A Deal in Wheat and Other Stories of the New and Old West

by Frank Norris

  A MEMORANDUM OF SUDDEN DEATH

  The manuscript of the account that follows belongs to a harness-maker inAlbuquerque, Juan Tejada by name, and he is welcome to whatever ofadvertisement this notice may bring him. He is a good fellow, and hispatented martingale for stage horses may be recommended. I understand hegot the manuscript from a man named Bass, or possibly Bass left it withhim for safe-keeping. I know that Tejada has some things of Bass'snow--things that Bass left with him last November: a mess-kit, a lanternand a broken theodolite--a whole saddle-box full of contraptions. Iforgot to ask Tejada how Bass got the manuscript, and I wish I had doneso now, for the finding of it might be a story itself. The probabilitiesare that Bass simply picked it up page by page off the desert, blownabout the spot where the fight occurred and at some little distance fromthe bodies. Bass, I am told, is a bone-gatherer by profession, and onecan easily understand how he would come across the scene of theencounter in one of his tours into western Arizona. My interest in theaffair is impersonal, but none the less keen. Though I did not knowyoung Karslake, I knew his stuff--as everybody still does, when you cometo that. For the matter of that, the mere mention of his pen-name,"Anson Qualtraugh," recalls at once to thousands of the readers of acertain world-famous monthly magazine of New York articles and storieshe wrote for it while he was alive; as, for instance, his admirabledescriptive work called "Traces of the Aztecs on the Mogolon Mesa," inthe October number of 1890. Also, in the January issue of 1892 there aretwo specimens of his work, one signed Anson Qualtraugh and the otherJustin Blisset. Why he should have used the Blisset signature I do notknow. It occurs only this once in all his writings. In this case it issigned to a very indifferent New Year's story. The Qualtraugh "stuff" ofthe same number is, so the editor writes to me, a much shortenedtranscript of a monograph on "Primitive Methods of Moki Irrigation,"which are now in the archives of the Smithsonian. The admirable novel,"The Peculiar Treasure of Kings," is of course well known. Karslakewrote it in 1888-89, and the controversy that arose about the incidentof the third chapter is still--sporadically and intermittently--continued.

  The manuscript that follows now appears, of course, for the first timein print, and I acknowledge herewith my obligations to Karslake'sfather, Mr. Patterson Karslake, for permission to publish.

  I have set the account down word for word, with all the hiatuses andbreaks that by nature of the extraordinary circumstances under which itwas written were bound to appear in it. I have allowed it to endprecisely as Karslake was forced to end it, in the middle of a sentence.God knows the real end is plain enough and was not far off when the poorfellow began the last phrase that never was to be finished.

  The value of the thing is self-apparent. Besides the narrative ofincidents it is a simple setting forth of a young man's emotions in thevery face of violent death. You will remember the distinguished victimof the guillotine, a lady who on the scaffold begged that she might bepermitted to write out the great thoughts that began to throng her mind.She was not allowed to do so, and the record is lost. Here is a casewhere the record is preserved. But Karslake, being a young man not verymuch given to introspection, his work is more a picture of things seenthan a transcription of things thought. However, one may read betweenthe lines; the very breaks are eloquent, while the break at the endspeaks with a significance that no words could attain.

  The manuscript in itself is interesting. It is written partly in pencil,partly in ink (no doubt from a fountain pen), on sheets of manila papertorn from some sort of long and narrow account-book. In two or threeplaces there are smudges where the powder-blackened finger and thumbheld the sheets momentarily. I would give much to own it, but Tejadawill not give it up without Bass's permission, and Bass has gone to theKlondike.

  As to Karslake himself. He was born in Raleigh, in North Carolina, in1868, studied law at the State University, and went to the Bahamas in1885 with the members of a government coast survey commission. Gave upthe practice of law and "went in" for fiction and the study of theethnology of North America about 1887. He was unmarried.

