The work so well begun was prosecuted with great energy. The ruffians had fled from Virginia City and Bannack, over the range to Deer Lodge and Bitter Root, intending gradually to return to their old haunts in Idaho. The Vigilantes, resolved that they should not escape, took up the pursuit. A company of twenty-one, under the command of a competent leader, left Nevada on the fifteenth of January. Arriving at Big Hole in the evening, they sent a detachment to Clark’s ranche to arrest the bandit Steve Marshland, who was laid up with frozen feet, and the wound which he had received in the breast while attacking Moody’s train. Receiving no response to their repeated raps at the door of the cabin, one of the party entered, and, lighting a wisp of straw, found Marshland in bed.
“Hands up, if you please,” said he, pointing his revolver at the head of the prostrate robber, who obeyed the command as well as circumstances would admit.
“Are you sick, Steve?” queried the Vigilante.
“Yes—very,” faintly responded Marshland.
“No one with you?”
“No one,—no living thing but the dog.”
“What is the matter?”
“I’ve got the chills.”
“Strange! New kind of sickness for winter! Nothing else the matter?”
“Yes. I froze my feet while prospecting at the head of Rattlesnake Creek.”