June 26, 1909.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
1009 
the river to drink, and brought back the filled 
canteens. We was keepin’ a sharp lookout for 
Indians along here, but days and days passed 
and there was no sign of any. Little by little 
we worked on down the range and finally 
camped on the side of a big mountain that faces 
the Agua Fria on the one side and the wide 
valley of the Gila on another, the cornerstone, 
so to speak, of the range. Here in a big wash 
we found some awful rich float, copper and 
gold, and day after day we picked and shoveled, 
and squinted, and horned, and sweat, but every 
night seemed >10 nearer to findin’ the lead it 
came from. 
“ ‘Le’s quit her and go on,’ says Sharpe one 
night. ‘We’ll never find her; she’s been spewed 
on by a old volcano and buried maybe a thou¬ 
sand feet deep. Le’s’go on, partner, across 
the valley and prospect the Stella Mountains 
awhile.’ 
“Oh! Gawd! If I’d only done as he wanted 
to. But I didn’t know! I didn’t know, I tell 
you”-- 
He glared fiercely at me, fairly bellowing the 
words, and then he seemed to forget where he 
was and sat silent, his head bowed, a picture, 
a striking picture of melancholy, lone old age. 
When he looked up at last the fierce glow in 
his eyes had died, and in a low, slow mono¬ 
tone he continued: 
“You must excuse me, friend. I wish I hadn’t 
started in to tell you all this, for when I do, I 
always get excited. It has been preyin’ on my 
mind all these years. If I had only agreed to 
move as my partner asked, all would probably 
have been well, and he alive to this day. And 
in refusin’ to go I caused his death, his awful, 
excrutiatin’ death. But I couldn’t have known 
what would happen, now, could I?” 
“None can tell what the morrow will bring 
forth,” I replied, consolingly. 
“Just so; just so,” he agreed. “And yet I 
had a sort of a hunch that we ought to move; 
but, ‘No,’ said I, ‘we won’t go yet, there’s a 
chance we may strike the vein—we haven’t fol¬ 
lowed up the left fork of the wash yet. We’ll 
stay a few more days and prospect it.’ 
“That settled it. Whatever I said went with 
my partner. He was so sure grateful to me for 
not howlin’ about the lost ten thousand, and for 
bringin’ him out of the jim-jams, that he could¬ 
n’t do enough for me. He wouldn’t let me cook 
a thing, nor do any camp work whatever. Why, 
if I’d have let him, I believe he’d have brought 
my breakfast to me in bed. 
“We crawled out of bed long before dayfight, 
had breakfast, and as soon as we could went 
our ways, he to the river, I up the big wash, 
and then up the left fork. I found a piece of 
float here and there for a few hundred yards, 
and then no more, although I looked carefully 
and traveled very slowly, clear to the head of 
the wash. By that time I was good and hungry, 
the water in my canteen was most gone, and I 
lit out for camp, never dreamin’ of what I was 
to see, of what was goin’ to happen. 
“We had made our camp on a little mesa of 
two or three acres between two deep washes, 
and right under a steep ridge at the upper end 
of it. On my way down I saw smoke curlin’ 
up from the place and was some surprised, for 
we made it a point never to light a fire in the 
daytime, doin’ our cooking by night, and then 
making only a small blaze in a nest of boulders 
that would hide the light from any pryin’ eyes. 
‘I’ll have to give Sharpe a callin’ down,’ I said 
to myself. ‘He knows better than to do that.’ 
And then I concluded I wouldn’t. Since he had 
lost our wad he had been a changed man; silent 
and thoughtful a whole lot, and sure forgetful; 
he was sufferin’ a lot and ’twas my duty to 
cheer him up—not to SGold. W'ell, I kept on, 
and along about three o’clock topped the ridge 
overlookin’ camp. And what did I see; fifteen 
or twenty Apaches settin’ around our fire-place 
roastin’ meat, and Sharpe’s, my old partner, 
Sharpe’s body, stripped bare and stuck full of 
arrows, lyin’ in front of the tent, the head cut 
off and restin’ on the bosom. Oh, mv Gawd!” 
Again the old man paused and wiped away a 
furtive tear with the back of his leathery, hairy, 
trembling hand. I have never seen a more 
pitiable spectacle of sorrowful old age than he 
presented. My heart went out to him, lonely 
old wanderer, fit only for a hospital and kind 
care, yet by sheer will power still tramping 
the mountains for the Eldorado he will never 
find. I poured several ounces of spirits into a 
cup and handed it to him; he drank it at a gulp, 
shivered, mechanically lit his pipe and con¬ 
tinued: 
“Suspectin’ nothin’, I had come on top of the 
ridge, and the Apaches saw me as quick as I 
did them. They jumped for their bows—^they 
didn’t have a gun among ’em except my 
partner’s Henry rifle—but the fellow that had 
that turned it loose at me, and I fired and 
keeled him over. I was too far away for their 
arrows. They scattered; some into one wash, 
some into the other, startin’ to surround me, 
and I turned and ran back down the ridge onto 
another little mesa, and up to the top of a little 
butte. There were a lot of boulders on it and 
I started makin’ a breast work of ’em. There 
wasn’t an Indian in sight, and I laid down my 
rifle and tossed them rock in a circle surprisin’ 
fast, all the time seein’ my poor partner’s head 
stuck onto his bosom and starin’ at me pitiful, 
the white skin of his body all streaked and 
spattered with blood. The burros I remem¬ 
bered seein’ one of them dead, the others tied 
to some brush. I had no idea that I was ever 
going to escape from that place, and just then 
I didn’t much care; I wanted them fellers to 
come at me. I wanted to kill some more of 
’em. They should pay dear for what they had 
done. 