  The reasons for his enlisting have long been misunderstood. It was knownthat at the time of his death he was a member of B Troop of the SixthRegiment of United States Cavalry, and it was assumed that because ofthis fact Karslake was in financial difficulties and not upon good termswith his family. All this, of course, is untrue, and I have every reasonto believe that Karslake at this time was planning a novel of militarylife in the Southwest, and, wishing to get in closer touch with the_milieu_ of the story, actually enlisted in order to be able to writeauthoritatively. He saw no active service until the time when hisnarrative begins. The year of his death is uncertain. It was in thespring probably of 1896, in the twenty-eighth year of his age.

  There is no doubt he would have become in time a great writer. A youngman of twenty-eight who had so lively a sense of the value of accurateobservation, and so eager a desire to produce that in the very face ofdeath he could faithfully set down a description of his surroundings,actually laying down the rifle to pick up the pen, certainly waspossessed of extraordinary faculties.

  "They came in sight early this morning just after we had had breakfastand had broken camp. The four of us--'Bunt,' 'Idaho,' Estorijo andmyself--were jogging on to the southward and had just come up out of thedry bed of some water-hole--the alkali was white as snow in thecrevices--when Idaho pointed them out to us, three to the rear, two onone side, one on the other and--very far away--two ahead. Five minutesbefore, the desert was as empty as the flat of my hand. They seemedliterally to have _grown_ out of the sage-brush. We took them in throughmy field-glasses and Bunt made sure they were an outlying band ofHunt-in-the-Morning's Bucks. I had thought, and so had all of us, thatthe rest of the boys had rounded up the whole of the old man's hostileslong since. We are at a loss to account for these fellows here. Theyseem to be well mounted.

  "We held a council of war from the saddle without halting, but thereseemed very little to be done--but to go right along and wait fordevelopments. At about eleven we found water--just a pocket in the bedof a dried stream--and stopped to water the ponies. I am writing thisduring the halt.

  "We have one hundred and sixteen rifle cartridges. Yesterday was Friday,and all day, as the newspapers say, 'the situation remained unchanged.'We expected surely that the night would see some rather radical change,but nothing happened, though we stood watch and watch till morning. Ofyesterday's eight only six are in sight and we bring up reserves. We nowhave two to the front, one on each side, and two to the rear, all farout of rifle-range.

  [_The following paragraph is in an unsteady script and would appear tohave been written in the saddle. The same peculiarity occurs from timeto time in the narrative, and occasionally the writing is so broken asto be illegible_.]

  "On again after breakfast. It is about eight-fifteen. The other two havecome back--without 'reserves,' thank God. Very possibly they did not goaway at all, but were hidden by a dip in the ground. I cannot see thatany of them are nearer. I have watched one to the left of us steadilyfor more than half an hour and I am sure that he has not shortened thedistance between himself and us. What their plans are Hell only knows,but this silent, persistent escorting tells on the nerves. I do notthink I am afraid--as yet. It does not seem possible but that we willride into La Paz at the end of the fortnight exactly as we had planned,meet Greenock according to arrangements and take the stage on to therailroad. Then next month I shall be in San Antonio and report atheadquarters. Of course, all this is to be, of course; and this businessof to-day will make a good story to tell. It's an experience--good'material.' Very naturally I cannot now see how I am going to get out ofthis" [_the word "alive" has here been erased_], "but of course I_will_. Why 'of course'? I don't know. Maybe I am trying to deceivemyself. Frankly, it looks like a situation insoluble; but the solutionwill surely come right enough in good time.

  "Eleven o'clock.--No change.

  "Two-thirty P. M.--We are halted to tighten girths and to take a singleswall
ow of the canteens. One of them rode in a wide circle from the rearto the flank, about ten minutes ago, conferred a moment with his fellow,then fell back to his old position. He wears some sort of red cloth orblanket. We reach no more water till day after to-morrow. But we havesufficient. Estorijo has been telling funny stories en route.

  "Four o'clock P. M.--They have closed up perceptibly, and we have beendebating about trying one of them with Idaho's Winchester. No use;better save the ammunition. It looks...." [_the next words areundecipherable, but from the context they would appear to be_ "_as ifthey would attack to-night_"]"...we have come to know certain of themnow by nicknames. We speak of the Red One, or the Little One, or the Onewith the Feather, and Idaho has named a short thickset fellow on ourright 'Little Willie.' By God, I wish something would turn up--relief orfight. I don't care which. How Estorijo can cackle on, reeling off hissenseless, pointless funny stories, is beyond me. Bunt is almost as bad.They understand the fix we are in, I _know_, but how they can take it soeasily is the staggering surprise. I feel that I am as courageous aseither of them, but levity seems horribly inappropriate. I could killEstorijo joyfully.

