I do not know how old I am. I may be hundred years old, maybe more. I cannot tell because I never aged as other men and I do not remember any childhood. I look just like I did forty years ago and more. I died twice and I am still alive. However, I feel that I cannot live forever and I have the same horror of death as everybody else. That is why I decided to write down the interesting story of my life and of my death.
Ten years my dead body lay undiscovered in an Arizona cave. Strange events happened to me during that period. I cannot explain them. But I can write the chronicle as an ordinary soldier of fortune[1].
My name is John Carter; I am better known as Captain Jack Carter of Virginia. When the Civil War[2] ended, I had only several hundred thousand dollars. I was a captain in the cavalry arm[3] of an army, which no longer existed. I was the servant of a state, which no longer existed too. I decided to work my way to the southwest and try my luck[4] in a search of gold.
In the winter of 1865, I and another Confederate officer, Captain James K. Powell of Richmond, were extremely fortunate to find a very remarkable gold-bearing mine. But our equipment was very primitive. One of us was to return to civilization and bring the necessary machinery and a sufficient force of men to work the mine properly. Powell was familiar with the country and with the mechanical requirements of mining. We agreed he would make the trip. And I would protect our mine.
On March 3, 1866, Powell and I packed his provisions on two of our burros. He mounted his horse, and started down the mountainside toward the valley.
The morning that day was clear and beautiful. I could see him and his little pack animals making their way down the mountainside toward the valley. Half-hour later I noticed three little dots in about the same place I saw my friend and his two pack animals. I tried to assure myself the dots were antelope or wild horses but started worrying. Powell was well armed and an experienced Indian fighter. But I knew his chances were small against a party of cunning trailing Apaches[5]. I armed myself with my two Colt revolvers and a carbine and started down the trail taken by Powell in the morning.
It became dark. I had to await the rising of the moon. I had an opportunity to think about the wisdom of my chase. Possibly, I imagined impossible dangers, like some nervous old housewife. I am not prone to sensitiveness but following of a sense of duty was a kind of fetish with me throughout my life.
About nine o'clock the moon was sufficiently bright for me to continue on my way. About midnight, I reached the water hole. I expected Powell to camp here. But there were no signs of a camp.
I noted that tracks of the pursuing horsemen continued after Powell at the same rate of speed as his.
I was sure now that they were Apaches and that they wished to capture Powell alive for the pleasure of the torture. So I urged my horse onward at a most dangerous pace. I hoped to catch up with the red rascals before they attacked him.
Further speculation was suddenly cut short by the report of two shots far ahead of me. I knew that Powell would need me now more than ever. I instantly urged my horse to his topmost speed up the narrow and difficult mountain trail.
For perhaps a mile or more, there was no further sounds. Suddenly I was on a small, open plateau near the summit of the pass. I passed through a narrow gorge and suddenly I saw something that filled me with consternation and dismay.
The land was white with Indian tepees[6]. There were probably half a thousand red warriors. I was lucky some object near the center of the camp absorbed them. I easily turned back into the dark recesses of the gorge and made my escape with perfect safety.
I was sure that Powell was the center of attraction. I whipped out my revolvers and ran down upon the entire army of warriors. I was shooting and screaming at the top of my lungs. The red men fled in every direction for their bows, arrows, and rifles. They were convinced that not less than a regiment of regulars[7] was upon them.
Under the clear rays of the Arizona I saw Powell. The hostile arrows of the braves pierced his body. Of course, he was dead. But I wanted to save hid dead body from the hands of the Apaches.
I rode close to him, grasped his body and lifted it up on the horseback. I continued my way across the plateau. By that time, the Indians discovered that I was alone and began to pursue me.
My horse was traveling practically unguided. I believed that he would find the right path and carry me to safety. But he didn't. He entered a pass, which led to the summit of the range. I heard the yells of the pursuing savages suddenly grow fainter and fainter. I looked the trail below and to my left. I saw the party of pursuing savages disappearing around the point of a neighboring peak.
I knew the Indians would soon discover that they were on the wrong trail. They would renew the search for me in the right direction as soon as they located my tracks.
