I had not run more than one hundred yards until I knew there was
something wrong with my horse, for he had always before seemed to
know when I was in a tight place and seemed eager to carry me out
of danger. I gave him the spurs three or four times but he did not
increase his speed in the least, and then I knew well that he had
been shot, and it always seemed a miracle to me that I went
through all that and did not get shot also.
It is quite useless for me to say I thought my time had come. On
looking ahead some fifty yards I saw a pile of rocks about four or
five feet high, which I made a bee line for. Getting to the rock
pile I dismounted and ran between two large rocks where poor old
Pinto tried to follow me, but he received two more arrows in his
hip and one in his flank. He fell to the ground, and after falling
raised his head, and looking toward me, whinnied.
The poor faithful old fellow lay there and would whinny for me at
intervals as long as he lived, which was perhaps half an hour. The
reader can fancy my condition just at this time. Here I was almost
surrounded by hostile Indians and the only friend that I had with
me dead. I did not expect to ever get away from there, for I
expected that while a part of the Indians guarded me the balance
would go off and rally reinforcements.
I had made up my mind to fight them to the last and kill as many
as I could before they got me.
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