  "Sunday morning.--Still no developments. We were so sure of somethingturning up last night that none of us pretended to sleep. But nothingstirred. There is no sneaking out of the circle at night. The moon isfull. A jack-rabbit could not have slipped by them unseen last night.

  "Nine o'clock (in the saddle).--We had coffee and bacon as usual atsunrise; then on again to the southeast just as before. For half an hourafter starting the Red One and two others were well within rifle-shot,nearer than ever before. They had worked in from the flank. But beforeIdaho could get a chance at them they dipped into a shallow arroyo, andwhen they came out on the other side were too far away to think ofshooting.

  "Ten o'clock.--All at once we find there are nine instead of eight;where and when this last one joined the band we cannot tell. He wears asombrero and army trousers, but the upper part of his body is bare.Idaho calls him 'Half-and-half.' He is riding a---- They're coming.

  "Later.--For a moment we thought it was the long-expected rush. The RedOne--he had been in the front--wheeled quick as a flash and camestraight for us, and the others followed suit. Great Heavens, how theyrode! We could hear them yelling on every side of us. We jumped off ourponies and stood behind them, the rifles across the saddles. But at fourhundred yards they all pivoted about and cantered off again leisurely.Now they followed us as before--three in the front, two in the rear andtwo on either side. I do not think I am going to be frightened when therush does come. I watched myself just now. I was excited, and I rememberBunt saying to me, 'Keep your shirt on, m'son'; but I was not afraid ofbeing killed. Thank God for that! It is something I've long wished tofind out, and now that I know it I am proud of it. Neither side fired ashot. I was not afraid. It's glorious. Estorijo is all right.

  "Sunday afternoon, one-thirty.--No change. It is unspeakably hot.

  "Three-fifteen.--The One with the Feather is walking, leading his pony.It seems to be lame." [_With this entry Karslake ended page five, andthe next page of the manuscript is numbered seven. It is very probable,however, that he made a mistake in the numerical sequence of his pages,for the narrative is continuous, and, at this point at least, unbroken.There does not seem to be any sixth page_.]

  "Four o'clock.--Is it possible that we are to pass another night ofsuspense? They certainly show no signs of bringing on the crisis, andthey surely would not attempt anything so late in the afternoon as this.It is a relief to feel that we have nothing to fear till morning, butthe tension of watching all night long is fearful.

  "Later.--Idaho has just killed the Little One.

  "Later.--Still firing.

  "Later.--Still at it.

  "Later, about five.--A bullet struck within three feet of me.

  "Five-ten.--Still firing.

  "Seven-thirty P. M., in camp.--It happened so quickly that it was allover before I realized. We had our first interchange of shots with themlate this afternoon. The Little One was riding from the front to theflank. Evidently he did not think he was in range--nor did any of us.All at once Idaho tossed up his rifle and let go without aiming--or soit seemed to me. The stock was not at his shoulder before the reportcame. About six seconds after the smoke had cleared away we could seethe Little One begin to lean backward in the saddle, and Idaho saidgrimly, 'I guess I got _you_.' The Little One leaned farther and farthertill suddenly his head dropped back between his shoulder-blades. He heldto his pony's mane with both hands for a long time and then all at oncewent off feet first. His legs bent under him like putty as his feettouched the ground. The pony bolted.

  "Just as soon as Idaho fired the others closed right up and began ridingaround us at top speed, firing as they went. Their aim was bad as arule, but one bullet came very close to me. At about half-past five theydrew off out of range again and we made camp right where we stood.Estorijo and I are both sure that Idaho hit the Red One, but Idahohimself is doubtful, and Bunt did not see the shot. I could swear thatthe Red One all but went off his pony. However, he seems active enoughnow.

