Gaspar Ruiz
in The Saturday Evening Post (New York, NY, USA) Special 250th Anniversary Issue (Jul 1, 1977): 
pp.1–14, 16–102, 104–128
- First serialized as Gaspar Ruiz: The Story of a Guerilla Chief in The Pall Mall Magazine (London, UK) (Jul 1906 — Oct 1906)
- Subsequently serialized as Gaspar Ruiz: The Story of a Guerilla Chief in The Saturday Evening Post (New York, NY, USA) (Jul 28, 1906 — Aug 18, 1906)
- Collected as Gaspar Ruiz in A Set of Six (1908)
- Subsequently serialized in La Revue de l'Amérique Latine (Paris, France) (Apr 1923 — Jul 1923)
- Subsequently serialized in Nieuwe Rotterdamsche Courant (Rotterdam, The Netherlands) (Oct 13, 1924 — Nov 4, 1924)
- Subsequently serialized in L'Humanité (Paris, France) (Jul 13, 1928 — Jul 23, 1928)
- Subsequently serialized in Atlantis (Berlin, Germany) (Oct 1929 — Dec 1929)
- Subsequently extracted as El Fusilamiento de Gaspar Ruiz in Caras y Caretas (Buenas Aires, Argentina) (Mar 7, 1931)
- Subsequently serialized in Slovenec (Ljubljana, Slovenia) (Oct 8, 1935)
- Subsequently serialized as Hrikaleg örlög in Eimreiðin (Reykjavik, Iceland) (Oct 1936 — Jul 1937)
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Reference kindly provided by Mary Burgoyne.
The text, an extract from pp.4-5 of the issue of 28 July 1906, reads:
"'I don't remember having been so miserable in my life before or since. The torment of my sensibility was so great that I wished the sergeant to fall dead at my feet, and the stupid soldiers who stared at me to turn into corpses; and even those wretches for whom my entreaties had procured a reprieve I wished dead also, because I could not face them without shame. A mephitic heat like a whiff of air from hell came out of that dark place in which they were confined. Those at the window who heard what was going on jeered at me in very desperation; one of these fellows, gone mad no doubt, kept on urging me volubly to order the soldiers to fire through the window. His insane loquacity made my heart turn faint. And my feet were like lead. There was no higher officer to whom I could appeal. I had not even the firmness of spirit to simply go away.
Benumbed by my remorse, I stood with my back to the window. You must not suppose that all this lasted a long time. How long could it have been? A minute? If you measured by mental suffering it was like a hundred years; a longer time than all my life has been since. No, certainly, it was not so much as a minute. The hoarse screaming of those miserable wretches died out in their dry throats, and then suddenly a voice spoke, a deep voice muttering calmly. It called upon me to turn round.
That voice, senores, proceeded from the head of Gaspar Ruiz. Of his body I could see nothing. Some of his fellow-captives had clambered upon his back. He was holding them up. His eyes blinked without looking at me. That and the moving of his lips was all he seemed able to manage in his overloaded state. And when I turned round, this head, that seemed more than human size resting on its chin under a multitude of other heads, asked me whether I really desired to quench the thirst of the captives.'"
The text, an extract from pp.4-5 of the issue of 28 July 1906, reads:
"'I don't remember having been so miserable in my life before or since. The torment of my sensibility was so great that I wished the sergeant to fall dead at my feet, and the stupid soldiers who stared at me to turn into corpses; and even those wretches for whom my entreaties had procured a reprieve I wished dead also, because I could not face them without shame. A mephitic heat like a whiff of air from hell came out of that dark place in which they were confined. Those at the window who heard what was going on jeered at me in very desperation; one of these fellows, gone mad no doubt, kept on urging me volubly to order the soldiers to fire through the window. His insane loquacity made my heart turn faint. And my feet were like lead. There was no higher officer to whom I could appeal. I had not even the firmness of spirit to simply go away.
Benumbed by my remorse, I stood with my back to the window. You must not suppose that all this lasted a long time. How long could it have been? A minute? If you measured by mental suffering it was like a hundred years; a longer time than all my life has been since. No, certainly, it was not so much as a minute. The hoarse screaming of those miserable wretches died out in their dry throats, and then suddenly a voice spoke, a deep voice muttering calmly. It called upon me to turn round.
That voice, senores, proceeded from the head of Gaspar Ruiz. Of his body I could see nothing. Some of his fellow-captives had clambered upon his back. He was holding them up. His eyes blinked without looking at me. That and the moving of his lips was all he seemed able to manage in his overloaded state. And when I turned round, this head, that seemed more than human size resting on its chin under a multitude of other heads, asked me whether I really desired to quench the thirst of the captives.'"