man 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. However, since it's all I can do, I continyoos to smoke an'
watch my execootioners come on.

"'The big lance Injun is the dominatin' sperit of the bunch. As he
draws up to me--he's fifty foot in advance of the others--he makes his
lance shiver from p'int to butt. It fairly sings a death song! I can
feel it go through an' through me a score of times. But I stands thar
facin' him; for, of course, I wants it to go through from the front. I
don't allow to be picked up later with anything so onfashionable as a
lance wound in my back. That would be mighty onprofessional!

"'You onderstands that what now requires minutes in the recital don't
cover seconds as a play. The lance Injun runs up to within a rod of me
an' halts. His arm goes back for a mighty cast of the lance; the
weepon is vibrant with the very sperit of hate an' malice. His eyes,
through a fringe of ha'r that has fallen over 'em, glows out like a
ca