The great emigrant land of which we had heard so much had at last been reached, and the din from the streets of the great western exchange was borne to our ears upon the evening breeze. Omaha is built upon the side of a large hill, and is quite a pretty place; and being the wholesale city for many miles of the surrounding country, business is lively, and the people say hard times never reach them. We could but wonder, as we gazed upon these two cities, perched as they are upon hill-sides upon opposite sides of the river, and covering the surface which was so lately the rich pasture-land of the wild prairie animal. Truly, said we to ourselves, there must be some virtue in the surrounding country which supports these rapidly-growing cities.

Eager to learn the true merits of the homestead land, we pushed boldly into the country, with eyes keen to see the advantages and disadvantages of the great, historical, poor man’s home. Proceeding but a few miles from the river-banks we opened into the land of promise. Here lay a broad, rolling, and fertile prairie, all covered with richest vegetation and well watered in all directions. Timber had entirely disappeared, except the pretty little cotton-woods which gilded the banks of most all the little streams. Many homesteads have been taken up here, and the little sod-houses which dot the country in all directions mark the abodes of the settlers. Timber being very dear, the country is not incumbered with fences, and the dark, rich surface being as beautiful as any the sun ever shone upon, the scene, upon the whole, was truly impressive. A great deal of the sod has been broken, and the rich, golden grain that waves in the western wind speaks the great strength of the soil. All the latest improved farming implements are used here, and tilling and sowing those large, clear fields is perfectly delightful. Lands along the railroads are being rapidly improved, and ere long the eastern and southern parts of Kansas and eastern Nebraska will find a place upon the first pages of the agricultural history of America.

Many poor families from the overthronged East have found themselves fine homes here, and from the rapid growth of the country they are promised great wealth. The eastern part of Kansas being of the same nature as that just described, we simply remark that the voice of the pen is too feeble to do justice to so beautiful a country.

Kansas and Nebraska are included in what Fremont termed the “Great American Desert,” in the year 1842; and the settlers say that even as late as ten years ago places that are now productive were barren and sandy. It appears that the more farming there is done there the greater the dampness becomes; and they now have plenty of rain where everything used to parch. Some think the whole western plains will at some day become productive; but more of that hereafter.

Game is quite abundant here, and the prairie-chickens often fly up in such great flocks that the hum of their wings sounds like thunder. They fly very swiftly. Here the first jack rabbit showed himself to us, and upon our giving chase we were greatly surprised at his sudden disappearance with only a light streak through the air to mark the course he had taken. They are about four times as large as the cotton-tails, and have ears about five inches long. We had a great deal of sport at hunting, and spent many days wandering up and down this beautiful country, visiting the settlers in their humble homes, and conversing with them of olden times and their experiences in the settling of a new country. They were very hospitable, and though a little sod-house and stable, with grass growing green upon every part but the doors and windows, sitting out alone upon the wide prairie, without a fence and often without a tree to shelter them from the broiling summer’s sun, usually constitute their homes, they are nevertheless happy, and say that though their accommodations and conveniences are very limited, and they do not get a high price for their produce, their crops are usually abundant, and they can live off of this until things can develop. It has been discovered by trial that timber grows very rapidly, and whole acres of little walnut and cotton-wood sprouts lately planted promise that at some time in the future there will be some pretty forests here. When this is the case, the birds will immigrate here, the insect tribe—such a pest to the country—will diminish, and the settlers will sit in their doors in the thick, beautiful shade, and listen to the songs that are sung in the green foliage. As it is, the flies are very troublesome through the day, and at night you are compelled to build a smudge and sit in the smoke to keep the mosquitoes from carrying you off.

Thinking that perhaps this part has been sufficiently described, I will refer the reader to the letters which close this work for unmentioned particulars, and again turn our faces toward the west. We had not traveled many days, however, until settlements had dwindled to lonely domicils upon the wide prairie; the dark, rich soil began to fade to a lighter and more sandy, and great herds of cattle tramped the unbroken surface. A few weeks more and all vegetation had faded away, and we were upon the Fremont desert. The grass, instead of being long, slender prairie-grass, was short, thickly-set buffalo-grass. The soil was dry and scarcely ever knew a rain; and then it was that we found ourselves upon the great western plains. The surface is usually smooth, and perfectly delightful to travel over, and we could sometimes see for many miles around us. But the danger of traveling in this dry, barren wilderness, where scarcely any one lives, and of which we had been warned, we now began to realize. True, there were old, deeply-worn emigrant roads, one via Kansas City, and one via Omaha and Cheyenne, which we could have traveled with comparatively little danger or difficulty; but it was our purpose to see and experience something new, and accordingly we chose the wild prairie. We had purchased a barrel at Lincoln, Nebraska, which we always filled when leaving water, and with no guide but the compass we boldly sped onward, not knowing what each day would bring forth. The scene, however, was materially the same—one broad, open plain, stretching out like an ocean as far as the eye could reach. Our camp at night was truly a lonely one, with no company but the shy antelope that sniffed the air at a distance, and nothing to break the deep, death-like stillness that reigned around us but the howl of the grey wolf, whose keen eye was upon our every move. Stretching ourselves upon a blanket, with nothing but the starry heavens above us, we lay dreaming of killing buffaloes, scalping Sitting Bull, and other adventures too numerous to mention.

We had often heard of the cold winds and sudden changes in the atmosphere that all the western country was subject to, but our first experience on this score was while traveling in western Nebraska, on the seventh day of September. The morn was a bright and glorious one, and as we steered our way over the dry desert we remarked that a more beautiful day we had never seen. But about three o’clock the atmosphere began to change and the wind to blow a hurricane. In the course of an hour the soft, warm wind had changed to a howling, wintry storm, and we were compelled to unhitch and picket our horses, and make our bed in the wagon as a retreat from the piercing winds which almost lifted us from the ground. It was almost impossible to keep warm with our light covering, and only after we had torn up every spare cloth we had to stop the cracks in the wagon-bed, we succeeded in rendering ourselves tolerably comfortable. A peep at the horses showed their shivering, and the big blood-hound under the wagon lending his tones to the winds that hurried by, spoke the necessity of sharing our comfort with him. This he gladly accepted, and without anything to eat or drink we lay covered over head and ears until the next day at noon. We then stepped from our asylum to hear the last roar of the hurricane dying away in the distance, and warm ourselves in the sun which had burst its stormy veil. This little fast had keened our appetites, and we eat our dinners with a relish. After turning our horses to graze for awhile, and watering them from the barrel, we resumed our journey over the dry desert, and at length reached the valley of the Platte. This valley is wide and level, and is carpeted with the richest pasture. With its cool, purple waters rolling through the thick shade of the little branching cotton-wood trees, piercing the dry, barren plain, bereft of bush or weed, it appears a perfect paradise. Great herds of cattle feed upon the green grass, and every ten or fifteen miles there is a little pole-shanty and picket corral built upon the river-side among the trees; and here stay the cow-men, one at a place, to watch over the cattle. They make a trip after provisions once a year, and of course do their own cooking. They always have the best of meat; and this, with biscuits, is about all they eat. It is very often that they do not see a man for several months; and, strange to say, they are used to that way of living and enjoy themselves better than many who live in a land of luxuries, surrounded by mankind, where the din of business is noisy and loud. They have five and six ponies apiece, and their buffalo and antelope chases over the river-hills are as pleasant and exciting to them as though viewed by thousands of people. We had many pleasant chats with them, and many a feast did we have together.

I had seen many heavy storms, but I assure you I thought we had entered the store-house of thunder-storms when we came into this valley; for such terrible rumbling and glaring I had never heard nor seen. I tell you, when the thunder bursts forth with an earthquake shock and reverberates among the river-hills, and the lightning begins to play upon the cattle’s horns, these old hunters and herders, who have been hardened in the wilds for many years and who have seen the bloodiest of frontier life, come to their knees.

Leaving this valley we steered south-west and struck the valley of the Republican, at the forks of the river, one beautiful evening just as the sun was tinging with gold the western sky. Who can imagine the beauty of this valley,—as it appeared to us,—all decked with little branching cotton-wood trees and carpeted with velvet green, winding its way through the midst of the broad and silent wilderness. The great herds of cattle reclining beneath the trees, the voices of the little calves borne to our ears upon the evening zephyrs, and the rude shanty upon the bank of the stream, all spoke of comfort and content, and we could not help recognizing this as a happy home, though far in the western wilds. The lone man who lived there appeared to be glad to see us, and we were not a little delighted to converse with one who had lived with his herds for many years upon the frontier. He told us how comfortably he could live there and how rapid were his gains with so little outlay. He told us that we could find cow-ranches upon almost every stream in the West, and explained to us the way the business was carried on. Upon his telling us there were many buffaloes a few days’ journey to the north-west, among the sand-hills, we became very impatient and could hardly wait for the morning to start upon a buffalo expedition. When we were ready to start, he said we should be a little careful, for the Cheyennes had broken from the agency, and while on the war-path were scalping hunters and cattle-men in all directions. Johnny having stopped for a home in eastern Nebraska, we were but two in number, but—in our estimation—a more precious two never died in any country. There was as much danger upon one side as upon the other, however, and we were going for the buffaloes, Indians or no Indians. It was part of our mission to kill Sitting Bull and Spotted Tail, and this might prove to be a favorable opportunity.

We had not left the valley far when we came among the great sand-hills, which grew higher and softer until they were almost untraversable. Keeping in the vicinity of a small stream called Rock Creek, which courses its way among the bluffs, we traveled several days, keenly watching for anything that looked like meat. We never became careless, however, and the fire was always deadened before dark, while the wagon was placed upon some high spot for the night, in order to avoid the treachery that might be lurking behind the hills.

Breaking our way through the soft, deep sand, we were compelled to travel very slowly. Sighting a single buffalo, upon one occasion, we fully expected to find a great herd behind every hill. That was the only one, however, that we got a glimpse of; and not having killed even a rabbit since we left the river, and our horses becoming very much worried, we concluded to turn back. The many skeletons that were scattered over the face of the country showed that the soft surface was not always trackless, and that we were not the first hunters who had plowed the sands of that region. However, the great herds that we had expected to find had sought another range, and not even a wolf howled in the deep silence. We could but feel a little discouraged at so great a disappointment; and as we journeyed back toward the river, each mile was an effort.

We reached the river again after a circuit in the sand-hills of just fourteen days; and during this time we had eaten nothing but flap-jacks. It is needless to say that we were hungry for meat, and there being many cattle in the valley, we imagined the little calves to be buffaloes; and it was not long after sight, nor with much ceremony, that we were eating something that had not stuck in our teeth for two long weeks.

After learning from an old hunter, whom we met on the prairie, that buffaloes journeyed north in the spring and south in the fall, we determined to follow them if they went to South America.

In an unsettled country there are, of course, no bridges over the streams and chasms, and not many good crossings. So, choosing what we thought to be a good place to cross, we splashed into the waters of the Republican. The stream is about one hundred yards wide, and in some places is real deep. This was our first experience in quicksand; and we managed to get to about the middle of the stream, when, in about two feet of water, the wagon dropped to the axle in the sand. The longer it stood the deeper it sunk, until there was not much wagon above the water. Being lightly loaded we jumped into the water, and after lifting the wheels to let the sand wash under them, John lifted while I tried to start the team. But the wind was blowing and the water waving, and the horses being in about as deeply as the wagon, it was no go, and we were the worst stuck outfit that river ever knew. This was the first time that we had ever yielded that hell was upon earth; and I will bet that if old Father Moses and his followers had been stuck in the quicksand when crossing the channel of the Red Sea, and had felt as we did at that time, Pharaoh and all his hosts would have been nothing to whip. However, after struggling for some time the horses became as impatient as ourselves, and we began to yell desperately. The water began to splash. The cattle of the vicinity becoming excited, curled their tails up over their backs and began to run and bawl. The wagon began to move, and we were soon safely landed on the other side. Not taking the Irishman’s advice, we had omitted laughing before we started in, and being now too much fatigued we concluded that there was no fun about the affair, and only looked back to think what a job to cross a Republican and to sympathize for one moment with the poor Democrats.

It had been some time since we had been where we could buy anything, and our supplies running short, we steered south for Fort Wallace, Kansas. This was several days’ travel—and lonely ones they were to us, too, seeing but two men until we arrived within a few miles of the fort. We found most of the ranchmen of the vicinity centered there for protection from the savages, who had been scalping within sight of the government fort. We were heartily congratulated upon our safe arrival through the very heart of dangers; but we had been told this too often to appreciate it, and partly concluded that it was not alone luck and chance that took us through, but that there must be something bold or daring in our appearance.

How like home it appeared to us when we saw the blue smoke curling from the chimneys, the children playing around their homes, and heard the shrill whistle of the engine which pierced the deep silence of the open plain.

This little town is comparatively an insignificant place of fifteen or twenty houses, and is situated in the midst of a dry and barren prairie, far from the beauties of civilization and cultivation. Nevertheless, here were houses whose walls echoed the cheerful din of several families. Domestic animals were feeding in the vicinity, and here were the United States wagons, passing back and forth to the fort which stood in the distance. All this spoke home and comfort to us; and it is needless to say that after a journey of many days in the solitude of the wilderness, during which time we saw but few persons and scarcely a trace of human mechanism, we were deeply impressed and let our reflections carry us back to the land from whence we came. After enjoying the novelty of the place, which is but a star in the prairie-world and connected with civilization by naught but the iron rail, we prepared for further adventure.

There is not the least plant cultivated here, and the most exorbitant prices were charged us for our little necessaries. I recollect I wanted to buy a funnel here to use with our water-barrel. I had never bought a funnel, but I supposed a small one would cost about twenty-five cents. So I picked out one to suit me and threw down fifty cents to the store-keeper, and looked for change. Now, what do you think? Why, he stood there looking at me until I asked him what he wanted. “I want the rest of the price of that funnel.” “Why, what is the price of it?” said I. “Six bits; the usual price is a dollar,” said he. I felt a little surprised at being asked seventy-five cents for a little funnel; so I said to him, “Is it silver?” “No.” “Is there any virtue in it that would be conveyed to the water upon running through it?” “No.” “Well, then, is it a legacy from your grandmother? or what the thunder makes it so valuable?” said I, appearing somewhat curious. “Well,” said he, “I will give you five minutes to settle up.” “Well,” said I, “this is too valuable a thing to take out on the prairie and run the risk of its being stolen, so I will give you just five minutes to hand over that half dollar.” He said I had bought the funnel and must pay for it. At this I grabbed four funnels, and told him that I considered I was in hell anyhow, and if he thought he could better or worse my condition any to just draw his brakes; and we started for the door. He came running after us and said he would let us have the funnel for fifty cents. We told him we did not need any funnels. “Well,” said he, “here’s your half dollar.” “Well,” said I, “you owe me more than that.” “Why, how can that be?” said he. “Why,” said I, “if everything else is worth so much, money is worth something too, and that half dollar has drawn twenty-five cents interest.” “Well,” said he, “this is hell!” We told him that was what we took it for, and went on. He came running into the prairie and paid us the fifty cents, with interest, and took his funnels. If we could have got him a little farther from the fort we would have charged him compound interest and all the funnels; but under the circumstances we concluded to settle reasonably. We then picked up an old oyster-can and set it over the hole in the barrel, and with a picket-pin and the ax we drove a hole through the bottom of the can, and then had a funnel and a quarter for our trouble.

