FullReads

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

“Quarter to four.–It is horrible. Bunt is dying. He cannot speak, the ball having gone through the lower part of his face, but back, near the neck. It happened through his trying to catch his horse. The animal was struck in the breast and tried to bolt. He reared up, backing away, and as we had to keep him close to us to serve as a bulwark Bunt followed him out from the little circle that we formed, his gun in one hand, his other gripping the bridle. I suppose every one of the eight fired at him simultaneously, and down he went. The pony dragged him a little ways still clutching the bridle, then fell itself, its whole weight rolling on Bunt’s chest. We have managed to get him in and secure his rifle, but he will not live. None of us knows him very well. He only joined us about a week ago, but we all liked him from the start. He never spoke of himself, so we cannot tell much about him. Idaho says he has a wife in Torreon, but that he has not lived with her for two years; they did not get along well together, it seems. This is the first violent death I have ever seen, and it astonishes me to note how unimportant it seems. How little anybody cares–after all. If I had been told of his death–the details of it, in a story or in the form of fiction–it is easily conceivable that it would have impressed me more with its importance than the actual scene has done. Possibly my mental vision is scaled to a larger field since Friday, and as the greater issues loom up one man more or less seems to be but a unit–more or less–in an eternal series. When he was hit he swung back against the horse, still holding by 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 his carbine. The barrel was scorching hot.

“They have drawn off a little and for fifteen minutes, though they still circle 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 already the gnats–I can’t speak of it.”

[Karslake evidently made the next few entries at successive intervals of time, but neglected in his excitement to note the exact hour as above. We may gather that “They” made another attack and then repeated the assault so quickly that he had no chance to record it properly. I transcribe the entries in exactly the disjointed manner in which they occur 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 and think, 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 the heat-shimmer was bad, either Estorijo or myself wounded one of their ponies. 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 had begun here to chronicle the death of the Mexican.]

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