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“Later.–For a moment we thought it was the long-expected rush. The Red One–he had been in the front–wheeled quick as a flash and came straight for us, and the others followed suit. Great Heavens, how they rode! We could hear them yelling on every side of us. We jumped off our ponies and stood behind them, the rifles across the saddles. But at four hundred yards they all pivoted about and cantered off again leisurely. Now they followed us as before–three in the front, two in the rear and two on either side. I do not think I am going to be frightened when the rush does come. I watched myself just now. I was excited, and I remember Bunt saying to me, ‘Keep your shirt on, m’son’; but I was not afraid of being killed. Thank God for that! It is something I’ve long wished to find out, and now that I know it I am proud of it. Neither side fired a shot. 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, and the 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 of suspense? They certainly show no signs of bringing on the crisis, and they 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, but the 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 all over before I realized. We had our first interchange of shots with them late this afternoon. The Little One was riding from the front to the flank. 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 so it seemed to me. The stock was not at his shoulder before the report came. About six seconds after the smoke had cleared away we could see the Little One begin to lean backward in the saddle, and Idaho said grimly, ‘I guess I got you.’ The Little One leaned farther and farther till suddenly his head dropped back between his shoulder-blades. He held to his pony’s mane with both hands for a long time and then all at once went off feet first. His legs bent under him like putty as his feet touched the ground. The pony bolted.

“Just as soon as Idaho fired the others closed right up and began riding around us at top speed, firing as they went. Their aim was bad as a rule, but one bullet came very close to me. At about half-past five they drew 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 Idaho himself is doubtful, and Bunt did not see the shot. I could swear that the Red One all but went off his pony. However, he seems active enough now.

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