We now steered for Colorado, due west. Stopping at the Smoky Hill Fork to fill our barrel, we were told by a ranchman that the next water in that direction was the Barrel Springs,—so called from the barrels sunk there by hunters years ago,—thirty-five miles distant. We had not had any trouble about water yet, and did not think it necessary to ask many questions. So we marched as true to the direction pointed out to us as possible, and wended our way slowly along, killing jack-rabbits and antelopes for supplies, and conversing upon such subjects as would best pass away the time. Our barrel held seven bucketfuls of water, and the drive being but thirty-five miles, we were in no hurry and not as saving with the water as we might have been.

The first night out was a pleasant camp, and a little chase afforded us great sport. Directly after striking camp upon a spot whence we could see several miles in any direction, so level was the surrounding country. A deer was seen watching us in the distance. “Ah,” said John, “now for a race.” So, with carbine in hand, he mounted the gray mare; and the deer was soon seen bounding away with head erect, and John in close pursuit. Luckily for me, the chase was around camp; and the fun of viewing that race was all to myself. The deer at first appeared to think it all sport; but seeing the gray mare gaining upon him, and John’s long hair streaming in the wind while hurling lead from the old carbine, he appeared to realize his situation, and started off as if in a race for life, only touching the high places. John slowly returned from the chase, and riding into camp asked me if we needed any meat. “If we do,” said he, “I can get that deer very easily.” “Oh,” said I, “that meat is like the funnel, it is too dear entirely. I suppose we can do without it.”

The next morning, after taking our breakfast, we moved on, expecting to reach the Barrel Springs about noon, having but one bucket of water left. Noon came, and no water was left in the barrel; and the springs were not yet in sight. Twilight began to curtain the light of day, and our suspicions were aroused lest we had passed the looked-for spot. The weather was warm, the air dry, and our horses that night looked in vain at the empty barrel that lay drying in its hoops, and from which they had quenched their thirst so often. Our sleep that night was haunted with the thought of our probably serious condition; and the next day at early dawn, without breakfast, we hastened in the prescribed direction, knowing that if we had passed the springs, which was the most probable, it might be many miles before we could again find the cooling fluid so essential to life. To turn back to find it was equally as uncertain, so we determined to go forward. The plain grew very sandy, and the sun, without one cloud to veil its brightness, darted its torrid rays upon us with mighty power. Each hour of that long day was an anxious year, and greater pains than we took at every little green spot and hollow to find water by digging deep into the soil could not be taken by any one searching for a morsel upon which hung the last hope of mortal life. Our horses, too, by their tardy gait, showed their great weariness; and the whole was truly a thirsty outfit. Night came and no water. That night there was not one cloud in the sky; but the moon did not seem bright to our eyes, and the stars did not seem to twinkle. We were alone in the desert, deserted by all animation, and without one single thing to whisper to us a word of encouragement. To see those poor perishing horses licking that empty barrel, and then gaze at us with their ears dropped to the side of their heads, as if to say, “We are dying of thirst,” was enough to sadden any human, and to call up before our minds the terrible accounts of which we had read of whole outfits of men, women, and little children, whose bones were found withering upon the burning sands. O God! what must be the agony of a parent whose little infants are fast gathering in their innocent countenances the picture of death, and without one drop of water to give them in their last appeal! Softly the night melted into day, and the morn brought no relief. But without showing one spark of discouragement, we pushed on with parched lips. About noon one of the horses became so weak that he could do his part no longer. We unhitched him and put the other one at the end of the tongue; and while I led the fore horse, John whipped the hind one along, followed by the big blood-hound with his great red tongue lolling from his mouth. I imagine many of the most sorrowful sights are only seen by their unfortunate presenters. We would have given five dollars for a cup of water as freely as we ever gave five cents for a glass of soda. Toward evening John became so weak that he was obliged to ride, and I could see that his heart had sunk far into his bosom. I wore just as brisk an appearance as the circumstances would permit of, and trudged along leading the gray mare and whistling as much comfort to my perishing comrade as could be done with swelled lips. I will never forget that effort! I never could whistle a single tune in God’s world, and I imagine that tune I got off then was rather killing John than amusing him. Nevertheless, it was my best.

About nine o’clock we made another dry camp. The country had grown rough, showing signs of water; and seeing a cow-track by the bright light of the moon, we were assured that water was near. But we were tired; and the first pangs of thirst having somewhat subsided, we concluded to wait for the morn. That night John did a great deal of dreaming, and said so many funny things that I am sure if there had been a shorthand reporter there he could have written an interesting volume, and might have had love-letters that would have been models for the most affectionate writers. In the morning I arose early and mounted the gray mare that had been so gallant, and then over the hills for water. I followed the cow-track that I had seen in the evening; and the tracks became more and more numerous, until deep paths were seen, winding among the hills. After traveling about four miles from camp I came upon an elevated spot, whence I viewed such beauties that the occasion shall never be forgotten, though time shall find me aged and gray, and my faithful companion far away. There in front of me, and at my feet, lay a most beautiful valley, carpeted with richest green, and tenderly holding upon its bosom little pools of the liquid for which we had so long searched. The little sprouting cotton-wood trees that decked the slopes of that treasured spot seemed to call out to us to come and see the beauties so rarely seen by aught else but the wild herds that trampled beneath their green foliage. Without the least ceremony, a gray mare and thirsty rider might have been seen dashing down the hill-side toward the fountain of life. The cattle that were standing in the water lashing the flies, with great astonishment at the sight of their new visitors, readily yielded their rights to us, and in we went.

As soon as we had all we wished we pushed off with all speed for camp. There, among the barren hills, lay the bay horse stretched out upon the sand, and apparently resigned to his fate, while John was sitting under the wagon, viewing the surroundings as though wishing the power to bring water from the barren bluffs. Though I did not bring water from the rocks, I brought it in a tin bucket; and it was quite natural that I should imagine myself the Moses of old, watering the perishing in the midst of the desert. After drinking of the water John was greatly refreshed, and there was enough left to take the dimness from the eyes of the perishing horse. We now prepared to move down to the water. It was only with great difficulty that we succeeded in getting our fainting horse to the valley; and it was an affecting scene when the pool met his eye to see him prick up his ears and stagger into the water. After we were all refreshed, we turned the horses to graze, and set about getting something to eat. We had often been warned of the great peril of traveling over the unmarked prairie without a guide, and had read of many outfits dying of thirst, but this was our first experience. We had come from a land of plenty, and relished the many knickknacks and rarities of a civilized country; but the most pleasant draught we had ever taken in our lives, was that from the beautiful little lake in the green valley of Big Sand Creek. Some may relish liquors, while others will choose milder and more delicate drinks; but when your system is racked with a thirsty fever, and the blood is drying in your veins, then is naught half so delicious as the unadulterated fluid that flows so freely from the fountain of nature. There were many antelopes here; and we camped for several days in this beautiful valley, recruiting our weary team upon the rich pasture, and killing antelopes and drying their meat.

One clear evening, while sitting in our lonely camp watching the sun as it sunk low in the far horison, we saw an object moving in the dim distance. Quickly the glass was sighted and the focus told the person of a man on horseback moving toward us. We were overjoyed at this sight, and were glad to meet one who could tell us where we were and explain the surrounding. We received him most cordially, and after feasting him to the best we had, we all felt refreshed and seated ourselves for a chat. He told us that we were upon the Big Sandy, forty miles above the Arkansas River, into which it flows, and that we would find cow-ranches all the way down. He said he lived at the mouth of the creek, and gave us the history of the country through the many years that he had been breathing pure western air. New-comers on the plains are called tender feet; and having been called that before, we concluded to take advantage of this occasion and be as big an Indian-killing outfit as any he could tell of, though of course we were strangers in that part of the country. After he had narrated some interesting events, we began telling some of our experiences, and among other things incidentally mentioned our coming across from Wallace. Upon his asking us if we had struck the Barrel Springs, we told him that we had not, and he was very much astonished and wondered how we got across. “Oh,” said John, “it only took a couple of days to come across; and any outfit that could not travel two or three days without food or drink, were what we called tender feet in our country.” I then took the opportunity to inquire what kind of a place the springs was. He told us that they were at the end of a gravel-ridge, where stood quite a little bush; and at that season of the year you would have to dig about two or three feet into the earth to find water. This was a sufficient description to fully convince us that this was not the place we were looking for; and it was no wonder that we had passed them in looking for a stream of water springing from the ground with a flow of a hundred gallons per minute. We made no reply, but looked at each other as much as to say, “Springs in this country are not such as we are used to.” Twilight was gathering, and after telling us the old battle-ground where General Chivington and his followers massacred five hundred Indians one morning before breakfast, several years ago, was but a few miles above us, he said that he would go, as he wanted to stop at a ranch two miles below for the night. Bidding us good-night, and asking us to call upon him as we passed, we parted.

We could not rest until we went to see this spot so well known to every person throughout that whole country, and survey the ground where so many eyes were closed in death in one short hour. We found the spot marked by many old pieces of camp-equipments, bows, and saddles, etc., all pierced with bullets, while the many skeletons that lay bleaching in the sun told the number of ponies that fell in that great struggle. The same barren hills that re-echoed the screams of the squaws and papooses, and the whoop of the warriors, are still overlooking the spot; the same little trees that spread their tender branches over a slumbering nation upon that last night, though all filled with lead, were still waving in the breeze. But where, oh, where is the warrior and his family! They are sleeping in the little green mounds beneath the same trees under which they fell, and their war-cries are no more to be heard. The war-dance is over and the gory hatchet lies rusting in the earth. The wild herds are unconsciously cropping the rich grass from the graves, and in a few years the fate and memory of a whole nation will be buried in the solitude of Sand Creek Valley. The scene made an impression upon my mind that time can not obliterate, and in silence we turned away.

We had now spent several days in this beautiful valley; and our team with ourselves having become thoroughly recruited, we again broke camp and wound slowly down the creek toward the river. Cattle became very numerous as we advanced, and we had many a good chat with the cow-boys who stayed in the little pole-cabins to watch over the cattle.

In a few days we were in sight of the Arkansas Valley, and heard the roar of the great stream. The river rolls through a most lovely valley about two miles wide; and thousands of cattle are pasturing upon the rich grass. Thick groves of cotton-wood skirted the banks, and a merrier party than we while reclining in the green shade of the little trees never pegged a tent to the soil.

It was now the latter part of August; and the weather being very warm, we concluded to wander up and down the river, fishing and hunting to pass away the time until October, when we intended to go south for a winter’s hunt. There is much of this valley homesteaded and pre-empted, and many little pole and adobe-shanties deck this pretty level bank. Here we could hear the voice of the merry housewife, and the din of the playing children was borne to our ears upon the evening breeze. It had been some time,—aside from Wallace,—since we had seen settlements of this kind; and cultivating their acquaintances, we found them quite hospitable, and spent many a happy evening in their modest little homes.

It was here for the first time that we saw farming done by irrigation—this being the only way anything whatever can be raised in these parts where there is not a sprinkle for sometimes nine months at a period. Upon the principle of a mill-race, they go away up the river, and at some good place lead the water from the stream into a ditch which winds along the edge of the plain, according to the fall, until it is higher than the valley, which is usually very level, as though designed by the great Creator to be thus used. This ditch is sometimes owned by the landowners, and sometimes by companies, who charge the settlers so much per annum for the water to irrigate. The channel ofttimes is very long, and it there are many farmers along its borders, stock in this is well invested. When the water is at hand, the land is plowed and the seed is sown or planted in the loose, sandy soil. The gates at the ditch are then lifted, and with hoe and shovel they watch and see that the surface is all covered with water. If corn or potatoes are planted, a furrow is drawn along each side of the row, and the water is let to course through these until the soil is thoroughly saturated. This irrigation must be done usually once or twice a week, depending somewhat upon the temperature of the atmosphere and the nature and condition of the soil. We have seen some good crops thus raised; and strange to say, some persons who have lived here for several years say they would farm in no other country; “for,” they say, “we do our own raining, and never have droughts or floods.” Of course we were very glad to see them so well satisfied with their fortunes; but as for us, we preferred living in God’s country, where the water falls from the clouds.

Following the river east, claims became more and more numerous until we arrived at Wichita, when we found the whole valley settled up, and were surprised to see the great buffalo-range of so few years ago bearing upon its bosom great fields of rich, golden grain. Going west toward the mountains, the farmers became fewer and fewer, and the valley and plain are left to the stock-men. About sunset thousands of cattle may be seen coming in to water from all directions, until the whole valley is a moving mass. The plain is high and dry, covered with a thick growth of buffalo-grass, and perfectly destitute of all else. Not even a bush can be seen except along the streams or little lakes, which are often forty and fifty miles apart. The cattle and all wild animals range along the water, feeding five and six miles out upon the plain. The waters on the plains stand in pools, in long, deep arrowas; and in the spring, when the snow melts in the mountains, the water courses its way through these gulches toward the rivers. The rest of the year they are but pools; and these seldom dry up. Crossing over the dry plain from one water to another, a journey of often a couple of days, without seeing so much as a wolf to break the monotony, it is needless to say that upon coming into one of the valleys it appears like entering a paradise. Having spent several weeks hunting over these parts, it was now the latter part of September, and we prepared to start south for a buffalo hunt.

CHAPTER III.

When the October sun was creeping from the horizon and the melancholy winds were roaring over the dry, brown prairie, two young men of Montgomery County, Ohio,—Charles Wonderly and David Lesher,—came out on the train and met us at Granada. Being now a party of four, we were well prepared, and went to Las Animas to lay in supplies for a buffalo campaign. We bought flour, meal, salt, pepper, tobacco, etc., and a few sacks of corn to feed our horses when the winter’s snow had come. We also took a keg of brandy, for snake-bites, and enough ammunition to kill everything in Texas. We then came east, into the Arkansas Valley, intending to strike south from Granada.

