When they awoke in the morning the horses were all gone.  By examining the trail it seemed that they had taken the back-track in search of their homes.  Crockett, who was the most vigorous and athletic of the three, leaving Robinson and Rich in the camp, set out in pursuit of the runaways.  It was a rough and dreary path he had to tread.  There was no comfortable road to traverse, but a mere path through forest, bog, and ravine, which, at times, it was difficult to discern.  He had hills to climb, creeks to ford, swamps to wade through.  Hour after hour he pressed on, but the horses could walk faster than he could.  There was nothing in their foot-prints which indicated that he was approaching any nearer to them.

At last, when night came, and Crockett judged that he had walked fifty miles, he gave up the chase as hopeless.  Fortunately he reached the cabin of a settler, where he remained until morning.  A rapid walk, almost a run, of fifty miles in one day, is a very severe operation even for the most hardy of men.  When Crockett awoke, after his night’s sleep, he found himself so lame that he could scarcely move.  He was, however, anxious to get back with his discouraging report to his companions.  He therefore set out, and hobbled slowly and painfully along, hoping that exercise would gradually loosen his stiffened joints.

But, mile after mile, he grew worse rather than better.  His head began to ache very severely.  A burning fever spread through his veins.  He tottered in his walk, and his rifle seemed so heavy that he could scarcely bear its weight.  He was toiling through a dark and gloomy ravine, damp and cold, and thrown into shade by the thick foliage of the overhanging trees.  So far as he knew, no human habitation was near.  Night was approaching.  He could go no farther.  He had no food; but he did not need any, for a deathly nausea oppressed him.  Utterly exhausted, he threw himself down upon the grass and withered leaves, on a small dry mound formed by the roots of a large tree.

Crockett had no wish to die.  He clung very tenaciously to life, and yet he was very apprehensive that then and there he was to linger through a few hours of pain, and then die, leaving his unburied body to be devoured by wild beasts, and his friends probably forever ignorant of his fate.  Consumed by fever, and agitated by these painful thoughts, he remained for an hour or two, when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps and of human voices.  His sensibilities were so stupefied by his sickness that these sounds excited but little emotion.

Soon three or four Indians made their appearance walking along the narrow trail in single file.  They saw the prostrate form of the poor, sick white man, and immediately gathered around him.  The rifle of Crockett, and the powder and bullets which be had, were, to these Indians, articles of almost inestimable value.  One blow of the tomahawk would send the helpless man to realms where rifles and ammunition were no longer needed, and his priceless treasures would fall into their hands.  Indeed, it was not necessary even to strike that blow.  They had but to pick up the rifle, and unbuckle the belt which contained the powder-horn and bullet-pouch, and leave the dying man to his fate.