I am ten years old, and papa says a right smart boy for my age;
anyway, I heard him say so to a captain of the army last week.
Father is a scout, and goes out with the soldiers after Indians.
There used to be lots of bad Indians in New Mexico. My papa was
wounded just one year ago. He and two miners were prospecting for
gold, when five Indians jumped on them from a cañon. Papa was up on
the side of a hill, and when the Indians began to fire he climbed
up to the top, while the other men went for the horses, and got
them out of the cañon to the creek. Papa staid and fought the
Indians for about twenty minutes. He kept them off until the miners
got to the creek, and after that he had a running fight for a mile.
He was shot in the left hand, the bullet taking part of his
gunstock with it. I own a little rifle, and am a good marksman; I
can hit the bull's-eye three out of five times at fifty yards. I
can ride a bucking bronco, too, and so can sister Eva. I have been
reading all the letters in the Post-office Box, and thought some
little folks would like to hear from New Mexico. Papa is in the
mountains now, and mamma said I could write if I wished.