I'm planted waist deep in the mountain snows, but havin' on hossman boots the snow ain't no hardship.
"'While I'm fussin' with my pipe, the six waggons an' my twenty men curves 'round a bend in the trail an' is hid by a corner of the canyon.
I reflects at the time--though I ain't really expectin' no perils--that I'd better catch up with my escort, if it's only to set the troops a example.

As I exhales my first puff of smoke and is on the verge of tellin' my driver to pull out--this yere mule-skinner is settin' so that matters to the r'ar is cut off from his gaze by the canvas cover of my waggon--a slight noise attracts me, an' castin' my eye along the trail we've been climbin', I notes with feelin's of disgust a full dozen Apaches comin'.

An' it ain't no hyperbole to say they're shore comin' all spraddled out.
"'In the lead for all the deep snow, an' racin' up on me like the wind, is a big befeathered buck, painted to the eyes; an' in his right fist, raised to hurl it, is a 12-foot lance.

As I surveys this pageant, I realises how he'pless, utter, I be, an' with what ca'mness I may, adjusts my mind to the fact that I've come to the end of my trails.
He'pless?
Shore! I'm stuck as firm in the snow as one of the pines about me; my guns is in the waggon outen immediate reach; thar I stands as certain a prey to that Apache with the lance as he's likely to go up ag'inst doorin' the whole campaign.

Why, I'm a pick-up! I remembers my wife an' babies, an' sort o' says "Goodbye!" to 'em, for I'm as certain of my finish as I be of the hills, or the snows beneath my feet.