When we got within fifteen miles of Granada some cow-boys came riding up the valley, spurring their ponies to their utmost, and warning settlers that a band of Cheyennes had been seen down the river. Great excitement prevailed for the safety of the wives and children, who—there being but a few families—were hurried to the ranche of Captain Irwin. We brought our ponies under the cover of our guns, and took quarters in the same adobe hut.

John and myself had seen a little skirmishing before, and by this time were pretty well acclimated; but Dave and Charles!—boys just from protected homes and the quietude of civilization,—imagine their feelings after reading of the bloody deeds of the red-man, and now that their yells were in their very ears.

The windows and port-holes were thrown open, and with Sharpe’s rifles in our hands we keenly watched for a red devil upon whom to try our skill.

There was a school-marm staying there, to teach the children of Mr. Irwin, and with her I had previously become acquainted. After waiting for some time for Indians, I concluded to take advantage of the occasion, and to beat my sword into a pruning-hook and try to hook a little love out of the school-marm. She was late from the East, and, it is needless to say, was much excited. This made her quite gentle; and by assuming a brave appearance, with my big gun in hand and telling her there was no danger, I gained her confidence, and she hung to my arm like a squirrel to a hickory sapling when hunters are thick. You may all talk about Indians being good marksmen, but I will venture to say that there is not an Indian in the whole Cheyenne nation that could shoot me nearer the heart than did that school-marm in the little adobe ranche.

Hours flew by like leaves before the wind, and at length a man came riding up and stated that he was the person who gave the alarm. He was a tender-foot cow-boy. He stated that one of their boys had started upon his pony to cross the plain to another range about twenty miles distant; that just as he was going over the raise he saw four or five Indians on horseback cut him off from camp and chase him out of sight, quirting their ponies to their utmost speed. He had also heard a shot fired, and which he supposed had told his death. We questioned him very closely, and told him how he might have been deceived; but he was very positive, and said he would swear to his statement. At this, four of us, well mounted and with each a brace of six-shooters and a Sharpe’s rifle, started out to trace up our friend. We went to the raise where he said he had seen them pass over, and by a careful examination could discover but one horse-track in the sand, and this showed that the horse had been running. After scouring the country for several miles and seeing but the single track, all began to theorize how he might have been deceived; and although he expressed himself very positive, we concluded to go back and wait until morning, when the young man was to come back.

It was an anxious night for the settlers, who expected a general slaughter in the valley; and the bloody outrages committed in the neighboring ranges, of which reports had been coming in daily from all directions, lent terror to those who had infants to protect. As for me, Indians or no Indians, what cared I so the school-marm came off safely!

At last the darkness began to give way to the light of the morn; and about nine o’clock, through a field-glass, from a house-top, an object was sighted in the distance. Nearer and nearer and plainer and plainer it became, until we were all satisfied that the lost was found and the dead had come to life. He was much surprised at the excitement his little chase had caused. He said that just as he was going over the raise he chased four great sand-hill cranes, and shot at them over the hill. The scene was now explained and the mystery solved. These cranes are large, and in flying along close to the ground our friend had imagined the long, slender wings whipping the air, to be Indian arms whipping their ponies; and knowing them to be in the country still colored the imagination. The young man was much mortified at his deception; and they all laughed at him so much that he peered toward the hills as though wishing the Indians would come and ally with him to kill the whole valley. This little incident taught us to always be on our guard and to never run until we saw the elephant.

The school-marm thanked me for my kindness, and gave me an affectionate good-by; and as we pulled out she looked after us, and Dave and Charles drew long breaths, as though envying me my affectionate relations with the Birdie of the prairie.

Leaving the valley and going south, we came upon a broad, level plain, where the horizon looked like a great wagon-wheel and we could see many miles in all directions. The first water was Plum Creek, in nine miles. This is a dry gulch running through the prairie, with pools every mile or two. In very dry summers they become dry. The next water was Butte Creek, in six miles; and here we camped for the night. This is like Plum Creek, only the gulch is very deep and the country is extremely rough upon either side. The valley is full of cotton-wood trees and brier-bushes; and the hungry wolves howled loudly behind every hill. Dave and Charles had heard too much about wolves to rest easily where they were so numerous; and the roar of their rifles and six-shooters made the night a lively one. In the morning several big grays lay dead in the valley as the result of the late lead-storm. I told them that they would have to be saving with the ammunition; but they said ammunition would be of no use when they were devoured by wolves, and we would have been eaten up alive that very night had they not fought so hard; “for,” said they, “as we sat by the fire their eyes glittered among the hills like stars in the heavens, and every now and then a big fellow would howl out at our very sides, as much as to say, ‘I got him.’”

We took an early start, and traveled over the dry country until the sun was hiding himself in the west, when, having traveled full thirty miles, we again came among the hills and caught sight of the tops of some little trees that grew in a deep gulch, and we knew we were now near water.

We had advanced but a short distance after sighting the trees when we also saw some dark objects just beyond. “Buffaloes!” was the first flash through our minds; and our field-glass told us that we were right. Buffaloes were what we were hunting; and, mounting my pony, with my big Sharpe in hand, I was soon wending my way down the deep, dry gulch until I was just opposite the herd; and, tying the pony to a cotton-wood, I crawled up to survey. There were thirty-eight in the herd, and they were leisurely feeding up a green ravine that lay parallel with Bear Creek and led into it some distance below. They were several hundred yards south of me, but by crawling cautiously along I succeeded in getting into the ravine about four hundred yards above them without being noticed, and impatiently awaited the oncome. When they got within about three hundred yards of me some of the old bulls appeared to see me, and, with heads erect, on they came, stopping at intervals to paw the earth and ring my ears with their bellowing. The whole herd at length saw me, and curiously started to inspect the dark object stretched out upon the plain before them. I thought about shooting until they were within two hundred yards of me, when my giant strength failed me and I lay like the slain Goliath, helplessly stretched upon the earth. I had often heard of buck-ague, but if that was my attack I am sure its effects were never fully described; for I felt as though a bucketful of blood jumped through my heart at a time, and every time my pulse beat I believe I jumped four inches from the sod. This was the first wild herd I had ever seen; and having my first experience upon the open plain all by myself, without a tree to climb or a stump to hide behind in case of immersion, I must say somewhat terrified me; and while thinking of all the danger I might be in, they suddenly started off in a lope, as though scenting me, and certainly to my very great relief. This was now my opportunity to try my hand; and, running to the top of a little knoll, I took aim from my knee at an old bull that had stopped to look back, and pulled. I did not consider that I was firing a one-hundred-grain gun, and having my nose entirely too close it was some time before I was conscious of what had taken place. When the blood had stopped running and the smoke had cleared away, and I found that I had not shot myself, I looked up to see the last buffalo disappear behind the raise. Sheepishly I retired, amid the shouts from the boys; and though we had no success this time we knew that we were now in the buffalo region at last, and supposed ourselves more able to tackle the next gang, be it great or small.

The water of which we just spoke we learned to be Bear Creek; and a pretty ravine it was, too. The water stood in little pools like Butte Creek, and these were fed by springs. There were a great many cattle and rich pasture there, and old cow-camps were to be seen all up and down the creek. Stopping here for several days, we enjoyed ourselves very much in the thick shade of the little trees through the heat of the day; and though we saw no more buffalo, antelopes were numerous, and we had much sport shooting these shy creatures as they came down unconsciously from the plain to quench their thirst from the pools among the mighty Bear Creek bluffs. Charles had never shot an antelope; and to describe the maneuvering of his first experience would fill a volume. One morning he came running into camp and said that a flock of antelopes were coming in to water just below, and grabbing a rifle he dashed away. I followed him closely, and when he crawled up behind a rock to shoot I was near him behind another and could see it all. Down came a big buck to the pool, and after looking slyly around began to drink. This was Charley’s opportunity; and after going through all the motions of a monkey in a show-pen, whang went the rifle, and down came the buck. “Right through the heart, by thunder!” said he, and throwing down his rifle he dashed upon his prey. He had caught him through the loins; and though the buck struggled hard, Charley hung to him like a Dutch butcher, and at last cut off his wind. I made off for camp, and Charley never knew that I was near. Soon he came in whistling, with the buck across his back; and though it weighed at least one hundred and twenty-five pounds, he stood in camp full five minutes with the buck upon his back, explaining how he did it. We all laughed a great deal at Charley’s shooting antelope through the heart, and he often asked us how the devil we knew where he aimed.

We at length grew eager for another trial at the kings of the prairie, and pulled out for the Cimaron River, where we expected to make a head-quarter camp and put in the winter hunting over the South. We reached the river after a march of about thirty miles, and were now about seventy-five miles south of the A., T., & S. F. R. R., and all civilization. Skirting the banks of every water we had yet passed were little trees; but here there was not even a twig the size of a finger.

We had learned before to burn buffalo-chips, and as far as fuel was concerned we were all right; but the next question, and the most perplexing, was how to make a house in which to store our supplies, and for our protection in winter, as well as a retreat from danger. Here lay the spade and there stuck the pick, but the only material we could see for a house was the dry earth. Dave was a carpenter, and we told him he should begin the frame. But he said he was not used to working in that kind of timber. We found a deep dry gulch leading to the river, and going to work we soon had a chamber dug in the bank, eighteen feet long and twelve feet wide, four feet deep on the lower side, and seven feet deep on the high side, with a narrow pass-way into the gulch. We then dug a fireplace in the high side, and worked from top and bottom until we finished the flue. All was then completed but the roof; and using our tent-poles for supporters, we stretched a couple of wagon-sheets from the high to the low side, and pegged them to the ground at each end. We had thus a tolerably safe retreat from the wind and sun; and moving all our things in there, we concluded to wait for a few days and then go to Bear Creek for poles to put on a good roof. The weather being very fine, and not having seen a sprinkle for many days, we put the work off from time to time; and one evening of the first week in our new abode, when least expecting it, we were much surprised to see the sky suddenly veil itself with dark clouds, and empty its flood upon us. I had read about the windows of heaven being opened, but, my God! I thought the whole side of the house had fallen out upon this occasion. The floor of our house was sticky clay, and not having seen a sprinkle for so long, while our muslin roof carried off the dampness, we enjoyed the occasion very much. Soon, however, the ground began to soften, the pins to pull out, and the fun was then at an end. The water falling upon the loose canvas, it bagged down, and directly out came a peg, and splash came two or three buckets of water into our new house. Seeing that we might as well have no cover at all, we piled our things upon boxes and covered them with oilcloth, and took it as it came. Our tent was ripped to pieces, and this was our only scheme. Soon the mud was ankle-deep all over our new floor, and the last smoke slowly curled from the few damp buffalo-chips that lay frying upon the hearth. Our condition about that time was not at all enviable; and we looked in every direction and contemplated every scheme. But we at last concluded that foxes have dry holes, and the birds of the air have sheltered nests; but greenhorn buffalo-hunters must stand in mud up to their knees and be baptized in a way that God knows is not agreeable to anybody’s belief. Charles and myself figured on the wagon, and throwing a lot of wolf-hides and our harness upon the ground, we crawled under the wagon upon them; and wrapping ourselves in our wet blankets, we took the collars for pillows and tried to think ourselves comfortable. But the wind was blowing fiercely and the rain falling at an incredible rate. We were soon completely drenched; and the water gurgled good, good, good, down through the horse-collars. The water was rushing in torrents down the hill-sides, and stood in sheets upon the level. We saw clearly that it was immersion or get out of there, and we chose the latter. Our wits were then at an end, and we concluded that if we owned hell and that country, we would rent out the latter and live in the former. A chicken sitting out upon the naked limb of an apple-tree in a cold winter’s storm is not to be compared to a boy standing in mud knee-deep, with water dashing about his ears like a water-wheel, and pouring from his nose like a house-spout, and not even a pin to hang himself up on. Dave was all the while silent, and seated upon a box in the dug-out, wrapped in a blanket, and looking into the fireplace as though comparing the place with hell, and rebel prisons, and all other noted places in his dreams. John had learned some of the western dialect, and was seated upon the wagon, with a blanket over him, rehearsing what he had learned; and I thought from what little I knew of it he succeeded very well, and learned fast, and remembered first-rate.

We, however, were living, though not in the best of humor, when about three o’clock in the morning it suddenly turned cold and began to sleet. Now if any painter can picture the scene of that camp, or any writer describe the condition and feeling of that party who groped in the darkness of that cave on the banks of the Cimaron on that cold, dreary morn, he must have been there himself. Every blanket that we had, and every thread of clothing that wrapped our forms was wet and dripping. There was not a dry piece of fur; and we raced over the prairie and rubbed ourselves to keep the blood in circulation. I tell you the sharp wind that whistled by and roared among the hills soon aroused Dave from his slumbers, and he was the most frantic racer I ever saw. He could run over a jack-rabbit in one hundred yards. When we were tired of running, with pick and spade we set to work digging in the earth at the mouth of the dug-out to keep warm and to lower it so as to drain out the water and mud. Morning came and we were still alive, but redder noses than ours never roamed a Colorado dram-shop. Our horses, too, were covered with ice, and must have felt pretty uncomfortable. At length the sun slowly rolled from the horizon and sent his sparkling beams upon the dismal plain, and drew all animation to the eastern slopes. By great exercise we managed to dry our clothes upon us, and felt pretty comfortable again.

We had now escaped the cold, but the hunger part was yet to come. John and myself had had an experience of fourteen days upon flap-jacks, and two days and a half without eating or drinking, and of course we did not figure quite as closely as Dave and Charles, who had been but a few weeks from the land of plenty and comfort. Nevertheless, we had to fast that day until toward evening, when we found some small rushes upon the banks of the river, which were dried in the sun. Placing some bones together, we built a fire upon them with the rushes and kept it up until the bones were heated. Then slicing some meat real fine, we put it in a thin sheet-iron skillet, and placing it upon the heated bones, and continually applying rushes, we were enabled to fry ourselves a little repast. This was a new scheme, and while delighted with our ingenuity we forgot that we had nothing but meat, and thought it the best meat we had eaten for many days. We were very glad to see the face of the plain once more dry, and determined to prepare for the next immersion.

