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It was early in the morning. The rising sun was streaming up the valley, through the fringe of fir and cedar trees. The Indian boys and I had just re turned from driving the herd of horses a little way down the stream. The old man and his companion were sitting at breakfast, with their backs to the high bare wall with its crown of trees. The Indians were taking our saddle-horses across the little stream to tether them there on fresh grass, and I was walking idly towards the camp, only waiting for my tawny young companions. Crack ! crash ! thud ! !

The two men fell on their faces and never uttered a word. Indians were running down the little lava mountain side, with bows and rifles in their hands, .and the hanging, rugged brow of the hill was curling in smoke. The Ben Wright tragedy was bearing its fruits.

I started to run, and ran with all my might to wards where I had left the Indian boys. I remem ber distinctly thinking how cowardly it was to run and desert the wounded men with the Indians upon them, and I also remember thinking that when I got to the first bank of willows I would turn and fire, for I had laid hold of the pistol in my belt, and could have fired, and should have done so, but I was thoroughly frightened, and no doubt if I had suc ceeded in reaching the willows I would have thought it best to go still further before turning about.

How rapidly one thinks at such a time, and how distinctly one remembers every