  "Monday morning.--Still another night without attack. I have not sleptsince Friday evening. The strain is terrific. At daybreak this morning,when one of our ponies snorted suddenly, I cried out at the top of myvoice. I could no more have repressed it than I could have stopped myblood flowing; and for half an hour afterward I could feel my fleshcrisping and pringling, and there was a sickening weakness at the pit ofmy stomach. At breakfast I had to force down my coffee. They are stillin place, but now there are two on each side, two in the front, two inthe rear. The killing of the Little One seems to have heartened us allwonderfully. I am sure we will get out--somehow. But oh! the suspense ofit.

  "Monday morning, nine-thirty.--Under way for over two hours. There is nonew development. But Idaho has just said that they seem to be edging in.We hope to reach water to-day. Our supply is low, and the ponies arebeginning to hang their heads. It promises to be a blazing hot day.There is alkali all to the west of us, and we just commence to see therise of ground miles to the southward that Idaho says is the San JacintoMountains. Plenty of water there. The desert hereabout is vast andlonesome beyond words; leagues of sparse sage-brush, leagues ofleper-white alkali, leagues of baking gray sand, empty, heat-ridden, theabomination of desolation; and always--in whichever direction I turn myeyes--always, in the midst of this pale-yellow blur, a single figure inthe distance, blanketed, watchful, solitary, standing out sharp anddistinct against the background of sage and sand.

  "Monday, about eleven o'clock.--No change. The heat is appalling. Thereis just a----

  "Later.--I was on the point of saying that there was just a mouthful ofwater left for each of us in our canteens when Estorijo and Idaho bothat the same time cried out that they were moving in. It is true. Theyare within rifle range, but do not fire. We, as well, have decided toreserve our fire until something more positive happens.

  "Noon.--The first shot--for to-day--from the Red One. We are halted. Theshot struck low and to the left. We could see the sand spout up in acloud just as though a bubble had burst on the surface of the ground.

  "They have separated from each other, and the whole eight of them arenow in a circle around us. Idaho believes the Red One fired as a signal.Estorijo is getting ready to take a shot at the One with the Feather. Wehave the ponies in a circle around us. It looks as if now at last thiswas the beginning of the real business.

  Later, twelve-thirty-five.--Estorijo missed. Idaho will try with theWinchester as soon as the One with the Feather halts. He is gallopingtoward the Red One.

  "All at once, about two o'clock, the fighting began. This is the firstlet-up. It is now--God knows what time. They closed up suddenly andbegan galloping about us in a circle, firing all the time. They rodelike madmen. I would not have believed that Indian ponies could run soquickly. What with their yelling and the incessant crack of their riflesand the thud of their ponies' feet our horses at firs
t became veryrestless, and at last Idaho's mustang bolted clean away. We all stood toit as hard as we could. For about the first fifteen minutes it was hotwork. The Spotted One is hit. We are certain of that much, though we donot know whose gun did the work. My poor old horse is bleedingdreadfully from the mouth. He has two bullets in the stomach, and I donot believe he can stand much longer. They have let up for the last fewmoments, but are still riding around us, their guns at 'ready.' Everynow and then one of us fires, but the heat shimmer has come up over theground since noon and the range is extraordinarily deceiving.

  "Three-ten.--Estorijo's horse is down, shot clean through the head. Minehas gone long since. We have made a rampart of the bodies.

  "Three-twenty.--They are at it again, tearing around us incredibly fast,every now and then narrowing the circle. The bullets are strikingeverywhere now. I have no rifle, do what I can with my revolver, and tryto watch what is going on in front of me and warn the others when theypress in too close on my side." [_Karslake nowhere accounts for theabsence of his carbine. That a U. S. trooper should be without his gunwhile traversing a hostile country is a fact difficult to account for_.]

  "Three-thirty.--They have winged me--through the shoulder. Not bad, butit is bothersome. I sit up to fire, and Bunt gives me his knee on whichto rest my right arm. When it hangs it is painful.