The next day Charles and myself started for Bear Creek for poles, and John and Dave stayed with the camp. We got to Bear Creek that day and cut the poles in the evening, and the next morning started back. About sunset we were at home; and the next day we placed the poles over the hole or cave, and after covering them with rushes, applied a coat of dirt. Our house was then completed, and we were prepared for future contingencies.

Here was the tender-foot outfit, our home a dark cave in the bluff of the Cimaron, seventy-five miles from the smallest settlement, and our only neighbors the wild animals of the plain. Our long-hunted range was at last reached, and the buffalo could be seen upon the distant hill-sides, and their lowing could be distinctly heard. The gray wolf, of which we had heard so much, was here too in such numbers as to be very bold; and their piercing howls, which would make the boldest inexperienced man shudder, could be heard at night at our very door.

Being now in the happy hunting-ground, we prepared for a big hunt. We had the Sharpe rifle,—forty-five caliber, one hundred grains,—and forty-five caliber Colt, and Smith & Wesson six-shooters. Having the best of fire-arms, and loads of ammunition, we felt ourselves a match for anything that chose a daylight battle; and now for the hunt.

By having our camp so well concealed, the game at first came close around the dug-out, entirely unconscious of an enemy; but from the daily explosions in that ravine they soon learned to be shy, and appeared to regard the little hole in the ground as a dangerous place.

We saw our first antelope in western Nebraska, where they were so wild that the most experienced hunter could scarcely ever succeed in killing one. They had become more and more numerous, however, until we were now in their very homes, and little bands could be seen upon every hill. This animal is some larger than a sheep, and is white-and-brown spotted. The bucks are the larger, and have horns about eight inches long. They are the most vigilant animal of the prairie; and in their most quiet state usually take one bite and two looks, and upon the least alarm start off at such speed as to almost baffle the eye. We had exhausted our ingenuity and had many days’ experience before we could successfully make our bullets tell in the vigilant herds. The following are some of the successful schemes: In cold, stormy weather they take shelter in the ravines and behind the bluffs, and of course can then be readily shot, in a rough country; but in ordinary weather they usually keep upon high places, so that you can scarcely ever get near enough to shoot them without being detected. In this case, take a horse and start off obliquely toward them; be upon the leeward side, and never look directly at them. Keep sidling toward the flock, and going round, but be cautious that you never go directly toward them. In this way one can often get within shooting distance, which is fair at four hundred yards. If you have no horse, go as closely as you can without being detected, and then crawl,—always keeping the wind of them, as they will scare quicker at scent than at sight. When they look toward you, do not move a finger, and look down; but when they are not looking, crawl quickly. They usually become very curious, and come toward you, snuffing the air and stamping their feet. Then watch your chance; for when they are once satisfied that you are an enemy, and start to run, you might as well try to shoot the lightning’s glare. A red flag is a very good thing to tie on your hat, and then get in some conspicuous place and lie still. It will not be long before they will come to see you. They are very sharp, and use great cunning in investigating the dangers that lurk in their vicinity. They can often be deceived by getting some one to drive a wagon obliquely toward them, and at some place near, where there is a little raise or bunch of weeds or grass, jump off while the wagon is moving. Be careful that you are not detected. They will watch the team very closely, and as the wagon circles to the other side of them and their backs are turned to you, you can often crawl upon them without being discovered. If they start to run, just throw a ball in the sand ahead of them. Several balls will often so excite them that they are as apt to run toward you as any other way. Always shoot behind the shoulder, if possible; for they are animals of such great spirit that anything but a mortal shot does not appear to disable them; and I have heard of an antelope with three legs broken and both eyes shot out, outrunning a horse in a fair race. I shall not vouch for the truth of this, but there is more truth about it than any person who has never seen an antelope would be willing to believe. Any person who can hunt this animal with success is truly an ingenious sportsman.

We took advantage of the buffaloes that came among the river-hills near our camp, and in a couple of days we had a load of meat, consisting of shoulder-clods, saddles, humps, and tongues; and Dave and myself started north to the Arkansas Valley to sell out, while John and Charles stayed in camp. We made it to Bear Creek in one day, Butte Creek the next, and the third day about noon we came to the railroad. There were many emigrants going up the valley to the mountains, and to these and the settlers we had no trouble in disposing of our load at five cents per pound. The load brought us just fifty dollars.

We found it a little unhandy to have our grub and cooking outfit scattered promiscuously through the wagon, and I thought it would be nice and convenient to have a mess-box. So, the morning that we started back for camp we passed by a neat little adobe house, and we stopped to ask the man for his doors, to make a mess-box. There was no one about, so we took off the only two doors and drove on. Dave, with all his Methodist Episcopal modesty,—which he had forgotten to leave at home,—said it was not right to take the doors; but I told him that I was a member of the Colorado State Board of Equalization; and a house without doors was still better than doors without a house. This was downright hunter’s logic.

We camped at Butte Creek for the night, and in the evening we worked up the doors. We made a cupboard three feet high, as wide as the wagon-bed, and fourteen inches deep; and then boxed and shelved it to suit our needs, leaving a space to the right large enough for a fifty-pound sack of flour, and in the bottom of the cupboard a space for the bread-pan, oven, frying-pan, etc. The rest was partitioned off in smaller spaces for pepper, salt, baking-powder, etc. Then, taking out the end-gate, we set the cupboard in the back part of the wagon and passed the bed-rods through it, and it was fastened. We then made a door large enough to cover the face of the cupboard, and with the hinges that we had saved from the doors hinged it to the bottom of the wagon-bed; and making a latch to the top of the cupboard, with a piece of calf-hide and a pin, the box was neatly finished. I then cut off a stick the height of the bottom of the wagon-bed, and wiring it to the door where it was latched, the thing was completed. The lid could be unlatched, and, coming down, it would rest upon the stake, and there was a table, and everything in the mess-chest was clean and handy. This arrangement was so splendid that a broad grin came over Dave’s face in spite of his conscience.

The next morning we arose and started for Bear Creek, reaching it just at sunset. Wishing to give our team as much range as possible without leaving them entirely free (and having no hobbles), we took a picket-rope about thirty feet long and tied one end around each horse’s neck. We thought they would hardly stray far from camp; and after watching them for a while, and discovering that they never both took a notion to go the same way, we felt that they were secure, and after supper lay down for the night. The weather was warm, the evening was beautiful, and our sleep was sweet. At daylight I arose to look for the horses. I went among the hills and upon the highest bluffs, and peered in every direction; but there was not a horse in sight. We tried to track them, but they had no shoes on, and their tracks could not be distinguished from those of the wild herds. After hunting among the hills and down the ravines until noon, we concluded that they must have gone back to the railroad to tell the fellow who took his doors. We had left the riding ponies at the camp upon the Cimaron, and we were now left afoot. We had turned them upon the north side of the creek, and not being able to find where they had crossed over to the south, our suspicion was strengthened; and taking a few biscuits in our pockets, with compass in hand, we struck northward across the thirty-mile stretch of dry plains for Butte Creek. We had nothing to carry water in, and a pint of brandy was all we took to drink.

The afternoon was very warm, and the sand was burning hot. The brandy tasted like sugar-water, and was gone before we had traveled five miles. We became very dry when we were about midway; but the dwellings and shade trees were very scarce in that country, and we were compelled to stand it. One of my boots rubbed a great blister upon my heel, and I pulled the boot off and went barefooted. The foot soon became sore upon the scorching sand, and tearing a sleeve from my hunting-coat I tied it around my foot for a moccasin. All animals range along the water, feeding out from five to eight miles; and there were several miles of our journey upon which there was not an animal or insect, and the country was level as a floor. We sat down now and then to rest; but it was a rather uncomfortable rest. We were compelled to walk very rapidly to reach water that night; and as we rushed along, the bright sun and the heat that curled from the hot sand almost blinded us.

Once, while we were sitting down, we saw something that looked like horses far to the north, and taking our glass we fully convinced ourselves that we were right; for we could plainly see them walking along tied together. We kept our eyes upon them, and in two hundred yards we came upon two old buffalo bones, which the mirage had loomed up into large objects. We then saw how mirage could deceive, especially when aided by imagination.

The walk would have been nothing if we could have had water; but I tell you we were pretty well dried out when a little after sunset we came among the Bear Creek hills. A little stream came crystalling down from a spring away up in the bluff; and after drinking of its beautiful waters and taking a good wash, we looked around for the horses, knowing that if they had struck the creek they would not leave the water for several hours at least. Anxious to intercept their further travel to the north, we went up and down the creek by the moonlight for several miles; but no horses.

We came upon an old picket cow-ranch among the hills, and concluded to stop there until morning. We were met at the door by three or four skunks, which in spite cf our friendly salute opened a double-barrel fire upon us with their heads the other way. They were very obstinate, and we were compelled to kill them. We then had control of the shanty, which smelled like a reservoir of cologne for the rest of the night. There was a little stone fireplace in one end of the house, and we built a fire to keep away the wolves and skunks. We had no blankets, but were doing very well, when about eleven o’clock the wind arose and it turned cold. We then needed a fire; but the little trees were mostly green, and there was no loose wood, and we had no ax. There were two holes for windows and a big place for a door, and these being open the cold wind went howling through our house like a breeze from the north pole. The house was made with poles put in the ground close together, and we began at the door to tear out the posts for fuel. The wind blew colder and colder, and toward morning a light snow fell. There was very little of the house left when the morning dawned, and we could not help thinking of the man along the Arkansas who was living in the house that belonged to our doors. We had not seen any game, so a biscuit was our breakfast. We felt first-rate, but one of my feet being one blister from heel to toe, and the other terribly rubbed, a long walk was to me a little disagreeable; and I determined to patronize the first shoe-maker I crossed.

The morning was very cool, and we thought it best for Dave to return to the wagon at Bear Creek, and I would go to the river; and if our team had not come up there I was to buy another and return. I had torn the sleeves from my coat, and Dave had given me a large handkerchief. With these I wrapped my feet; but they were so terribly sore and swelled that I could scarcely stand. Dave dashed to the south with his compass in one hand and his rifle in the other, and I hobbled to the north. I broke myself two canes; and after I got warmed up I flew rapidly along, and came into Granada at nine o’clock. I found out that day that our horses had not been seen; so in the evening I bought two good ponies, and in the morning started for Bear Creek. A little before sunset I came among the hills, and struck the creek a mile below the wagon. On my way up I came upon Dave in a deep ravine, roasting a piece of a deer he had killed. I brought a quart of pepper-sauce along down from Granada, and this, with a good square mess of roast venison, made us feel first-rate. We sat around the fire talking and chatting and broiling venison most of the night; and there was not much of the deer-saddle left in the morning. We then hooked up our ponies; and though they were a little wild, we went prancing along for the Cimaron. We came into camp at sunset and found the boys well, but very uneasy lest we had lost our compass and become bewildered, or had been cut off by the Indians. We had exchanged teams, and had a great deal of promiscuous experience since we parted; and this, with the story of the cupboard, furnished enough narrative with which to interest John and Charles the greater part of the night. Charles said it was all right to take the doors if there were no ready-made cupboard in the house; otherwise, it was a sin (in Colorado). We spread our blankets and lay down late in the night, and slept sweetly. We arose at the dawning of the morn, and after a good mess of buffalo-meat, with nice warm biscuits, we went out in the soft morning air. As we stood upon the hill-side at the river’s edge, the zephyrs fanned us like the breath of heaven; and the sun, as it rolled from the eastern sky, appeared to us more majestic than ever before. Away down the valley we could see the buffaloes feeding upon the rich pasture; and upon the brow of a hill to the south were two large wolves, feasting upon an antelope they had just killed. In our native Ohio we had seen the buffalo behind the strong high fence, and the wolf in the iron cage; but here they were with their wild neighbors in the garden of nature, ruminating in the free, open air. The scene was striking; and it was all natural; the hand of man had not figured there; and though far from civilization, we felt happy, and the Cimaron waters appeared to smile upon us as they hurried by.

We spent a few days in exploring the surrounding country, and went far up and down the river acquainting ourselves with the hills and valleys.

The hide season was now here, and being well prepared, we expected to take many a pelt, and have lots of sport. We had prepared ourselves with a great many little pegs, and with these we pinned to the ground, flesh side up, the hides that we gathered, until the hill-side in front of our door was pretty well covered. Every now and then we met a brother hunter upon the plains; and with him we had many a pleasant chat, and learned the history of the country from the present back through many years. It is interesting to listen to the tales of the old hunters who roamed the wild prairie thirty years ago, and who have ever since neighbored with wild animals and savages, and reaped a livelihood from the western wilds. They say that many years ago, when they first came to the country, if a person were upon a slight elevation when the herd was passing by, the valley would be covered with buffaloes as far as the eye could reach, rendering the whole country a dark, moving mass, and compelling the Forty-niners en-route for California to stop over for whole days, until the herd crossed over. Though there were small herds of thirty and forty moving in all directions, the main herd moved in a body, and unlike cattle, kept closely together. Before the time of railroads through the West, they used to hunt all winter and dry the hides, and haul them east in the spring, making large profits. But when the Kansas Pacific, Union Pacific, and Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe railroads were built, the buffaloes were very plenty; and meat being in good demand, and having an outlet for the shipment of hides, great numbers of hunters swarmed the prairie, and the slaughter of the animal was wholesale. Good robe hides then being worth four and five dollars, the animal, rich and delicious, and for which many a poor eastern family would be thankful, after being stripped of its winding-sheet, was left to decay in the sun or be devoured by the howling wolves. They say they used to lie down upon the prairie and shoot; and the longer they shot, and the more they killed, the thicker they came around; and they often found it necessary to get out of the way to keep themselves from being trampled into the earth. In this way they were slaughtered by thousands. The number became rapidly reduced, until to-day the main herd consists of but a few thousands, and small herds of twenty and thirty wander here and there, reclining upon the soft plain and nipping the rich grass from the hills that once echoed the bellowings of the innumerable herd. The great numbers spoken of somewhat startled us, and sounded more like a fable than a pleasant story; but when we traveled over the plains and saw sometimes fifty and sixty skeletons almost on a heap, and whole acres almost covered with bones whitening in the sun, and sometimes being able to jump from one buffalo-head to another for several hundred yards (especially in the Republican Valley), we were persuaded to believe what we were told.

