The Jamesburg Record

A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.

A letter from an army officer in Montana contains the following account of a terrible and almost fatal adventure in an alkali desert, experienced by the writer of the letter during the past summer:

"I was lost in an alkali desert. I was without food or water, and made a determined effort to reach the river. My mules became exhausted from thirst and hunger, and then I walked. I led the mules while my driver went behind and pushed on the wagon. In this way, after a desperate struggle, we reached the river's bank only to encounter new difficulties which were wholly insurmountable. The bank was sandstone, about 700 feet high and perpendicular. I followed it up and down for miles, occasionally finding a broken place, but no place where a descent could be made.

I was almost dying of thirst, and looked down upon the shining waters below, whose musical ripples only taunted my sufferings. I returned to the wagon, night came on, and I almost concluded to give up the struggle and die there. Then I thought it would not be a brave thing to give up and die like that, but resolved to die manfully, fighting for life. So I took my rifle and spent the night firing signals of distress, and as the sounds would roll across the dreary waste they would only be answered by the howling wolves, who were on hand in force anticipating my situation and thinking of a good square meal. To tell the truth, they made me mad, and I resolved to fool them, and even looked over the brink and thought of throwing myself down. It was about as lonesome a night as I ever spent. The driver, a big, strong fellow, did the sleeping, the mules did the groaning, while I stood my ground and fought off the wolves.

As the morning began to dawn I took a survey of my situation, and resolved upon another struggle. The driver was a little rested, but we had been about forty-eight hours without food and drink. The mules were used up and not able to pull the wagon, so I abandoned everything taking only my rifle and ammunition, and started across the desert on foot in search of the camp.

Nothing but the pen of an inspired writer can describe the sufferings of that day's march. It was a dreadful hot day. There was not a tree, a shrub, or even a blade of grass to protect me from the burning sands, which reflected the rays of the sun like blasts from a fiery furnace. Not a living thing was there, even to a fly or a grasshopper. There were only the ravenous wolves that were following us up, ready to pick our bones before life became extinct. Several times I laid down to die, but after a little rest I would change my mind on the subject, rally and go on.

I got beyond the point of hunger, or I would have killed the poor unfortunate mule, who was plodding sorrowfully along with us, a partner in our sufferings. The resolution to struggle on grew stronger with me while it grew weaker with the driver, and I found it hard to rally him. I felt that I was losing my reason, fancied I saw fountains and waterfalls in the distance, and greeted the driver as a party sent to my relief. One thing I kept uppermost in my mind was to struggle on and never give up. Then I thought of my family and friends and all I had to live for, and the whisper would come almost audibly, "Push on! push on!"

As the sun was descending I reached camp, staggered to my tent, fell upon my bed and it was all over. The last glimmer of expiring reason went out and left me in the gloom of insanity, which led me back again to the desert. For days and nights I renewed the struggle across the burning sands, and sometimes would get almost home only to be swept back again. My constant cry was for water, and I drank at shady fountains that never quenched my thirst, but always lured me on. My wife came and nursed me back to health and reason, but it was long and tedious. The horrors haunted me in my dreams for weeks, and I never went to bed without my canteen of water. Even now I am thirsty thinking of it."