  "Quarter to four.--It is horrible. Bunt is dying. He cannot speak, theball having gone through the lower part of his face, but back, near theneck. It happened through his trying to catch his horse. The animal wasstruck in the breast and tried to bolt. He reared up, backing away, andas we had to keep him close to us to serve as a bulwark Bunt followedhim out from the little circle that we formed, his gun in one hand, hisother gripping the bridle. I suppose every one of the eight fired at himsimultaneously, and down he went. The pony dragged him a little waysstill clutching the bridle, then fell itself, its whole weight rollingon Bunt's chest. We have managed to get him in and secure his rifle, buthe will not live. None of us knows him very well. He only joined usabout a week ago, but we all liked him from the start. He never spoke ofhimself, so we cannot tell much about him. Idaho says he has a wife inTorreon, but that he has not lived with her for two years; they did notget along well together, it seems. This is the first violent death Ihave ever seen, and it astonishes me to note how _unimportant_ it seems.How little anybody cares--after all. If I had been told of hisdeath--the details of it, in a story or in the form of fiction--it iseasily conceivable that it would have impressed me more with itsimportance than the actual scene has done. Possibly my mental vision isscaled to a larger field since Friday, and as the greater issues loom upone man more or less seems to be but a unit--more or less--in an eternalseries. When he was hit he swung back against the horse, still holdingby the rein. His feet slid from under him, and he cried out, 'My _God_!'just once. We divided his cartridges between us and Idaho passed me hiscarbine. The barrel was scorching hot.

  "They have drawn off a little and for fifteen minutes, though they stillcircle us slowly, there has been no firing. Forty cartridges left.Bunt's body (I think he is dead now) lies just back of me, and alreadythe gnats--I can't speak of it."

  [_Karslake evidently made the next few entries at successive intervalsof time, but neglected in his excitement to note the exact hour asabove. We may gather that "They" made another attack and then repeatedthe assault so quickly that he had no chance to record it properly. Itranscribe the entries in exactly the disjointed manner in which theyoccur in the original. The reference to the "fire" is unexplainable_.]

  "I shall do my best to set down exactly what happened and what I do andthink, and what I see.

  "The heat-shimmer spoiled my aim, but I am quite sure that either

  "This last rush was the nearest. I had started to say that though theheat-shimmer was bad, either Estorijo or myself wounded one of theirponies. We saw him stumble.

  "Another rush----

  "Our ammunition

  "Only a few cartridges left.

  "The Red One like a whirlwind only fifty yards away.

  "We fire separately now as they sneak up under cover of our smoke.

  "We put the fire out. Estorijo--" [_It is possible that Karslake hadbegun here to chronicle the death of the Mexican_.]

  "I have killed the Spotted One. Just as he wheeled his horse I saw himin a line with the rifle-sights and let him have it squarely. It tookhim straight in the breast. I could _feel_ that shot strike. He wentdown like a sack of lead weights. By God, it was superb!

  "Later.--They have drawn off out of range again, and we are allowed abreathing-spell. Our ponies are either dead or dying, and we havedragged them around us to form a barricade. We lie on the ground behindthe bodies and fire over them. There are twenty-seven cartridges left.

  "It is now mid-afternoon. Our plan is to stand them off if we can tillnight and then to try an escape between them. But to what purpose? Theywould trail us so soon as it was light.

  CAUGHT IN THE CIRCLE.

  The last stand of three troopers and a scout overtaken by a band ofhostile Indians

  _Drawn by Frederic Remington. Courtesy of Collier's Weekly._]