Upon reflection, it seems a sin that these animals were shot down in such great numbers only for the pelts, and so much of the best meat in the world left to waste in the sun or be devoured by the wild, carnivorous animals of the prairie; but the truth is, no cattle or sheep could be raised or any use made of the country so long as these mighty herds continued to trample it. The hunters say they used to start out in the morning without a cent in their pockets, and at night they would often have pelts enough, together with the meat they found sale for along the railroad, to pay them seventy-five or one hundred dollars, which they would gamble and drink away before morning, very often. “Ah!” say they, “we have been here many years, and have spent many a fortune in the vile dens so numerous in the West; but the great herds have now almost faded away, and instead of having plenty, as we might have, we are now poor men, wandering over the plains for a living.”

It used to be very dangerous to be in the way when they were upon a stampede, for they were as irresistible as the ocean wave; and it is said that more than one outfit, horses and all, has been trod into the dust by the trampling thousands that made the valleys roar. But stampedes have for some years ceased to be very dangerous, and buffalo-hunting has for some time been a science, and is practiced as follows: A person or company, with teams, saddle-ponies, ammunition, and provisions, go out to where the buffaloes range, and there make a head-quarter camp,—usually a dug-out, for timber is scarce,—and there unload. When the herd is killed and frightened away from camp, one or two stay in camp to watch over what is left there and the rest start out with wagons in the following order: The hunter has a big cartridge-rifle,—usually a one-hundred-grain Sharpe, or one hundred and twenty grains, which is called a big fifty,—fifty caliber. These guns weigh from twelve to eighteen pounds, and carry from a mile and a half to two miles. He also has a large belt, with loops to hold forty or fifty cartridges, and a good knife. One man usually does the shooting for the outfit, though two sometimes go together. The skinner or skinners, with ammunition, beds, and provisions, follow with the wagon or wagons, and keep just in sight of the hunter. When he sees a herd he crawls and creeps until he is within shooting distance, and fires down the leader. The herd will not fly without a leader; and until they have a new one selected he is again ready, and downs him. Watching his chances, and being a good shot, in this way he sometimes succeeds in getting down fifty or sixty buffaloes. One man said he one time shot down one hundred and sixty in one stand. When the blood begins to flow freely the herd becomes very much excited; and while horning the wounded ones and pawing in the blood, with tails lashing the air, and almost deafening you with their bellowing, it is enough to terrify an inexperienced hunter. And any person who has been there, I assure you, will make himself just as scarce as possible on such occasions; for a wounded buffalo is very dangerous. When the herd leaves,—from the hunter ceasing to fire, or making a mis-shot,—the skinners come up and go to work, and the hunter follows up the herd on foot and takes down one here and there, and tries for another stand, which depends very much upon his skill as a hunter. Sometimes this chase is kept up all day, and the hunter has no success until about sundown, when they have become somewhat used to the crack of the rifle, and being tired and hungry they slacken up; and while fighting the wounded ones the hunter gets in a few good shots, and right there loads his wagons. When the wagons are well loaded they start for camp to unload the hides and stretch them out to dry. Several hundred hides being sometimes stretched out at one camp, it presents quite an attractive scene. When the hides are dry, they are put in piles of ten apiece, and staked and tied down. In the spring they are hauled to market.

Sometimes the meat is jerked, which is done as follows: The hump, shoulder-clods, and saddles are the only parts used. This meat is cut in strips as thick as a man’s wrist, and after being seasoned is hung upon wooden racks in the sun, and a slow fire built under it to smoke; and in about two days it is jerked. This meat can be taken to the mountains in the spring and sold readily for fifteen and twenty cents per pound. This is the way it is done; and when the herd changes its range, as it often does, you must then pull up and follow, and again locate; though you can hunt from one hundred to one hundred and fifty miles around one camp.

There is now another hunt; and that is the wolf-hunt. This is done with strychnine. When you first come into a country (before there are so many carcasses), just kill an antelope or buffalo, and while the meat is warm cut out several hundred baits, an inch square, perforate them and put in a little of the poison, and give the meat a little rubbing. Now put the baits in a sack, and after tying one end of your picket-rope to the horn of your saddle and the other end round a large piece of the meat, start upon a six or eight mile circle around the carcass, dragging the fresh meat, and dropping a bait every one hundred yards. In some parts of the plains, especially along little waters, the wolves and skunks are very numerous; and after sunset they can be heard howling in every direction, and they hurry to the newly-spilled blood. When they strike the circle where the meat has been dragged they will start around upon it, picking up the baits, and dropping at about the second. In the morning the hunter mounts his pony and starts round his circle, skinning the wolves and skunks, and often has a pony-load of pelts from wolves, skunks, badgers, swifts, etc. The wolf-hides are worth two dollars and fifty cents apiece, and the bounty is from fifty cents to five dollars a head—according to the county. Skunks are worth forty-five cents, and badger and swift hides are worth forty cents apiece. There is much to be made at this business; and being well prepared for the full catalogue of prairie sports, we cast our baits and shot our game.

We had very comfortable quarters upon the Cimaron, and the game was also plenty here. The country upon either side of the river, for a half mile to the north and south, was very rough; and in these deep gulches and pretty ravines many a buffalo, deer, and antelope breathed out his last.

Just after twilight one night in December we were all in camp at head-quarters when a great light to the north attracted our attention. The whole northern sky suddenly turned red, and the heavens were lighted up as with the lightning’s glare. Brighter and brighter it grew until the sight was grand beyond all description. The very air began to turn warm, and the gale that blew from the north brought with it great clouds of smoke. At length the forked tongues of the flames began to dart up from behind the

Bear Creek bluffs, thirty miles away, and soon the whole country, as far as the eye could reach to the west and far to the east, was in a flame. The grass was thick and tolerably high, and the flames rolled over the level prairie like a tide upon the ocean and with mighty velocity. We set fire to the grass upon the south side of the river, and with a roar it disappeared over the hills. We then rushed our teams and wagons across the stream upon the burned space and watched the oncome. The thirty miles were skimmed in a short time, and buffaloes, deer, antelopes, and wolves came in a tumultuous throng, howling and bellowing, with the fire close in the rear. On came the conflagration, leaping, whizzing, and roaring like thunder; and it was a sight to see the animals plunge precipitately into the stream. Now and then an old, shaggy wolf would be outrun by the flames, and when the hair began to singe such howling was never heard. The heat was so intense that but few animals got through the blaze alive, and they were left in the hot ashes, and came out pretty well singed and sore. The cattle of the vicinity ran frantic in every direction, and some were suffocated. Our rich, golden range was now blackened; and there was no pasture in the surrounding country except the short, green grass in the valley. We were now compelled to follow the animals to the land of pasture. The cow-men and hunters turned out, and the fire was extinguished in the sand-hills of New Mexico, but a few miles to the south of us. This was the first real prairie-fire we had yet seen, and it being at night added greatly to its splendor.

It is a penitentiary offense in that country to willfully fire the prairie, and the stock-men seldom make much court expense when the scoundrel is found. Their proceedings are very summary, and the prisoner is never again guilty of the same offense—in this world. The Indians often do it to destroy the pasture in other quarters and drive the game to their grounds; and for it many a red-skin has soared to the happy hunting-ground upon the wings of death.

It is unlawful for white men to kill more meat in the Indian Territory than just what is needed for immediate use, under penalty of the confiscation of all they have. This is watched over by the government authorities stationed there. However, the fire had not reached the territory, and there were great herds of buffaloes upon their rich pasture; and we cautiously made this part our range.

Our first trip after the fire was to the east. So, fixing that cupboard in the wagon, and taking enough flour for biscuits for several days, we left Dave and John in camp, and Charles and myself wound down the green valley for the unburned regions. In about five miles we came upon pasture, and camped for the night upon the river-bank, full twenty-five miles from head-quarters. This brought us about to the Kansas line. It was a beautiful night, and almost as light as day. The wolves were so numerous and bold that we were compelled to sleep by the fire, and about twelve o’clock they came into the very camp and tackled the big blood-hound that we always had with the wagon. Unfortunately for one of the trespassers, old Lee sunk his fangs into his neck and never loosed his hold until he was dead. The horses were frightened all night; and Charles said he expected we were just upon the spot where the whole d——n pack slept every night. We stripped off several pelts in the morning; and when the sun was high we started north for the ten-mile arroyo of which we had heard old hunters speak. We had only gone a little way when we met an old bull coming quietly down a ravine toward the river; and after riding to the top of a hill and finding no herd to be near, I concluded to give him a chase. I got within a quarter of a mile of him, when he saw me and started back north. This was a sign of a herd; and knowing that if he would reach it he would stampede the whole herd, I rode upon him with all the speed that my mustang could summon. He was a perfect racer; but in spite of his efforts I came alongside of him, and the second ball from my Smith & Wesson stretched him struggling upon the earth with a bullet through his lungs. When the wagon came up we skinned him and took the meat we wanted and drove on, expecting soon to come upon a herd. The breaks of Ten-Mile Creek began to ruffle the smooth surface, and we saw a small bunch of buffaloes feeding in a gulch. We came into a narrow, deep ravine, and through this we drove the team, cautiously circling to the north. I crawled to the top of the ravine among the high grass, and there, not more than three hundred yards from me, was a herd of at least two thousand, some ruminating, and some feeding upon a high table-land about half a mile in diameter, and which was nearly surrounded by the deep ravine we were in. It was now near sundown, and after carefully circling the herd, we camped upon the west and to the leeward of them. After carefully fastening the horses, and commanding Lee to stay with the wagon, we crawled up among the grass for action. They were just two hundred yards off and we were ready, and the battle opened with the roar of two one-hundred-grain guns. My animal came to its knees with a broken shoulder, and Charley’s dropped in its tracks without a struggle. After a few rounds we had the blood started freely, and the cracking of the rifles was drowned in the mighty bellowing. We crept up closer and closer, until Charles darted behind the bull that he had first shot, intending to use him for a rest. We were fifty yards apart, and at the first shot that Charles took from his new fort, he was surprised to see the bull spring to his feet and make fight. His gun was empty and the bull was loaded; and seeing his chances in this unequal combat, he grabbed the bull by the tail and held on for dear life. They flew around the circle at the rate of ninety revolutions per minute; the bull bellowing and frothing, and Charles flying around with his bare head, calling out to me to shoot the bull. It was so darned funny to see a buffalo and a man waltz together that I could not do anything for laughing. I knew very well that the hind end of a buffalo was not dangerous, and I was just as sure that Charley would never let go of the tail. So I stood there for several minutes enjoying the circus. Charles drew out his big knife and tried to strike him in the heart; but he was at the wrong end for that, and his gouging only made the bull the more furious. At length Charley began to swing his partner a little slower, and having worked down into the ravine, the bull spied the wagon and made toward it with great fury. Charles called out for Lee, and with a dash and a snap he had his teeth firmly fastened in the nose of the bull. Charles was now relieved; and quickly thrusting a cartridge into his gun he lay the bull bleeding upon the ground. All this time I had been rolling upon the grass laughing; and at this moment I heard a bellow and a loud snort, and looking around I saw a wounded buffalo within a few jumps of me. The tail was the other way, and knowing my chances to be few, I grabbed my rifle, and resting upon my knee, I let him come so close that I could see his eyes bat,—knowing the skull to be very thick,—and fired. The ball pierced the mighty skull, and the blood spurted as he plunged forward dead. I looked out from behind the hill to see if Charley was preparing to shoot me when I came in; and when I saw him sitting upon the wagon fanning himself with his hat, I ventured up. He commenced on me in the Colorado dialect; but he was puffing and blowing, and having the advantage of him I did the talking to suit myself. I told him I thought any person who had the power to raise the dead ought to be able to kill it again; and besides, he slung the bull around so darned fast that I could not shoot with safety.

Well, the darkness began to thicken all over the country, and we concluded not to shoot any more that night. We found an old well in the ravine, and dug it several feet deeper, but found no water. From what we had heard hunters say, we expected to find water here, and had brought none along, so that ours that night was a dry camp. We skinned and cut up four of the buffaloes that night, and taking some of the fresh meat we heated it up a little in the frying-pan, leaving the juice in it; and a supper of this did very well, so we retired for the night. The wolves were howling in every direction, and hurrying to the fresh blood; and the snorting and bellowing of the buffaloes could be heard away in the night. Up to twelve o’clock there was not a cloud in the sky; but at that time a purple veil was drawn across the heavens almost as quick as thought, and the wind began to blow cold. We had a good bed, and placing two of our green hides upon the ground flesh sides together, we built upon them, and in spite of the cold kept comfortable.

Toward morning the gale increased, and at daylight we were in the midst of a blizzard. This is a heavy gale in which sharp ice, as fine as salt, falls so thickly that you can not see two feet ahead; and it is not safe to leave camp twenty steps without a rope around the waist. We were in a deep ravine; and having tied the horses to the wagon they were somewhat sheltered; then throwing a robe over the dog, we lay quietly in our snug bed. The tempest raged and roared over the plain all that day, and the snow fell, more or less, continually. Twilight began to gather, and the storm was still howling. We had nothing to eat that day, but we had quenched our thirst with snow and felt very well. Morning came, and it was yet too cold to live; and the blizzard had renewed its fury. We had brought a little corn along, to feed in a pinch; but this was a bigger pinch than we had bargained for, and our horses began to look pretty hollow. About noon the snow ceased falling; but the wind was as cold as ice and past all endurance. At sundown we crawled from our retreat, and found the snow a foot in depth over all the prairie. We shoveled it away from the side of a ledge, and trimming down a few hackberry bushes that grew upon the side of a bluff, we started a fire. They were green, and burned very poorly; but the buffalo-chips were all covered, and it was the best we had. Our meat was like stone; and for supper we chopped it off with the ax. We did not fry it much, but it was good any how. We also melted a little snow for the horses, and after giving them the last corn we had, we crept into bed.

In the morning the wind had lulled and a thick fog hung like night over the face of the plain. We could not see each other fifty yards away. We thought it necessary, under the circumstances, to make for head-quarters, and leave to the wolves the six buffaloes that we had not skinned, and which were now like stones.

Having broken our compass in bed, and the two buttes in southern Colorado—which guide the hunters and herders of the country—being hidden in the mist, we were left with our unaided ability to steer our way. We took the Indian way of ranging objects on ahead; but the snow was deep and the objects few, and about nine o’clock we came across the track of an outfit which, from the number of horse-tracks and the dog’s trail, we knew to be our own. Well, we followed it back, and soon came into the old camp and stopped for the night.

In the morning it was clear, and the sun shone out brightly; and the reflection almost blinded us as we went along. The team was very lank, and worried slowly through the snow. About noon we came into the Cimaron valley, and after watering, plodded on without unhitching. At sundown we saw smoke coming from the hill-side away up the valley, but in spite of our efforts it was dark when we came in. There were plenty of provisions and lots of fuel, and we had a social that night. It took Charles a long time to relate his experience with the buffalo, and the boys plagued him a great deal about trying to kill a bull with its own tail.

