I am a very old man; how old I do not know. Possibly I ama hundred, possibly more; but I cannot tell because I havenever aged as other men, nor do I remember any childhood.So far as I can recollect I have always been a man, a manof about thirty. I appear today as I did forty years andmore ago, and yet I feel that I cannot go on living forever;that some day I shall die the real death from which there isno resurrection. I do not know why I should fear death,I who have died twice and am still alive; but yet I have thesame horror of it as you who have never died, and it isbecause of this terror of death, I believe, that I am soconvinced of my mortality.

And because of this conviction I have determined to writedown the story of the interesting periods of my life and ofmy death. I cannot explain the phenomena;I can only setdown here in the words of an ordinary soldier of fortune achronicle of the strange events that befell me during the tenyears that my dead body lay undiscovered in an Arizonacave.

I have never told this story, nor shall mortal man see thismanuscript until after I have passed over for eternity. I knowthat the average human mind will not believe what it cannotgrasp, and so I do not purpose being pilloried by the public,the pulpit, and the press, and held up as a colossalliar when I am but telling the simple truths which some dayscience will substantiate. Possibly the suggestions which Igained upon Mars, and the knowledge which I can set downin this chronicle, will aid in an earlier understanding of themysteries of our sister planet; mysteries to you, but nolonger mysteries to me.

My name is John Carter; I am better known as Captain JackCarter of Virginia. At the close of the Civil War I foundmyself possessed of several hundred thousand dollars(Confederate) and a captain's commission in the cavalry armof an army which no longer existed; the servant of a statewhich had vanished with the hopes of the South. Masterless,penniless, and with my only means of livelihood, fighting,gone, I determined to work my way to the southwest andattempt to retrieve my fallen fortunes in a search for gold.

I spent nearly a year prospecting in company with anotherConfederate officer, Captain James K. Powell of Richmond.We were extremely fortunate, for late in the winter of1865, after many hardships and privations, we located themost remarkable gold-bearing quartz vein that our wildestdreams had ever pictured. Powell, who was a mining engineerby education, stated that we had uncovered over a milliondollars worth of ore in a trifle over three months.

As our equipment was crude in the extreme we decidedthat one of us must return to civilization, purchase thenecessary machinery and return with a sufficient force ofmen properly to work the mine.

As Powell was familiar with the country, as well as withthe mechanical requirements of mining we determined thatit would be best for him to make the trip. It was agreed thatI was to hold down our claim against the remote possibilityof its being jumped by some wandering prospector.

On March 3, 1866, Powell and I packed his provisions ontwo of our burros, and bidding me good-bye he mountedhis horse, and started down the mountainside toward thevalley, across which led the first stage of his journey.

The morning of Powell's departure was, like nearlyall Arizona mornings, clear and beautiful; I could seehim and his little pack animals picking their way down themountainside toward the valley, and all during the morning Iwould catch occasional glimpses of them as they topped a hogback or came out upon a level plateau. My last sight ofPowell was about three in the afternoon as he entered theshadows of the range on the opposite side of the valley.

Some half hour later I happened to glance casually acrossthe valley and was much surprised to note three little dotsin about the same place I had last seen my friend and histwo pack animals. I am not given to needless worrying, butthe more I tried to convince myself that all was well withPowell, and that the dots I had seen on his trail wereantelope or wild horses, the less I was able to assure myself.

Since we had entered the territory we had not seen ahostile Indian, and we had, therefore, become careless in theextreme, and were wont to ridicule the stories we hadheard of the great numbers of these vicious marauders thatwere supposed to haunt the trails, taking their toll in livesand torture of every white party which fell into theirmerciless clutches.

Powell, I knew, was well armed and, further, anexperienced Indian fighter; but I too had lived and foughtfor years among the Sioux in the North, and I knew that hischances were small against a party of cunning trailingApaches. Finally I could endure the suspense no longer,and, arming myself with my two Colt revolvers and acarbine, I strapped two belts of cartridges about me andcatching my saddle horse, started down the trail taken byPowell in the morning.

As soon as I reached comparatively level ground I urgedmy mount into a canter and continued this, where the goingpermitted, until, close upon dusk, I discovered the pointwhere other tracks joined those of Powell. They were thetracks of unshod ponies, three of them, and the ponies hadbeen galloping.

I followed rapidly until, darkness shutting down, I wasforced to await the rising of the moon, and given an opportunityto speculate on the question of the wisdom of my chase.Possibly I had conjured up impossible dangers, likesome nervous old housewife, and when I should catch upwith Powell would get a good laugh for my pains.However, I am not prone to sensitiveness, and the followingof a sense of duty, wherever it may lead, has always been akind of fetich with me throughout my life; which may accountfor the honors bestowed upon me by three republics and thedecorations and friendships of an old and powerful emperorand several lesser kings, in whose service my sword hasbeen red many a time.

About nine o'clock the moon was sufficiently bright forme to proceed on my way and I had no difficulty in followingthe trail at a fast walk, and in some places at a brisktrot until, about midnight, I reached the water hole wherePowell had expected to camp. I came upon the spot unexpectedly,finding it entirely deserted, with no signs of having beenrecently occupied as a camp.

I was interested to note that the tracks of the pursuinghorsemen, for such I was now convinced they must be, continuedafter Powell with only a brief stop at the hole for water;and always at the same rate of speed as his.

I was positive now that the trailers were Apaches and thatthey wished to capture Powell alive for the fiendish pleasureof the torture, so I urged my horse onward at a mostdangerous pace, hoping against hope that I would catch upwith the red rascals before they attacked him.

Further speculation was suddenly cut short by the faintreport of two shots far ahead of me. I knew that Powellwould need me now if ever, and I instantly urged myhorse to his topmost speed up the narrow and difficultmountain trail.

