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Updated: July 5, 2025
Little Hanover pulled through all right, and to the end of his life he will persist, I know, in boring everybody with the narrative of his subsequent adventures. I got as far as Belmont, on the main road back, when I was robbed of my horse-meat by three militiamen. There was no change in the situation, they said, except that it was going from bad to worse.
But it must have been an unconscious survival of something of the sort that prompted the butcher to adorn with gay ribbons the poor nag led to the slaughter in the wake of the town drummer. He designed it as an advertisement that there would be fresh horse-meat for sale that day. The horse took it as a compliment and walked in the procession with visible pride.
"Of course we can eat horse-meat for a while after our victuals are gone, but we are three and they are twenty-seven we are prisoners and they are free." "Very true, sergeant," I replied, "but something may turn up in our favor. The Jemez party will reach camp day after to-morrow, and when it learns we are not there we shall be looked up." "If another party of Navajos don't jump them, sir."
But we have no meat, and soon we shall have eaten all the grain." "Well," said Fred, "if you need horse-meat, gosh durn you, take it from the Turks!" "Gosh durn you!" grinned three or four men, nudging one another. They were lost between a furtive habit born of hiding for dear life, a desire to be extremely friendly, and a new suspicion of Fred's high hand. Fred's next words added disconcertment.
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