The next morning the sun again arose in a cloudless sky and darted his warm rays upon the face of the snow-covered plain, and the white veil soon melted away. It took the horses several days to recruit, and the short, green grass in the valley filled them out slowly. We pegged our green hides in the sun to dry; and having a load of saddles, humps, and tongues, we prepared to take a trip to the Arkansas.

One pretty morning John and myself started with the load, and left Dave and Charles in camp. We stopped at Bear Creek for the night; and directly after striking camp we had our attention attracted to a singular-looking object upon the side of the bluff away down the creek. We took out the glass, and it looked like a roll of buffalo-hides. After supper we picketed the horses, and taking our rifles, we strolled down the creek to investigate the curious object. Coming up to it we found it to be a buffalo-hide rolled up; and peeping in at one end we saw a man. The hide was taken from an old bull, and was almost an inch thick; and being frozen, it was as much as we could do to cut him from his narrow prison-walls. He was a middle-aged man, and was almost exhausted; but we took him to the fire and gave him to eat, and then heard his story. He said he was a cow-man from Texas, and had been to Granada and was returning when he was ingulfed in a furious blizzard a few miles north of Bear Creek. He said he had but two blankets, and having no matches, he knew he must perish; and happening to see a stray bull among the hills, he rode on to him and shot him, and concluded to take the hide to wrap himself in. His horse broke loose while he was skinning the bull, and he was left alone; so, spreading the hide upon the ground, fur side down, he spread the two blankets upon it, and then lay himself upon them and rolled up tightly. The green hide froze, and he was as securely incased as though he were within a steel boiler. He had been there five days; and being behind the bluff the sun had not reached and softened the hide. He said he had kept comfortable, with the exception of his feet, and with them he had suffered a great deal. Upon investigation, they were both found to be frozen; and we took him to Las Animas to the doctor, who amputated them both at the instep. He often said that a man without toes was better than no man, that he surely would have perished had he not captured the buffalo, and that, if we had not found him, a few days later the hide would have been his grave.

We found ready sale for our meat, and were soon steering again for the Cimaron. We came across several outfits, each of which had been more or less frozen in the late blizzard. Some had lost fingers, and others toes; and we heard of one whole outfit of three men, north of the Arkansas, freezing to death. We were not in the least injured, and we congratulated ourselves upon our being prepared with a good bed.

We came in sight of camp about sundown, and riding ahead and seeing no one about the camp, I concluded to try the boys; so, riding up over the hill, I came down upon the dug-out with a whoop, and fired several shots from my six-shooter as I circled to the east, and lying flat upon the pony I shot down a ravine just in front of the dug-out, my back being all that could be seen. Whiz! went a bullet just over my backbone; and I was satisfied that the boys were not asleep, and that they could shoot pretty well too. So I dismounted at a place in the gulch where my horse was hidden, and taking a white handkerchief I raised it to view to try the boys; but white flag or no white flag, the two old black gun-barrels lay up alongside of the cave door and there was no such thing as a flag of truce taking them down. I was a hundred yards off, and I swear I was afraid to put up my head to make myself known. At length they saw the team coming, and knowing my disposition, they then mistrusted that it was me in the ravine. When I was sure that the boys knew who I was, I mounted my poney and rode into camp. The boys acknowledged that I had completely deceived them, and that they took me for an Indian riding down there to draw them out, and then a whole band would fire upon them from every hill. Dave said he had done his finest to hit me on the wing, but he could see nothing but my back, and that went down the ravine as swift as a cork over the cataract of Niagara, and he supposed he shot wild. I told him that he did very well, and I would not like him to do better upon like occasions. Charley said he would like to have cut a suspender off anyhow, just to give me some caution.

We hunted for many miles around, including north-eastern New Mexico and the “pan-handle” of Texas. We had the hill-side covered with hides for some distance; and game becoming scarce, we concluded to pile up our hides and load up our outfit and start for other quarters. We followed the Cimaron down into Kansas; and just before we went into the territory we came on to a large herd of buffaloes, and killed enough to load our wagon with hides, leaving the rich, delicious meat to the wolves. We followed the river into the territory, and one evening a government officer with three men came out from Salt Springs to our camp; for we had been reported killing buffaloes in the territory. The officer rode up insultingly, and without any questions began to abuse us and call us trespassers and thieves, and said he had a great mind to upset the wagon and burn every hide we had. We told him we had not killed the buffaloes in the territory. But he continued his abuse; and thinking it about our time to talk, and being four against four, we told him we had enough talk now, and we wanted to see him burn the hides. We were well prepared; and seeing his position, he rode off with his men—I suppose partially convinced that a star upon the breast of an abusive scoundrel does not enable him to ride over honest men.

It was now getting late in the season, and we concluded to haul our hides to market and travel over the south during the summer. We left the outfit at the dug-out, and two stayed with it and the other two hauled hides. We took up two fall loads, and had as many more as we could haul with the outfit the third trip. We shipped them to Kansas City and sold them well, and struck a rich dividend. We camped up and down the Arkansas, fishing and occasionally shooting a deer among the brush along the river, and spending some time moving in the refined society of the valley, and now and then staying a little late conversing with the cultured daughters of the ranchmen. We spent many pleasant days and evenings thus; and after trimming up the outfit carefully, and laying in a good supply of ammunition and such eatables as we supposed would be needed on our trip, we were ready to start again for southern sights.

CHAPTER IV.

When the April sun of 1878 was high in the heavens, we bid farewell to our valley friends and wound merrily down the river. The green grass had begun to show itself, and the valley was lovely; and the little birds sported and sung in the bushes and little trees along the river-banks. As the houses became more and more numerous, we began to realize that we were going east to where somebody lived. Following the river on down, we passed through the Creek and Cherokee agencies, and also the Chocktaw country, and were very much interested in our Indian observations. The Cherokees are far advanced in civilization, and are by far the most intelligent tribe.

They have school-houses, and churches, and pretty villages; and some have carpet upon their floors. They appear to enjoy their new mode of living, and take pride in their pretty homes. I may also state that there are some very pretty girls among them. All the agency lands that we passed through were the best that the sun ever warmed. Though Uncle Sam reaches forth his bountiful hand whenever the weakest red man asks, most of the tribes appear restless; and though there is much game in the territory, and notwithstanding that they are let out of the agency once a year to hunt over the wide wild country, their eyes are restless, their faces itch for the war-paint, and they long to sally forth beneath the white-eagle plume, to ring the valleys with their wild war-whoop, and wash the hatchet in the white man’s blood. The farming implements furnished them are left to rust, and they indolently exist upon the nation’s bounty.

Every Indian nation in the United States to-day, who will receive them, have beautiful reservations, which are the very gardens of the Union; and their every want is most bounteously supplied. The only tribes that are to-day suffering are those who will not receive from the hand of plenty. But in spite of all this, there are some of the tribes breaking from their agencies every few months and committing their bloody outrages, which boil a human’s blood; and the clemency of the Government is exhibited by its capturing the murderers and placing them back upon their homes, giving them new blankets and rifles, and telling them not to do so again,—sometimes giving them a trial, but rarely giving them the deserved penalty. Persons seated in their comfortable mansions in the land from whence savagedom has long since been driven, and where the protecting arm of civilization is thrown around them, are prone to speak of the poor Indian eking out a miserable livelihood from the western deserts and barren mountains, and continually persecuted and provoked by the cruel white man, only waiting for an opportunity to kill them off. Oh, fie! Go see what I have seen, and learn the truth, and your sympathies will be banished by bitter scorn. Go see the poor emigrant, who has taken his little family to a new home in the sundown land, shot down at his labor and scalped in the furrow, his dear wife and innocent babes crushed with the hatchet, their blood spilled upon the cabin floor, and their brains spattered against the wall. Go

experience realities, and have your all and dearest on earth torn from you, and hear their heart-rending cries as they are carried off by savage demons, and see how the red devils can mock mercy and torture helpless innocence; and if the fire within your bosom does not kindle and you do not say that the devils have it only too good, there must be little soul within. God knows that I would be the last to mention violence; but I have seen decency outraged and sweet infancy tortured, and have witnessed so many sickening sights that my blood boils whenever I think of them and my right arm twitches for vengeance. The first tribe that starts a war should be made an example of, and the last wretch laid low; then outbreaks would be fewer. As it is, there is continually trouble all along the frontier, and no man is safe. If the Government would only empower a company of cow-boys and hunters to pursue them when out on the war-path, there would be less damage and severer reprimands; but until the soldiers capture them, with their blue ribbon and military maneuvers, the devils have done all the mischief they want to do and are ready to surrender.

The Indians all appear friendly; but a chance is all that is wanted to place your scalp bleeding upon a pole while they sing their bloody songs around it. It is their nature.

We followed the river to its junction with the Canadian. This is a most splendid country. Here God again does the raining, and no irrigation is needed. The agencies are the same. We then concluded to go up the Canadian to the west. It was not long, however, until we had left the rich farming country and were again upon the dry, sandy wilderness. The country for some distance upon either side of the river is intensely rough, rocky, barren, and sandy. Great herds of cattle range along the river and up and down all its tributaries. As we went to the west trees grew few and scrubby and dwarf-bushes grew among the rocks and bluffs, and little streams of clear water came tumbling down over the rocks from the springs away under the barren hills. We often thought of the mountains as we wound along, and we thought we must be near the jumping-off place. We killed several deer and antelopes among the hills, and saw some strange-looking tracks in the sand at the water.

Early one pretty morning, as we were strolling up the ravines in search of game, I noticed Charles stop suddenly, and dropping behind a rock he beckoned me to him. He pointed up the river to where some bushes were shaking; and crawling closer, by the aid of our glass we found it to be a large lion feasting upon the carcass of a deer. We crept away, and after gathering the other boys we held a council and determined to tackle him, let come what would. We cautiously crept along under rocks and brush until we were within one hundred and fifty yards of him, when he spied us, and uttering a loud roar, crouched low upon his prey. Now was our time; so, resting my rifle upon a rock, I deliberately fired. He was almost hidden in the brush, and I struck him in the shoulder. He uttered a terrible roar, and bounded toward us with his shattered blade. We had shrunk from the lion behind the bars; but, my Lord, here we were in the same cage with him, and no chance to shrink. I tell you, a lion can jump like thunder with three legs; and he came directly at me. The boys were flanked upon either side, and they were to reserve their loads until he was near enough to be sure. I waited until I could see his eyes bat, and he was about to make his last spring, and then pulled; but, great God! the cartridge failed. I dodged behind a large rock, and as he sprung down over my head, with his powerful paws extended and his great claws protruding like bayonets, his low growl sounded like the voice of hell; and though things looked a little cloudy, I never conceded for one moment that I was ever created for lion-meat. The blood-hound sprung forward and sunk his huge teeth into his hind leg; but he was no more to the infuriated animal than a gad-fly would be to a buffalo, and before I could shove a new cartridge home he was again crouched to spring, when the boys rushed forward, and, with the muzzles of their rifles so close that the hair was singed, sent three well-directed balls grinding through his body. The shots all went near the heart, and he never arose from the earth, but rolled over upon his side, and with a low, gurgling groan, trembled and died. It was sport, all through; but I enjoyed this stage of the proceedings better than any other. As he lay there, with his nine feet of power stretched upon the sand so closely to me that I could feel his dying-breath and touch his shaggy mane, I felt happy that he was dead. He was nine feet in length, and was the most powerful lion we had ever seen. Some of his teeth were two inches long; and after looking carefully at the huge mouth and powerful jaws, I concluded that I was at one time nearer being lion-meat than I had before believed. The blood-hound stood proudly by, wagging his tail as though waiting for the praise for killing him. Poor fool! He was not as much as a gray-back in the folds of the shirt of a professional tramp. I felt very glad that I did not tackle the animal alone. We carefully examined every cartridge we had. Charles said if I could have caught the tail I might have gone to thunder and fought my own battle, like he did with the buffalo. We looked carefully around that day, expecting to find the mate; but we saw no more, and the next morning journeyed on.

When we were about the center of the territory we struck south for the Red River, which bounds the territory on the south. We struck the Washita River, Wild Horse Creek, and many other small streams, finding many cattle along every water, and game in all directions. Great herds of buffaloes were daily seen heading to the north. There being plenty of good water all along the route from the Canadian to the Red River, the journey was a pleasant one. The country of the Red River was rough as the Canadian, and was good for naught but raising stock. We left the Red River and went down the Big Washita; and then on to the Brazos, and down its head-waters to the Double Mountain, Texas, which we had been told was the range of the main buffalo-herd of the south. The story was certainly correct, for they were here by the thousands; and not being nearly so wild as where we had hunted, it was no more to shoot a buffalo here than to kill a cow. The country was rough, and destitute of all but short grass; and though there were cattle here, they were not nearly so numerous as at other places where we had been. There was a little ranch now and then stuck in among the rocks—and one man stays in each; but they carry their lives in a holy pocket every day and night. They have become somewhat reconciled to this hermit-life, and do not give the danger its full weight. This is about as wild a country as lies within the borders of our Union; and if a person had the material, and were prepared, he could make crooked whisky here without molestation by the authorities.

We were now prepared to cross the staked plains, which had been reported to us as a broad, dry, and barren country; that it required several days’ journey to cross, upon which many persons had perished, and where, several years ago, a whole company of soldiers had been led by the Indians whom they were pursuing, and there became bewildered and died in this waterless region. We filled our barrel and three skins with water from a cool, crystal spring that bubbled from beneath a rock and headed the Colorado River, and steered due west for the Rio Pecos in New Mexico. The first night out we camped upon a dry, barren plain, level as a floor, and almost destitute of grass, all animation having disappeared. We traveled beneath the burning sun; and resting at night upon the broad couch of nature, we breathed the light, warm air. It was all the same in any direction, with no object to obstruct the vision, and not one cloud to dim the splendor of the setting sun. On the eve of the third day out our attention was attracted to some white objects upon the prairie ahead, and which, upon coming up, we found to be the skeletons of four men bleaching in the sun. The thirsty reptile had doubtless strangled them; and as we stood gazing upon the whitened forms, we thought of the agonies of that last hour. They must have lain there for some years, for there was not even a vestige of else but the bones. They had undoubtedly cast away everything to hurry on; and when the weakest fainted, the others in their delirium sunk by his side, all determined to soar upon the same wings to the land beyond, where the crystal fountains are flowing freely.

