Upon reaching the river, Crockett took a canoe and paddled across.  On the other shore he found an Indian.  Instead of shooting him, he much more sensibly entered into relations of friendly trade with the savage.  The Indian had a little household in his solitary wigwam, and a small quantity of corn in store.  Crockett wore a large hat.  Taking it from his head, he offered the Indian a silver dollar if he would fill it with corn.  But the little bit of silver, with enigmatical characters stamped upon it, was worth nothing to the Indian.  He declined the offer.  Speaking a little broken English, he inquired, “You got any powder?  You got any bullets?” Crockett told him he had.  He promptly replied, “Me will swap my corn for powder and bullets.”

Eagerly the man gave a hatful of corn for ten bullets and ten charges of powder.  He then offered another hatful at the same price.  Crockett took off his hunting-shirt, tied it up so as to make a sort of bag, into which he poured his two hatfuls of corn.  With this great treasure he joyfully paddled across the stream to rejoin his companions.  It is pleasant to think that the poor Indian was not shot, that his wigwam was not burned over his head, and that he was left with means to provide his wife and children with many luxurious meals.

The army reached Fort Decatur.  One single meal consumed all the provisions which the garrison could by any possibility spare.  They had now entered upon a rough, hilly, broken country.  The horses found but little food, and began to give out.  About fifty miles farther up the Coosa River there was another military station, in the lonely wilds, called Fort William.  Still starving, and with tottering horses, they toiled on.  Parched corn, and but a scanty supply of that, was now almost their only subsistence.

They reached the fort.  One ration of pork and one ration of flour were mercifully given them.  It was all which could be spared.  To remain where they were was certain starvation.  Forty miles above them on the same stream was Fort Strother.  Sadly they toiled along.  The skeleton horses dropped beneath their riders, and were left, saddled and bridled, for the vultures and the wolves.  On their route to Fort Strother they passed directly by the ancient Indian fort of Talladega.  It will be remembered that a terrible battle had been fought here by General Jackson with the Indians, on the 7th of December, 1813.  In the carnage of that bloody day nearly five hundred Indians fell.  Those who escaped scattered far and wide.  A few of them sought refuge in distant Florida.

The bodies of the slain were left unburied.  Slowly the flesh disappeared from the bones, either devoured by wild beasts or decomposed by the action of the atmosphere.  The field, as now visited, presented an appalling aspect.  Crockett writes: 

“We went through the old battle-ground, and it looked like a great gourd-patch.  The skulls of the Indians who were killed, still lay scattered all about.  Many of their frames were still perfect, as their bones had not separated.”