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Updated: June 5, 2025
In this position he caught a glimpse of the sled and of John Thompson's black beard pointing skyward. Also he saw the lead dog licking the face of the man who lay on the trail. Morganson watched curiously. The dog was nervous and eager. Sometimes it uttered short, sharp yelps, as though to arouse the man, and surveyed him with ears cocked forward and wagging tail.
The men and dogs drew closer, and he could see their breaths spouting into visibility in the cold air. When the first man was fifty yards away, Morganson slipped the mitten from his right hand. He placed the first finger on the trigger and aimed low. When he fired the first man whirled half around and went down on the trail.
Morganson mastered his drunkenness long enough to swallow the whisky, say good night, and get out on the trail. It was moonlight, and he hobbled along through the bright, silvery quiet, with a vision of life before him that took the form of a roll of hundred-dollar bills. He awoke. It was dark, and he was in his blankets.
As the dark object came nearer he made it out to be a man, without dogs or sled, travelling light. He grew nervous, cocked the trigger, then put it back to half-cock again. The man developed into an Indian, and Morganson, with a sigh of disappointment, dropped the rifle across his knees. The Indian went on past and disappeared towards Minto behind the out-jutting clump of trees.
Morganson and his command were taken to Camp Chase for safe keeping, and Gen. Anderson returned to Allentown to enjoy the leave of absence interrupted by the raiders. "Joseph Dent came in the next morning after Gen. Dr. Adams inquired who this Gen. Morganson was. Uncle Daniel said: "He was part of Forrester's command, that had raided around Rosenfelt so much during the previous Winter and Spring.
The first shot was a hit: he knew it; but the moose turned and broke for the wooded hillside that came down to the swale. Morganson pumped bullets wildly among the trees and brush at the fleeing animal, until it dawned upon him that he was exhausting the ammunition he needed for the sled-load of life for which he waited. He stopped shooting, and watched.
Morganson turned upon this small force and drove it back, making his escape. Gen. Anderson followed him up closely, however, forcing him to change his course in the direction of the river. Gen. Broomfield had withdrawn a small force from Kentucky, which finally joined Gen. Anderson. Morganson was preparing to cross the river at a point near an island, the water being shallow there. Gen.
While watching by the bank he got into the habit of taking his mitten off and thrusting the hand inside his shirt so as to rest the thumb in the warmth of his arm-pit. A mail carrier came over the trail, and Morganson let him pass. A mail carrier was an important person, and was sure to be missed immediately. On the first day after his last flour had gone it snowed.
As his eyes adjusted themselves, he saw three men sitting around the stove. They were trail-travellers he knew it at once; and since they had not passed in, they were evidently bound out. They would go by his tent next morning. The barkeeper emitted a long and marvelling whistle. "I thought you was dead," he said. "Why?" Morganson asked in a faltering voice.
John Thompson lay back along the top of the loaded sled, his head sunk in a space between two sacks and his chin tilted upwards, so that all Morganson could see was the black beard pointing skyward. Finding it impossible to face the dogs Morganson stepped off the trail into the deep snow and floundered in a wide circle to the rear of the sled.
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