  "We think now that they followed us without attacking for so longbecause they were waiting till the lay of the land suited them. Theywanted--no doubt--an absolutely flat piece of country, with nodepressions, no hills or stream-beds in which we could hide, but whichshould be high upon the edges, like an amphitheatre. They would get usin the centre and occupy the rim themselves. Roughly, this is the bit ofdesert which witnesses our 'last stand.' On three sides the groundswells a very little--the rise is not four feet. On the third side it isopen, and so flat that even lying on the ground as we do we can see(leagues away) the San Jacinto hills--'from whence cometh no help.' Itis all sand and sage, forever and forever. Even the sage is sparse--abad place even for a coyote. The whole is flagellated with anintolerable heat and--now that the shooting is relaxed--oppressed with abenumbing, sodden silence--the silence of a primordial world. Such asilence as must have brooded over the Face of the Waters on the Eve ofCreation--desolate, desolate, as though a colossal, invisible pillar--apillar of the Infinitely Still, the pillar of Nirvana--rose forever intothe empty blue, human life an atom of microscopic dust crushed under itsbasis, and at the summit God Himself. And I find time to ask myself why,at this of all moments of my tiny life-span, I am able to write as I do,registering impressions, keeping a finger upon the pulse of the spirit.But oh! if I had time now--time to write down the great thoughts that dothrong the brain. They are there, I feel them, know them. No doubt thesupreme exaltation of approaching death is the stimulus that one neverexperiences in the humdrum business of the day-to-day existence. Suchmighty thoughts! Unintelligible, but if I had time I could spell themout, _and how I could write then_! I feel that the whole secret of Lifeis within my reach; I can almost grasp it; I seem to feel that in justanother instant I can see it all plainly, as the archangels see it allthe time, as the great minds of the world, the great philosophers, haveseen it once or twice, vaguely--a glimpse here and there, after years ofpatient study. Seeing thus I should be the equal of the gods. But it isnot meant to be. There is a sacrilege in it. I almost seem to understandwhy it is kept from us. But the very reason of this withholding is initself a part of the secret. If I could only, only set it down!--forwhose eyes? Those of a wandering hawk? God knows. But never mind. Ishould have spoken--once; should have said the great Word for which theWorld since the evening and the morning of the First Day has listened.God knows. God knows. What a whirl is this? Monstrous incongruity.Philosophy and fighting troopers. The Infinite and dead horses. There'shumour for you. The Sublime takes off its hat to the Ridiculous. Send acartridge clashing into the breech and speculate about the Absolute.Keep one eye on your sights and the other on Cosmos. Blow the reek ofburned powder from before you so you may look over the edge of the abyssof the Great Primal Cause. Duck to the whistle of a bullet and communewith Schopenhauer. Perhaps I am a little mad. P
erhaps I am supremelyintelligent. But in either case I am not understandable to myself. How,then, be understandable to others? If these sheets of paper, thisincoherence, is ever read, the others will understand it about as muchas the investigating hawk. But none the less be it of record that I,Karslake, SAW. It reads like Revelations: 'I, John, saw.' It is justthat. There is something apocalyptic in it all. I have seen a vision,but cannot--there is the pitch of anguish in the impotence--bear record.If time were allowed to order and arrange the words of description, thisexaltation of spirit, in that very space of time, would relax, and thedescriber lapse back to the level of the average again before he couldset down the things he saw, the things he thought. The machinery of themind that could coin the great Word is automatic, and the very forcethat brings the die near the blank metal supplies the motor power of thereaction before the impression is made ... I stopped for an instant,looking up from the page, and at once the great vague panorama faded. Ilost it all. Cosmos has dwindled again to an amphitheatre of sage andsand, a vista of distant purple hills, the shimmer of scorching alkali,and in the middle distance there, those figures, blanketed, beaded,feathered, rifle in hand.

  "But for a moment I stood on Patmos.

  "The Ridiculous jostles the elbow of the Sublime and shoulders it fromplace as Idaho announces that he has found two more cartridges inEstorijo's pockets.

  "They rushed again. Eight more cartridges gone. Twenty-one left. Theyrush in this manner--at first the circle, rapid beyond expression, onefigure succeeding the other so swiftly that the dizzied vision losescount and instead of seven of them there appear to be seventy. Thensuddenly, on some indistinguishable signal, they contract this circle,and through the jets of powder-smoke Idaho and I see them whirling pastour rifle-sights not one hundred yards away. Then their fire suddenlyslackens, the smoke drifts by, and we see them in the distance again,moving about us at a slow canter. Then the blessed breathing-spell,while we peer out to know if we have killed or not, and count ourcartridges. We have laid the twenty-one loaded shells that remain in arow between us, and after our first glance outward to see if any of themare down, our next is inward at that ever-shrinking line of brass andlead. We do not talk much. This is the end. We know it now. All of asudden the conviction that I am to die here has hardened within me. Itis, all at once, absurd that I should ever have supposed that I was toreach La Paz, take the east-bound train and report at San Antonio. Itseems to me that I _knew_, weeks ago, that our trip was to end thus. Iknew it--somehow--in Sonora, while we were waiting orders, and I tellmyself that if I had only stopped to really think of it I could haveforeseen today's bloody business.

