Johnny, a day too early, with a pack-mule of grub, walking
innocent as a yearling, right into the bands of those hostiles.
The trail looked pretty fresh, and Benson's a good long day with
a pack animal, so I thought perhaps I might catch him before he
runs into trouble. So I ran back on the trail as fast as I could
make it. The sun was down by now, and it was getting dusk.

I didn't overtake him, and when I got to the top of the canon I
crawled along very cautious and took a look. Of course, I
expected to see everything up in smoke, but I nearly got up and
yelled when I see everything all right, and old Sukey, the
pack-mule, and Johnny's hoss hitched up as peaceful as
babies to the corral.

"THAT'S all right!" thinks I, "they're back in their camp, and
haven't discovered Johnny yet. I'll snail him out of there."

So I ran down the hill and into the shack. Johnny sat in his
chair--what there was of him. He must have got in about two
hours before sundown, for they'd had lots of time to put in on
him. That's the reason they'd stayed so long up the draw. Poor
old Johnny! I was glad it was night, and he was dead. Apaches
are the worst Injuns there is for tortures. They cut off the
bottoms of old man Wilkins's feet, and stood him on an
ant-hill--.

In a minute or so, though, my wits gets to work.

"Why ain't the shack burned?" I asks myself, "and why is the hoss
and the mule tied all so peaceful to the corral?"