stiffness, that had obstructed me before, now served to keep it in its place. The rigid limbs were easily drawn into the proper stride; and with the feet inserted into the stirrups, and the water-guards buckled tightly over the thighs, there was little chance of the body slipping off.