  "Later.--The Red One got off his horse and bound up the creature's leg.One of us hit him, evidently. A little higher, it would have reached theheart. Our aim is ridiculously bad--the heat-shimmer----

  "Later.--Idaho is wounded. This last time, for a moment, I was sure theend had come. They were within revolver range and we could feel thevibration of the ground under their ponies' hoofs. But suddenly theydrew off. I have looked at my watch; it is four o'clock.

  "Four o'clock.--Idaho's wound is bad--a long, raking furrow in the rightforearm. I bind it up for him, but he is losing a great deal of bloodand is very weak.

  "They seem to know that we are only two by now, for with each rush theygrow bolder. The slackening of our fire must tell them how scant is ourammunition.

  "Later.--This last was magnificent. The Red One and one other with linesof blue paint across his cheek galloped right at us. Idaho had beenlying with his head and shoulders propped against the neck of his deadpony. His eyes were shut, and I thought he had fainted. But as he heardthem coming he struggled up, first to his knees and then to his feet--tohis full height--dragging his revolver from his hip with his left hand.The whole right arm swung useless. He was so weak that he could onlylift the revolver half way--could not get the muzzle up. But though itsagged and dropped in his grip, he _would_ die fighting. When he firedthe bullet threw up the sand not a yard from his feet, and then he fellon his face across the body of the horse. During the charge I fired asfast as I could, but evidently to no purpose. They must have thoughtthat Idaho was dead, for as soon as they saw him getting to his feetthey sheered their horses off and went by on either side of us. I havemade Idaho comfortable. He is unconscious; have used the last of thewater to give him a drink. He does not seem----

  "They continue to circle us. Their fire is incessant, but very wild. Solong as I keep my head down I am comparatively safe.

  "Later.--I think Idaho is dying. It seems he was hit a second time whenhe stood up to fire. Estorijo is still breathing; I thought him deadlong since.

  "Four-ten.--Idaho gone. Twelve cartridges left. Am all alone now.

  "Four-twenty-five.--I am very weak." [_Karslake was evidently woundedsometime between ten and twenty-five minutes after four. His notes makeno mention of the fact_.] "Eight cartridges remain. I leave my libraryto my brother, Walter Patterson Karslake; all my personal effects to myparents, except the picture of myself taken in Baltimore in 1897, whichI direct to be" [_the next lines are undecipherable_] "...atWashington, D. C., as soon as possible. I appoint as my literary--

  "Four forty-five.--Seven cartridges. Very weak and unable to move lowerpart of my body. Am in no pain. They rode in very close. The Red Oneis---- An intolerable thirst----

  "I appoint as my literary executor my brother, Patterson Karslake. Thenotes on 'Coronado in New Mexico' should be revised.

  "My death occurred in western Arizona, April 15th, at the hands of aroving band of Hunt-in-the-Morning's bucks. They have----

  "Five o'clock.--The last cartridge gone.

  "Estorijo still breathing. I cover his face with my hat. Their fire isincessant. Am much weaker. Convey news of death to Patterson Karslake,care of Corn Exchange Bank, New York City.

  "Five-fifteen--about.--They have ceased firing, and draw together in abunch. I have four cartridges left" [_see conflicting note dated fiveo'clock_], "but am extremely weak. Idaho was the best friend I had inall the Southwest. I wish it to be known that he was a generous,open-hearted fellow, a kindly man, clean of speech, and absolutelyunselfish. He may be known as follows: Sandy beard, long sandy hair,scar on forehead, about six feet one inch in height. His real name isJames Monroe Herndon; his profession that of government scout. NotifyMrs. Herndon, Trinidad, New Mexico.

  "The writer is Arthur Staples Karslake, dark hair, height five feeteleven, body will be found near that of Herndon.

  "Luis Estorijo, Mexican----

  "Later.--Two more cartridges.

  "Five-thirty.--Estorijo dead.

  "It is half-past five in the afternoon of April fifteenth. They followedus from the eleventh--Friday--till to-day. It will

  [_The MS. ends here_.]