I had forged ahead for perhaps a mile or more without hearing
further sounds, when the trail suddenly debouched onto a small, open
plateau near the summit of the pass. I had passed through a narrow,
overhanging gorge just before entering suddenly upon this table
land, and the sight which met my eyes filled me with consternation
and dismay.

The little stretch of level land was white with Indian tepees, and
there were probably half a thousand red warriors clustered around
some object near the center of the camp. Their attention was so
wholly riveted to this point of interest that they did not notice
me, and I easily could have turned back into the dark recesses of
the gorge and made my escape with perfect safety. The fact,
however, that this thought did not occur to me until the following
day removes any possible right to a claim to heroism to which the
narration of this episode might possibly otherwise entitle me.

I do not believe that I am made of the stuff which constitutes
heroes, because, in all of the hundreds of instances that my
voluntary acts have placed me face to face with death, I cannot
recall a single one where any alternative step to that I took
occurred to me until many hours later. My mind is evidently so
constituted that I am subconsciously forced into the path of duty
without recourse to tiresome mental processes. However that may be,
I have never regretted that cowardice is not optional with me.

In this instance I was, of course, positive that Powell was the
center of attraction, but whether I thought or acted first I do not
know, but within an instant from the moment the scene broke upon my
view I had whipped out my revolvers and was charging down upon the