rides on one, a Apache don’t, but he’ll camp an’ build a fire an’ eat a corral full of ponies if you’ll furnish ‘em, an’ lick his lips in thankfulness tharfore.  But bein’ afoot won’t hinder ’em from keepin’ up with my caravan, for in the mountains the snow is to the waggon beds an’ the best we can do, is wriggle along the trail like a hurt snake at a gait which wouldn’t tire a papoose.

“‘We’ve been pushin’ on our windin’ uphill way for mighty likely half a day, an’ I’m beginnin’—­so dooms slows is our progress—­to despair of gettin’ out on top the mesa before dark, when to put a coat of paint on the gen’ral trouble the lead waggon breaks down.  I turns out in the snow with the rest, an’ we-all puts in a heated an’ highly profane half-hour restorin’ the waggon to health.  At last we’re onder headway ag’in, an’ I wades back through the snow to my amb’lance.

“’As I arrives at the r’ar of my offishul waggon, it occurs to me that I’ll fill a pipe an’ smoke some by virchoo of my nerves, the same bein’ torn and frayed with the many exasperations of the day.  I gives my driver the word to wait a bit, an’ searchin’ forth my tobacco outfit loads an’ lights my pipe.  I’m planted waist deep in the mountain snows, but havin’ on hossman boots the snow ain’t no hardship.

“‘While I’m fussin’ with my pipe, the six waggons an’ my twenty men curves ‘round a bend in the trail an’ is hid by a corner of the canyon.  I reflects at the time—­though I ain’t really expectin’ no perils—­that I’d better catch up with my escort, if it’s only to set the troops a example.  As I exhales my first puff of smoke and is on the verge of tellin’ my driver to pull out—­this yere mule-skinner is settin’ so that matters to the r’ar is cut off from his gaze by the canvas cover of my waggon—­a slight noise attracts me, an’ castin’ my eye along the trail we’ve been climbin’, I notes with feelin’s of disgust a full dozen Apaches comin’.  An’ it ain’t no hyperbole to say they’re shore comin’ all spraddled out.

“‘In the lead for all the deep snow, an’ racin’ up on me like the wind, is a big befeathered buck, painted to the eyes; an’ in his right fist, raised to hurl it, is a 12-foot lance.  As I surveys this pageant, I realises how he’pless, utter, I be, an’ with what ca’mness I may, adjusts my mind to the fact that I’ve come to the end of my trails.  He’pless?  Shore!  I’m stuck as firm in the snow as one of the pines about me; my guns is in the waggon outen immediate reach; thar I stands as certain a prey to that Apache with the lance as he’s likely to go up ag’inst doorin’ the whole campaign.  Why, I’m a pick-up!  I remembers my wife an’ babies, an’ sort o’ says “Goodbye!” to ’em, for I’m as certain of my finish as I be of the hills, or the snows beneath my feet.  However, since it’s all I can do, I continyoos to smoke an’ watch my execootioners come on.