The weather being so warm and the air so dry, our horses required much water; and though we could somewhat gauge ourselves, we were compelled to give them what they wanted. We were just as saving, however, as we dared be, and upon the morning of the fifth day out we tapped the last skin and the last water. This was just like mother’s bread. When the flour is all gone and the horses have the epizooty so that no one can go to the mill, and the boys once find out the facts in the case, the last loaf is saturated with honey, and every one can make a meal upon bread and coffee. We stretched this out until noon on the sixth day, when there was but one gallon left, and that almost warm enough to cook eggs. Morning dawned, and the sun rolling from the horizon in all its grandeur had to us little attraction. Things began to look badly. Six days upon a plain level as a floor and dry as the internal regions, and not an object yet in sight, I tell you is a bad report. We had long been out of corn; and the grass being so scarce our horses were pretty well gaunted, and now no water. How long would they hold out? Just before we hooked up I took the field-glass and from the wagon surveyed the surroundings. Looking carefully to the west I saw broken country. Oh, joy! And when I spoke the boys shouted aloud. We knew that we were now safe, and we would sleep that night by the purple stream. The hills were a great way off, and if the horses could have known, as we did, that just ahead gurgled the life-giving stream, we would have spanned the journey in half the time. However, when within about a mile of the hills they appeared to smell water, and pointing their ears they sped hastily along. But in spite of our eagerness we came among the hills by the moonbeam’s misty light. There was the stream, rippling clear and cool; and it is needless to say that was to us a merry night. We sat up all night talking of the dangers of the country, and contrasting the might of the roaring lion with the power of the quiet monster, thirst.

In the morning we took our rifles and started among the hills to get some meat for breakfast. We were not out long before Dave’s rifle rung out sharply in the still morning air. Going to him, we found him with a large buck deer; and we had a splendid venison roast for breakfast. The country was very rough, and hung upon the edge of the plain like a great ruffle, and to the west tossing higher and higher. There were a few buffaloes here also. We stayed in this camp several days, living upon the best of meat, and recruiting our horses upon the rich grass of the valley. There were also a few cattle straggling along the river; and they were wilder than the buffaloes. We at length moved up the river and came among some dwarf timber; and to sit in the shade of these little trees was more pleasant to us than any other period of our lives. The wolves were very numerous here; and we were compelled to sleep by the fire every night to keep our clothes from being torn by these foul-mouthed creatures, who would howl within the very limits of our camp, and terrify our horses so that we had to tie them to trees with double ropes.

It is somewhat amusing to see them capture their game—sometimes taking down a large buffalo bull or even a wild horse. If the game is in a flock or herd, they cautiously surround it, and gradually round them up to close quarters. If they are antelope or deer, as they break through the guard several are usually captured; but if they are buffaloes, they watch for a calf to come to the outside of the bunch, and pop! they have him. Sometimes as many as twenty wolves surround a herd; and to see with what cuteness and tact they execute their work is interesting in the extreme. When they are very hungry they will tackle most any animal. They sport carelessly around until he is off his guard, and then dash upon him; and while some run at the head, the main aim is to cut the ham-string. I have seen large bulls disabled in this way and at the entire mercy of a pack of hungry wolves, who sometimes tear their satisfaction from the living animal and leave him struggling in his agonies. Their teeth are sharp and their jaws are like vices; and they sometimes snap a large piece out of an animal, and then let him run away.

New Mexico is noted for its poisonous reptiles and insects, such as rattlesnakes, scorpions, centipedes, tarantulas, etc., and finding them creeping upon most every hill-side, we were compelled to be very careful lest we should tramp, sit, or lie upon some destructive stinger.

We had two beds, and John and myself slept together. One lovely moonlight night, after we had all retired, and my mind was resting upon the border of slumber, I was startled by John uttering a war-whoop and leaving the bed in a single leap. Being about half asleep, and thinking that perhaps the devil was under the cover, I did not take time to rise, but started to roll; and being near the bank of a little stream that emptied into the river, I never stopped rolling until I splashed into the water. I was then thoroughly awakened, and felt as though I was not afraid of the devil if he were there. The rest of the boys came to the rescue with their colors flying, and pulling off the covers we found two large rattlesnakes on John’s side of the bed. They were swelled with rage and rattled furiously. We had never known them to crawl into a bed. After killing them, we moved the bed and found a hole in the ground under it. We then concluded that they were out when we lay down, and in trying to find the way back they got into the bed; and John hearing the rattle left the bed just as the reptile was ready to strike. We were always careful after that never to build upon another’s homestead.

The centipede is a brown-colored worm of about the thickness of a lead-pencil, and three inches in length when full grown. It has a great number of legs, and at the end of each a little black needle which is worked in and out at pleasure like a cat’s claw. These are the stings, and whenever the worm is crossed it sinks them. The venom from the rattlesnake is not to be compared with its effect. When they are found upon the body, the only safe way is to be perfectly motionless, and not disturb them, and they will often crawl harmlessly away; but should the person move or excite them, they will sink their deadly claws and run across the person rapidly, and beyond all remedy the flesh will rot to the bone in a short time. I once saw the effect of a sting. We were one sunny day sitting with some greasers upon the shady side of an adobe house near Santa Fe, when a large centipede dropped from the roof of the house down upon the naked breast of one of them. He struck at it and tried to knock it off quickly as possible; but in spite of his efforts it ran clear across his body, and in a few hours he died with his body terribly swelled. They are regarded the most deadly of all animals or insects in the West; and for the benefit of my readers who may sometime journey in their land, I would advise and pray that should one of these stingers get upon your body, be careful to not disturb it, for the danger is utter ruin.

The tarantula is a very large spider, with large, strong legs, and can jump four or five feet. It bites instead of stings; and though its bite is not deadly like the centipede’s, it is nevertheless very painful, and swells the parts fearfully, sometimes resulting in death. They are a peaceful insect; but when tormented they become very angry, and will jump at their enemy in great fury. These two insects are very numerous in New Mexico, and it is very dangerous to sleep on the ground; and citizens are all the time cautious.

While speaking of poisonous animals and insects, I might also mention that the skunk out here is also very dangerous. They will come to your bed at night and bite you; and the bite has never been known to fail to produce hydrophobia. It is a question much discussed whether it is the effect of the general skunk-bite, or whether there are just certain ones which are themselves afflicted with hydrophobia. The general opinion is, however, that any skunk’s bite will produce the effect. The subject acts just as though bitten by a mad-dog, and it is said that there is no remedy when once bitten. I saw a man by the name of Jones, in Texas, die in the most horrible agony from a skunk-bite he had received away up in Nebraska eighteen months before. These skunks are in appearance like our eastern skunks; but whether they are equally poisonous I do not know. The cow-boys are always on the alert for skunks.

We moved on up the river; and one evening as I rode down a deep ravine a half mile north of camp I discovered smoke arising out of a deep gulch just below. I recognized it as an Indian fire. I tied my pony to a bush in a deep hollow and cautiously crawled down upon the camp. I got within about three hundred yards of them, and peeping out from behind a bluff I saw four Indians, who, from their dress, I recognized to be Kiawas, from the pan-handle country. Two were smoking their pipes, and the other two were broiling meat upon a stick before a little fire; and just below them were twelve good ponies grazing in the ravine. Knowing the Kiawas to be horse-thieves, and finding them here under such suspicious circumstances, I concluded that they had been out stealing and were just returning with their booty. Creeping cautiously away, I got my pony and rode off to camp; and after informing the boys of what I had seen, we concluded to rescue the ponies from their red captors. So, just after twilight we moved quietly upon the camp—John and myself upon ponies, and Dave and Charles on foot. When we were within a hundred yards of the camp and, unnoticed, we halted and took a careful survey of the ground. A cool wind had sprung up that evening, and by a bright little fire lay the four bodies in blankets, while fifty yards below grazed the twelve hobbled ponies in the bright moonlight. Their front feet were tied closely together with ropes, and they were compelled to step very short. Our plans were formed as follows: We would open upon them with four rifle shots; and while the footmen kept up the fire, the horsemen were to leave with them their rifles, and with six-shooters in hand dash between the camp and the ponies, and with wild whoops run off the horses. Whang! went the rifles, and away we flew toward the camp. Two of the Indians did not appear to wake up; but the other two sprung from the fire like wild deer. We ran upon the herd shouting and yelling, and the boys keeping a brisk fire all the while. The horses were so frightened that they jumped with both front feet together, and moved off down the ravine pretty rapidly. After running them about a half mile we ceased our noise, and the ponies slackened. Then we rode among them and dismounted to cut the hobbles, knowing the necessity of taking all or run the risk of being overtaken. It was to be quick work, for the two Indians who woke up were sure to come for the horses as quickly as possible. We had cut the hobbles of eleven, and had them roped together; but one pretty dark horse had run off down a gulch. John held the captives and I ran off to get the other. He was pretty wild, and I followed him about a quarter of a mile before I could get to him. At length he became quiet, and going up to him I cut the hobbles, and had just fastened it on his head when an Indian rushed from behind the bluff at my very side. Seeing me alone, I suppose he took me to be his comrade; and running up muttering something in the Kiawa tongue, he sprung upon the pony’s back. This was my opportunity, and seizing my six-shooter I struck him a furious blow in the face; and as he fell to the ground I mounted and rode off for John. I do not suppose the horse was ever backed before; and instead of going toward John, he went in the other direction full bent. I had a rope through his mouth; but finding him unmanageable, and not having time to break colts, I succeeded in checking him; and springing to the ground I shot him through the body and cut off his artery, and ran off on foot. As I went up the ravine I saw a person coming down, and springing to one side I crouched behind a rock. As he went by I saw it was the Indian with his rifle in his hand. He passed within six feet of me; but I only wanted the ponies, and did not want to kill an Indian unless it was absolutely necessary for my own safety. After he had passed I ran on. I soon met Dave and Charles, who having heard the shot, supposed that I was in trouble and were coming to my assistance. We all went back to where I left John, but he was gone; and going on, we found him in camp, with the horses. We then moved out, and never halted until the sun was darting his bright rays upon us. We had been moving as rapidly and quietly as possible; but knowing that we would be trailed, we kept a mounted guard among the hills upon either side of the wagon, to keep from being surprised by the enemy, who might head us off.

The next evening we came to a trading-post called Alamo, on the Pecos bank; and about eight o’clock, as we were seated upon a bench in the post, four cow-boys rode up, and dismounting, walked in to the bar, with the bells jingling upon their spurs and their six-shooters dangling at their sides. They set their broad hats back upon their heads, and one big fellow, with his shirt open and his breast naked, called us all up and we drank together. They were not satisfied until we had taken several rounds; and though the drinks were two bits apiece, they were as free as though they were but three cents. Knowing that it would not do to refuse to drink with cow-boys, when they ask, we drank with them, but touched it lightly. We talked and laughed together as though we were old friends; and at length they said they were out on a horse-hunt. They said that a few days before, as they were camped upon Salt Lake, fifty miles to the west, some Kiawa Indians had dashed into their camp, and, killing the cook, ran off twelve good ponies. They described them and told the brand, and we were sure that we had the horses. We told them of our capture, and they recognized the ponies at sight. We told them that we had left two thieves sleeping by a little fire in a ravine fifty miles below, and had killed one stubborn pony. They said what we had done was well done; but it must be finished. They said they had been bothered a great deal with these Kiawa and Comanche devils, who constantly hung upon their range, shooting down every lone cow-boy and running off every horse they could get, and they had made up their minds to give them some of their own medicine. The next morning they rode off, bright and early, swearing that if they could be found the other two would be sleeping by the fire that night. They insisted upon our going along; but it was not our mission to kill Indians, and we refused. We were satisfied that if the story had been rightly told, our work had been rightly done; and we moved on up the river.

The country was very rough; but we kept along the river, and in a few days were in Santa Fe, the capital of New Mexico, and the terminus of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad. The town is located among the hills, and stage-roads are worn deep in several directions. The old, abandoned Santa Fe trail, which we had crossed so many times in our hunts, wound like a serpent down the hill-side into the town. It had been some time since we had seen frame houses, and they appeared to us as grand as Roman cathedrals; and for several days we enjoyed the novelty of civilization very much. There were large stock-yards here, and many thousand head are annually shipped from this place. Stock-raising and mining are all that can be done among these hills and bluffs.

We now steered due north and came into the valley of the Rio Grande del Norte. We found great herds of cattle here, feeding over this pretty, rich range; and there were many little ranches upon the banks of the river.

We then struck north-east, passing by the Fishery Peak and going up the Purgatory River to the Arkansas. We felt as though we were at home when we stood upon the green bank of this river; and the settlers—especially the girls—with whom we had become acquainted prior to our going south, were apparently glad to see us back, and welcomed us to their little adobe homes and rustic hospitalities.

It was now late in the month of September, and we concluded to go into some kind of business and stay in the valley that winter. We had now gone over a great territory of prairie; and the brief history of our travels has perhaps given the reader a faint idea of the nature of the country and the occupations of the people. But the whole country,—the climate, the inhabitants, and their occupations,—is so different from the states—as called by western men—that it is difficult, even with the most minute description, to conceive of the great country of the plains as it really is without visiting this curious land.

We have stated that we left the agricultural land in east Nebraska and Kansas, and that then before us stretched the historical plains—the fountain of mysteries and the land of secrets. Imagine a great country, consisting of many states and territories, and containing millions of acres, with not even the smallest tree or bush, but covered with buffalo-grass, which grows about six inches high and then curls up, forming a mattress about three inches thick. Through this mighty dry domain course the rivers as marked upon the map. The banks are usually—though not always—skirted with a light growth of cotton-wood trees; and the valleys are narrow, and fringed upon either side by great bluffs whose foot-hills usually roll some distance into the plain. Now, between these rivers there is very often a stretch of several hundred miles, and sometimes not a drop of water; but usually there is water to be found in drives of fifty and one hundred miles—sometimes closer and sometimes much farther. These little waters are very seldom running streams, but are small pools standing in deep gulches, and sometimes a little lake resting in a small bowl at the foot of a bluff. The country is always rough where there is water; and old plainers can always tell when they are near it. The gulches that have water standing in them, like the rivers, usually have small trees also. Now, between these waters the plain is generally almost as level as a floor; and standing there, the horizon looks perfectly round. Along the waters the grass is thick and luxuriant, but gradually grows shorter as you leave; and the long, dry stretches are often very lightly covered. As you travel along over the level plains it appears as though there is a raise just ahead all the time; and where it looks level as a floor there are often great gulches which can not be seen until coming almost upon their very banks. Sometimes you will come into several miles of very soft sand, with hardly a spire of grass upon it. Now, persons who understand this country know just where the waters lie, and prepare for the trip; and very often where another person would perish they could find water in a few hundred yards under a rock at the foot of a hill.

