My name is P.K. Pinkerton and before this day is over I will be dead.

I am trapped down the deepest shaft of a Comstock silver mine with three desperados closing in on me. Until they find me, I have my pencil & these ledger sheets and a couple of candles. If I write small & fast, I might be able to write an account of how I came to be here. Then whoever finds my body will know the unhappy events that led to my demise.
And they will also know who done it.
This is what I would like my tombstone to say:

P.K. Pinkerton
Born in Hard Luck, September 26, 1850
Died in Virginia City, September 28, 1862
‘Ye are all one in Christ Jesus’ Galatians 3:28
R.I.P.

My foster ma Evangeline used to say that when God gives you a Gift he always gives you a Thorn in your side to keep you humble.
My Gift is that I am real smart about certain things.
I can read & write and do any sum in my head. I can speak American & Lakota and also some Chinese & Spanish. I can shoot a gun & I can ride a pony with or without a saddle. I can track & shoot & skin any game and then cook it over a self-sparked fire. I know how to cure a headache with a handful of weeds.
I can hear a baby quail in the sage-brush or a mouse in the pantry.
I can tell what a horse has been eating just by the smell of his manure.
I can see every leaf on a cottonwood tree.
But here is my Problem: I cannot tell if a person’s smile is genuine or false. I can only spot three emotions: happiness, fear & anger. And sometimes I even mix those up.
Also, sometimes I do not recognize someone I have met before. If they have grown a beard or their hair is different then I get confused.
That is my Thorn: people confound me.
And now my Thorn has got me killed.