Wood County reporter. [volume] (Grand Rapids [i.e. Wisconsin Rapids], Wis.) 1857-1923, 1891-04-23

flows from his wound has formed pool
clotted and coagulated. 1t adds to his dis
comfort by its sickness. He thinks how
strange that ones own blood should annoy
one so, and then wonders where so many
flies could have come from, as he raises a
swarm by the movement of his body. He
looks across to where the burro has fallen
with the canteen, lid sees that The vessel
has been damned by coming IN contact
with the bowlder, and that the precious
fluid has nearly all run QUO. How much
he would give to have wha6 little water re-
mains. He feels almost tempted to try to
reach it, but no; that would mean throw
ing his life away without a chance for re-
venge Revenge? He will have it. Thirst
| is nothing; death is nothing now if he can
only kill, kill!
If ne could only kill them all, how happy
he would die.
He looks over the bowlder. Nothing in
sight but powders, lava, cacti, sand and
gazette grass. They are there, though"
He almost laughs in sarcasm as he catches
himself scanning the horizon to see if any
, relief were in sight. Relief? For DAYS he
ard the man that lay dead there had trav-
eled without finding trail made by a shod
horse-wlthout finding trail of any kind.
How childish to expect any helpi Better
! brace up and die like a man.
! He looked at the body of the dead man.
! How hideous the face looked with its syol
| len lips, open mouth, staring eyesl How
black it had grown! What vast quantity
. of blood had come from the wound in the
: head! His eye catches movement in the
! tuft of grass to his left. Bang bangI goes
his rifle. Nothing there" he thinks, as
/ he crouches closer to the ground to escape
! the shots that come in return.
| So the hours go by, but he hardly marks
their flight. The sun is getting lower in
the west, and the white heat of day gives
way to the yellowish purple haze that in
! Apache land is always the forerunner of
night. How when he was first hit he had
! longed for night How little he cared for it
now! Hecould feel himself growing weak
! er. His Winchester was heavier than any
he had ever before lifted. Even st" that
terrible thing that chained him there,
panied him less, but the thirst grew horri-
! BILE. Anyhow night would give him a
chance to reach the canteen. At times he
! felt almost drowsy, but fought off the
! feeling. He was merely waiting for the
| end. He thought it strange that he could
! face 1t so complacently. He hardly cared
| now how soon it came. Would he shoot
; all his cartridges away before it reached
| him? He would not waste them though
If he could only reach Toms gun and re
volver and destroy them it would make
those that killed him angry 1t was for
these things, worth perhaps $50 that he
and Tom had been murdered.
He was beginning to think of himself as
already dead. At least how easy to ruin
Toms rife. 1t was only two or three
PAGES away. He took his revolver and
fired at it, aiming to hit it just in front
and below the hammer, its most vulnera-
BILE part. Instead, the bullet hits the
ground, and richocheting enters the breast
of the dead man. He shudders as the
/ body stirs from the Force of the shot, al
! though he knows that life has been gone
for hours Everything is plain to him
! now why his other shots had not taken
| effect. He was unnerved How could a
man with a hole through his body hope to
hit anything He had heard of men shot
through the heart killing their assailants,
! and had often wondered if he could do it.
Could Tom have done it? How far off
and yet how short seemed the years that
! he and Tom had been together! How
| little there had been in them that see,<ed
worth now recallingl Crack! asingle shot
! off to the right and he fires where he sees
the smoke curling upward. Fires again.
! Nothing. He counts his cartridges and is
astonished that he has fired so many. He
must have lost some. No, there are the
| empty shells.
Another shot off to the right. One to the
! front. He fires at both. He feels that he
is growing nervous, and brings all his re-
naming powers into play to secure better
control of himself. He will put away the
idea of death, of his wound, of everything
np1 a,,l ho h.
isfed and for the first time in years he
prays, prays without words, though, that
he may kill but one.
The sun is sinking lower; it has almost
reached the far off western mountain tops.
1t would soon be night, and then what
would "they" do? Steal up under cover
of the darkness and shoot him from behind
some bowlder before he would be aware of
it. He would keep a close lookout, and
perhaps he might after all "get" one of
them.
Crack! crack to the right and left, and
he gIances in both directions, firing at each;
and then right over him takes place ter
rible explosion, and he feels as if something
heavy and blunt had struck him in the
back He half raises himself, just enough
to turn his face upward. Another explo-
sion, another heavy, blunt blow, and
through the smoke from a revolver he sees
dark young face, with black, glittering
eyes, white teeth, across which the lips are
tightly drawn-the face and the form of
one almost a boy-and then he falls back
while dark hand and arm snatches his
gun from his half clinging grasp. He hears
wild shouting, and through his glazing eyes
sees dark forms scrambling for his arms,
for Toms. They are even quarreling in
| .hair TO no
dead burro, and then instinctively he sees
one raise son. ething in the air, and
when it falls there is no longer anything
human in the face or the head of the man
who has spent the afternoon in fight.
Nothing but a bloody pulp Of skull, hair,
brains, broken teeth, crushed into a mis-
shapen mass by the bowlder cast upon it by
an Apache.
Another afternoon, years after, a tall
sergeant and his detail Of cavalry escorting
through the canyon party locating road,
looks down on the whitened bones of two
men and burro scattered by coyotes and
bleached by the winds and rains, and as
he, with the toe of his boot, pushes to one
side the ribs of one of the skeletons his
eyes mark the many empty cartridge shells.
He looks up and sees that his comrades
have already noted them, while some one
remarks:
by -, he staid with them while he
lasted. buckley O'Neil in San Francisco
Chronicle.
The Oak and the Oyster.
"Tall oaks from little acorns grow.
In the specimen shown US by Mr.. George
W. Cruikshank the little oak tree was
growing right through the heart of an
oyster shell. Whether the sprouting
acorn had pierced the shell, or some acct