I had forged ahead for perhaps a mile or more withouthearing further sounds, when the trail suddenly debouchedonto a small, open plateau near the summit of the pass. Ihad passed through a narrow, overhanging gorge just beforeentering suddenly upon this table land, and the sight whichmet my eyes filled me with consternation and dismay.

The little stretch of level land was white with Indiantepees, and there were probably half a thousand red warriorsclustered around some object near the center of the camp.Their attention was so wholly riveted to this point of interestthat they did not notice me, and I easily could haveturned back into the dark recesses of the gorge and mademy escape with perfect safety. The fact, however, that thisthought did not occur to me until the following day removesany possible right to a claim to heroism to which the narrationof this episode might possibly otherwise entitle me.

I do not believe that I am made of the stuff whichconstitutes heroes, because, in all of the hundreds of instancesthat my voluntary acts have placed me face to face withdeath, I cannot recall a single one where any alternativestep to that I took occurred to me until many hours later.My mind is evidently so constituted that I am subconsciouslyforced into the path of duty without recourse to tiresomemental processes. However that may be, I have never regrettedthat cowardice is not optional with me.

In this instance I was, of course, positive that Powell wasthe center of attraction, but whether I thought or acted firstI do not know, but within an instant from the moment thescene broke upon my view I had whipped out my revolversand was charging down upon the entire army of warriors,shooting rapidly, and whooping at the top of my lungs.Singlehanded, I could not have pursued better tactics, forthe red men, convinced by sudden surprise that not lessthan a regiment of regulars was upon them, turned and fledin every direction for their bows, arrows, and rifles.

The view which their hurried routing disclosed filled mewith apprehension and with rage. Under the clear rays of theArizona moon lay Powell, his body fairly bristling with thehostile arrows of the braves. That he was already dead Icould not but be convinced, and yet I would have saved hisbody from mutilation at the hands of the Apaches asquickly as I would have saved the man himself from death.

Riding close to him I reached down from the saddle,and grasping his cartridge belt drew him up across the withersof my mount. A backward glance convinced me that toreturn by the way I had come would be more hazardousthan to continue across the plateau, so, putting spurs to mypoor beast, I made a dash for the opening to the pass whichI could distinguish on the far side of the table land.

The Indians had by this time discovered that I was aloneand I was pursued with imprecations, arrows, and rifle balls.The fact that it is difficult to aim anything but imprecationsaccurately by moonlight, that they were upset by the suddenand unexpected manner of my advent, and that I was arather rapidly moving target saved me from the variousdeadly projectiles of the enemy and permitted me to reachthe shadows of the surrounding peaks before an orderlypursuit could be organized.

My horse was traveling practically unguided as I knewthat I had probably less knowledge of the exact location ofthe trail to the pass than he, and thus it happened that heentered a defile which led to the summit of the range and notto the pass which I had hoped would carry me to thevalley and to safety. It is probable, however, that to thisfact I owe my life and the remarkable experiences andadventures which befell me during the following ten years.

My first knowledge that I was on the wrong trail camewhen I heard the yells of the pursuing savages suddenlygrow fainter and fainter far off to my left.

I knew then that they had passed to the left of the jaggedrock formation at the edge of the plateau, to the right ofwhich my horse had borne me and the body of Powell.

I drew rein on a little level promontory overlooking thetrail below and to my left, and saw the party of pursuingsavages disappearing around the point of a neighboring peak.

I knew the Indians would soon discover that they wereon the wrong trail and that the search for me would be renewedin the right direction as soon as they located my tracks.

I had gone but a short distance further when whatseemed to be an excellent trail opened up around the face ofa high cliff. The trail was level and quite broad and led upwardand in the general direction I wished to go. The cliffarose for several hundred feet on my right, and on my leftwas an equal and nearly perpendicular drop to the bottomof a rocky ravine.

I had followed this trail for perhaps a hundred yardswhen a sharp turn to the right brought me to the mouth ofa large cave. The opening was about four feet in height andthree to four feet wide, and at this opening the trail ended.

It was now morning, and, with the customary lack of dawnwhich is a startling characteristic of Arizona, it had becomedaylight almost without warning.

Dismounting, I laid Powell upon the ground, but the mostpainstaking examination failed to reveal the faintest sparkof life. I forced water from my canteen between his deadlips, bathed his face and rubbed his hands, working over himcontinuously for the better part of an hour in the face ofthe fact that I knew him to be dead.

I was very fond of Powell; he was thoroughly a man inevery respect; a polished southern gentleman; a staunch andtrue friend; and it was with a feeling of the deepest grief thatI finally gave up my crude endeavors at resuscitation.

Leaving Powell's body where it lay on the ledge I creptinto the cave to reconnoiter. I found a large chamber,possibly a hundred feet in diameter and thirty or forty feetin height; a smooth and well-worn floor, and many otherevidences that the cave had, at some remote period, been inhabited.The back of the cave was so lost in dense shadow that I could notdistinguish whether there were openings into other apartments or not.

As I was continuing my examination I commenced to feela pleasant drowsiness creeping over me which I attributedto the fatigue of my long and strenuous ride, and the reactionfrom the excitement of the fight and the pursuit. I feltcomparatively safe in my present location as I knew thatone man could defend the trail to the cave against an army.

I soon became so drowsy that I could scarcely resist thestrong desire to throw myself on the floor of the cave fora few moments' rest, but I knew that this would never do, asit would mean certain death at the hands of my red friends,who might be upon me at any moment. With an effort Istarted toward the opening of the cave only to reel drunkenlyagainst a side wall, and from there slip prone upon the floor.