“I had made a pretty nice little nest, with 
peep-holes in among the rocks, when spat 
came a bullet, and with the report a puff of 
smoke drifted up from the wash to the east, a 
hundred yards away. I threw a last boulder 
on the circle and was climbin’ into it, when 
the fellow fired again and hit me. Yes, sir. 
The bullet struck here, below the knee, and 
snap went the bone. I was leanin’ on the 
rocks, so didn’t fall, but let myself half roll in¬ 
side, and then I stood up on my good leg for a 
second or two, just to show ’em I was all 
right, before I got down ojit of sight for good. 
Blood was a-tricklin’ down into my shoe. I 
hoisted up my pant leg, tore my over shirt into 
strips and bound the wound as well as I could. 
‘Right here I passes in my chips. I’ll soon be 
with you, partner,’ I said. Of course I would. 
Even if I stood off the devils down in the 
washes, even if they pulled away that minute, 
without a burro I could never reach water, nor 
any place for help whatever, and of course I’d 
never get my hands on a burro; they’d take ’em, 
or kill ’em when they went. Maybe they’d eat 
’em; them Apaches like horse meat. 
“It was fearful painful to move, but I sat on 
a rock and kept turnin’ and twistin’, and lookin’ 
sharp all around all the rest of the afternoon, 
but not a single Injun showed so much as the 
hand of him. They were watchin’ though; twice 
I stuck up my hat on a stick above the rocks, 
and each time the fellow with my partner’s 
rifle banged at it. He was a poor shot and 
missed it clean. I wished that they would 
make a rush. I wanted to have it over with; 
to kill all I could of ’em, and then cheat ’em 
out of their fun by killin’ myself. But no, they 
wouldn’t stir. The sun went down. Now, I 
thought, they will try to get me. The moon 
would not rise until nine or ten o’clock. It 
would be dark enough for them to crawl and 
wriggle up the butte without my seein’ them. 
They might all spring over my little fort and 
have me before I could fire a shot. I stood up 
on my sound leg as soon as it was plumb dark 
^nd leaned against the wall, facin’ the east 
wash, but I didn’t show myself more than from 
the eyes up, over the edge of it. With my 
mouth open, and strainin’ to see through the 
dark, I watched and listened. 
“After a long time I heard a faint sound, like 
the scrapin’ of somethin’ against a rock, down 
toward the foot of the butte, and shortly after 
that the clatterin’ of a rock down the slope. 
They were cornin’ all right. I fairly held my 
breath and waited, sure hopeless and half of a 
mind to turn my rifle on myself. Then I 
thought I saw somethin’ move, and takin’ a 
chance, I fired and sure hit a man, for he yelled 
fearful. Also, the flash of the powder lit up 
the whole slope and showed several Injuns, 
halted, starin’ uncertain. I fired two or three 
shots at them, hobbled the step or two across 
my fort to the west side, and chanced a shot 
• down that side of the butte. And just in time; 
the rifle fire showed more of ’em, and gave me 
an idea where to aim. I pumped three shots 
at the nearest one. Arrows were whizzin’ around 
me, against the rocks; one cut into the flesh of 
my right arm. Some one was groanin’, 
coughin’, gaspin’ for breath down below. On 
the other side there wasn’t a sound. I was 
getting weak. I sat down on my rock seat 
again, with my six-shooter in my lap. 
“Well, sir, they didn’t come. I sat there 
waitin’ and waitin’ I don’t know how long for 
them, and the end of it all, but they never 
showed up. No matter what you read about it 
don’t you believe that the Apaches have any 
sand. They’re ambushers; nothin’ but ambush- 
ers. That’s the way they got my partner, no 
doubt. All this time I was sufferin’ somethin’ 
fearful, and thirsty! why my tongue was swellin’ 
up and my lips crackin’. I couldn’t sit on that 
rock any longer, so easin’ my broken leg as much 
as I could with my hands, I slid down and 
rested my back against it, and maybe I fainted. 
Anyhow, I didn’t'know anythin’ for a long time. 
When I come to the moon was an hour or so 
high. I raised up and peeked over my breast 
works, first stickin’ my hat up on the stick. I 
couldn’t see anyone, hear anythin’, but down at 