There is much mirage upon the plains, and it is much worse some days than others. It looks as though there were a pretty, rolling river, or sometimes a large lake, but a mile or so off. Nothing is plainer; and the imitation is so complete that old plainers are sometimes deceived in a country they do not know. It is caused from an unequal refraction of the lower stratums of the atmosphere; and when animals are in it they are loomed up to twice their natural height. An antelope is often taken for a buffalo, and sometimes a bone or a buffalo-chip looks like an animal. Objects often appear inverted. To a tender-foot the deception is often so complete that many a poor, perishing person, in whose eyes were fast gathering the shades of death, exhausted his last efforts in trying to reach the imaginary river, and his last breaths were drawn in the belief that he was dying within sight of the cool, flowing waters. I had read many stirring stories of this country, and had often heard of the strange peculiarities to be witnessed and experienced here; but, though my imaginings were extensive, I had never indulged in delusion sufficient to think of the country in anything near its reality. Ah! many a skeleton lies bleaching upon the hill-side, with no tomb-stone to tell its name or age nor any one to tell the secret of his death. I have often thought that if the Angel of Death would read to the world his prairie record some of the accounts would swell the heart of the most calloused desperado and wring a tear from the wickedest eye.

The legends of the plains are numerous, and persons who have never been here would naturally consider them fabulous, and the most gross exaggerations; but I know now, from experience, that the worst is reasonable. From the country being all alike, and no objects to guide the way,—no, not even a weed, or the smallest bush, or distinguishable hill or valley,—when persons once lose their way they are as completely lost as though they were as blind as a granite monument fifty miles from living man. It is somewhat singular, but it is a fact many times verified, that usually when persons lose their way in this country their minds wander, and they do not even recognize their own camps when they come in sight of them. It appears that the average person is so horrified at the thought of being lost and alone in a broad wild country, where the wild beast growls among the hills, and where the dry sands reflect perishment into their very eyes, and no one to direct their course, that the effect is natural.

A story is told of an outfit crossing over a dry prairie in the pan-handle country. The first night out from water a young man who had lately come from the states went out among the hills with his rifle to look for deer. He did not know the danger, and unconsciously wandered a mile away. When the sun was getting low he turned for camp. It appeared to him as plainly as the hills before him, that to turn back was to go toward camp. So, turning to his left, he took down a ravine, still looking for game, and sure that he was near camp. On he went, and the sun sunk low in the horizon. Soon darkness veiled the day, and he was still out, and had walked many miles. He drew out his compass; but he did not know whether he was north, south, east, or west from camp, and thrilled with the thought of his probable condition, he became completely bewildered and walked rapidly all night. The camp was in a deep ravine, and the boys supposing their tender-foot companion to be lost, went to the top of a hill and built a large fire with buffalo-chips, and fired their guns and loudly hallooed; but all to no purpose. In the morning search was made. The country was sandy and lightly covered with grass, and he could be trailed. Two of the boys, well mounted, started in pursuit. They followed to the east about a mile, and then winding to the south about a mile and a half he made a complete circle of about two miles, and went around three times almost in the same tracks, and then started off zigzag to the west. About noon an object was seen seated upon the side of a hill in the distance, and hurrying up the lost John was found. He had become completely deranged, and had torn every vestige of clothing from his body, and was holding the compass in his hand. He was so completely bewildered that he did not even recognize his own comrades, and it was several hours before his mind regained its equilibrium and he fully comprehended his position. He then said that it seemed as though camp must be near and could be readily found; but when he once became convinced that he was lost, he became so completely bewildered that the compass was no more use to him than a box without a needle. He said the hills and valleys all looked alike, and there was not a bush, or weed, or anything whatever to mark his course, much less a neighbor to direct the way.

This is only one of hundreds of cases; and I have heard of persons horribly mutilating themselves in their mad agonies. The facts given are perfectly credible, for I have felt their force by experience. I recollect that one warm spring morning in south Colorado, the fog hung over the prairie like the mist upon the ocean, and a horse could be distinguished but a few hundred yards. I had stayed all night with some cow-boys on Bear Creek, and saddling my pony I started out among the bluffs to steer my way over the plain to our camp upon the Cimaron, thirty miles below. I had no compass with me, but I had crossed the country so often that I thought it would be no trouble, even in the midst of the mighty fog, to grope my way. I had scarcely left the cotton-wood tops in the mist when I came to another creek. This seemed very strange, for I only knew of one creek in the country; but not willing to believe that I was again crossing Bear Creek, I kept pushing on. I saw some men camped in a ravine just below, and saw their horses grazing among the hills; but I thought they must be hunters, and the creek must be one that I had not seen. I went on until I had crossed six creeks; and I made up my mind that there was something wrong, and that I must be circling my own camp on Bear Creek. I had lost the location of the boys I saw awhile ago, and I rode down to the stream, and to save my life I could not tell which way the water ran. I dismounted and set my rifle on the ground, and before my left foot was removed from the stirrup the pony became frightened and dashed away. Losing my grip upon the horn I was jerked down, and the horse started off kicking down the creek. He dragged me about fifty yards, and I began to think it did not make much difference which way the water ran, when I succeeded in getting a square kick at the stirrup with my right foot, and luckily out it came. The pony, now free, ran off down the creek. After following him about three miles, I came into the camp of an old hunter (Barney Gowe), whom I had not met for some months. My pony stopped with his horses and was easily captured. I then asked Barney where I was, and he thought I was codding him; but becoming convinced of my situation he laughed heartily and told me to stay for dinner and the world would turn right side up again after awhile. It was full two hours before all was right, and all at once the whole valley appeared natural. There were the little stone monuments upon the bluffs above to guide the hunter and cow-men, and which had directed me many a time. The little trees, whose very limbs I now recognized, looked as of old, and the little stream, as it rippled along, seemed to laugh at the strange conduct of its old friend. I was three miles below where I stayed all night; and I had been rounding my own camp four or five times, and did not recognize it nor the boys. They said they saw me going around and did not know what I meant. The next morning the fog had cleared away and the trip was made without difficulty. I only mention these facts to more fully picture in the imagination of the reader the country with its attending circumstances and peculiarities as it really is, and to warn those who read these lines that should they ever become bewildered and lost in this desert land to be calm, keep possession of their mind, and sit down until the country turns around again.

After explaining the nature of the country, the reader can now perhaps better understand the sports and occupations as they are hereinafter explained. There are often car-loads of mustang ponies shipped to the states; and people wonder how they are captured—some supposing that they are caught with the lasso. I can say that there are few wild horses caught with the lariat, and they are only captured by the hunter hiding himself at the water and catching them as they come down to drink, or by taking advantage of the ground and making an angling run upon the herd and cutting them off. Blooded horses have been brought to this country for this sport, and it has been found that the fleetest horse can seldom succeed in bringing his rider to the side of a fully grown mustang. These animals are found in several of the western states and territories, along the waters of the wild lands. There are usually between twenty and fifty in a herd, but I have known one hundred to be in a single herd. Each herd has a distinct range, usually about ten miles across, and which they can seldom be forced to leave. There are some very fine-looking animals in these wild gangs, and as they dash over the range their manes waive back over their rumps, and their tails spread gracefully after them. I saw a Mexican capture a fine iron-gray stallion that (perhaps in scratching his head) had caught his hind foot in his long entangled mane.

Now they are captured as follows: Of course, in each range there is water, and usually—as I have already said—where there is water there is some small timber; but should there be none upon the range of the herd you wish to capture, go some place else and get it, and after picking out a good location somewhere upon the range, build up a high, strong corral large enough to hold the herd you wish to capture. Leave an entrance at one side, and run a lane from the entrance divergingly into the prairie, until the lane is about one hundred yards wide at the mouth. Now for the chase. Get four horses, well shod, and put two to a light wagon, and put in feed and provisions for several days; and get a man to drive. Have two good riding-ponies, and tie one behind the wagon and mount the other. Now start after the herd in a walk, and let the wagon follow just in sight of you. Of course, the first day the mustangs will burn the prairie, and you will not be in sight of them half the time; but just keep on, and never break the walk. The wagon, of course, will not travel nearly as far as you do, for, as the herd circles, the driver can cut across. Choose a moonlight season, and at first go all night, keeping them excited so that they neither eat nor drink. The second day you can keep in sight all day; but they become very much excited at seeing themselves pursued, and will run frantic here and there, and by cutting across you need not go half their distance. You can get to the wagon to change ponies and get a bite when you wish. Go this way, night and day, for about three days, when they will become hungry and weak, and you can get close. You can now sleep at night and chase during the day. If any of the range has been burned over, or the ground is otherwise rough, their feet become sore and they can be captured sooner; but usually about the tenth day you can ride up to the herd and drive them along. When this is the case, take a whip and force them along until they are so worried that you can ride among them and handle them any way. Now drive them to the corral and fasten them in. Now rope them together closely with strong ropes, and drive them to the railroad for shipment or to the ranch to break for use. While they are weak they are easily broken. Large herds are often captured in this way; and there are men who, every spring when the grass is short and the ponies are poor, make this a business, and from it realize large profits.

There are many fine, large, branded horses, which have escaped from the hunters, cow-men, emigrants, and the Government, now running with the wild herds, and, of course, belong to whoever captures them. When there are several large mules or fine horses in a bunch, it tickles the hunter mightily; and not having forgotten their former lives, they render the herd easier to be caught, and are not much trouble to re-break.

Now this is the way the herds are captured; but of course there are captures made now and then in different ways. The hunter sometimes conceals himself near the water where the herd comes down to drink, and, watching his opportunity, creases his animal; that is, he shoots him through the neck about an inch from the top and just in front of the shoulders. This will stun the animal so that he will fall and not recover for some minutes, in which time you can bind him fast. This is, though, scientific work, and none but a fine shot need undertake it; for a little too high does no good, and the least too low does too much good entirely.

Now, there yet remains to be explained the stock business, which is so extensively carried on in this country, and to which nearly the whole prairie country is so peculiarly adapted. Were I to tell to persons who had never been here of the millions of cattle and sheep that are pastured here, and of the thousands that are annually shipped to the states, it would be incredibly received. As before said, the prairie is covered with buffalo-grass, which is next to mountain bunch-grass, which is said to be the strongest grass in the world. It usually grows thickly and about six inches long, and curls up—though of course this depends upon the range. It usually rains and snows some in the winter and spring seasons, but during the summer season it never sprinkles; and you can be just as sure of it as of the wrath to come. I have often thought that this would be a fine place to make hay. The snows and rains dampen the earth, and in the spring, when the grass springs forth and the prairie world is wrapped in its green mantle, there is no part of the earth more beautiful. About the first of May the grass is usually grown up, and it stays green until about August, when—except in the valleys—it all dries up in the hot sun and dry air, and cattle eat it like hay. It is then the strongest. And stock-men hate to see the fall rains come; for they say it takes the strength out of the grass.

CHAPTER V.

The country has now perhaps been sufficiently described; and though I have doubtless been a little tiresome in minutiÆ, I hope at least to have succeeded in giving my readers a good idea of the great prairie-land, and can now perhaps successfully explain the subject of stock-raising which is so extensively carried on there, and a business that leads in occidental occupations. It has already been said that the rivers and streams and little lakes that dampen the sands of this great wilderness are nearly all watering-places for the herds that range along their banks. It now yet remains to explain how the business is conducted, as any person can see the positive necessity of some system where the country is so large and unfenced, and where there are so many owners and such great herds. Sometimes a herd is owned by one individual, but usually there are companies; and often one firm owns forty and fifty thousand cattle. It would of course be impossible to stable or feed these vast numbers, and they are left upon the prairie the year round, and never even get salt. They usually keep in pretty good order during the winter; but when much snow falls and the grass is covered for some time, and the weather is very cold, thousands of them die. Poor and weak, they stand upon the railroad-track and are knocked off in great numbers. Of course these winters are unusual; and the profits are so large that a few cattle dying now and then is but a momentary break in the financial stream.

Now, each firm has a home ranch, and this is built by some pure, cool water, and nearly as practicable to a railroad or good trail. This consists of a substantial and commodious ranch,—usually built of stone or adobe,—also a good store-house in which to store feed and provisions,—which are bought at wholesale and then given out to the men as needed, a good stable,—and a large, strong corral. Hay is then cut from the sloughs, and quantities of it stacked in the corral for the stock that is kept stabled. Though often in wild places, these home ranches are usually pretty places, and stock-men often have their families here with them. They have good, stylish buggies and carriages, and riding and driving horses; and every pleasant morning and evening the women and children go out to ride. They have a good track around the ranch over the level plain; and while it is altogether delightful to ride through the pure air of this healthy clime, the glitter of the splendid vehicle in the morning sun attracts very little attention from the neighbors. The girls can ride like rangers; and to see them dashing over the prairie, the pony fall into a prairie-dog hole and send the fair one somersaulting over the head upon the sand, is as funny a sight as one could wish. Each firm has its own brand, and has it recorded in the county of the home ranch. This brand is a piece of iron, wrought into the shape wished. There is also a peculiar ear-mark accompanying each brand. The branding-irons have long iron handles with which to use them. They are made red-hot and then held against the animal until burned sore, and often until the hide is burned through. Of course the hair never grows out here again, and it is a perpetual mark. The home ranch is located upon some good, rich pasture-range, and by a good water. Thus, many cattle can be pastured in the vicinity of the ranch; but when the herd is large it is divided up and driven to sometimes several other ranges that are not yet taken up—each firm having its particular ranges, which it holds against all others, except homesteaders or buyers. Upon each sub-range there is built one or more little picket-ranches, with good corrals in which to brand cattle. In each of these little houses stays a cow-boy to watch over the cattle and see that they are not killed or driven off by Indians, Mexicans, or hunters. The cattle usually stay upon the range very well during summer; but when winter comes, and storms set in they are drifted many miles, and scattered over many ranges. Cattle drift from the Platte country, Nebraska, all the way down to the pan-handle country every winter. When the winter winds are severe, great numbers drift to ranges where the country is very broken, or where there is timber; and they often become so thick that it is necessary to drive part of them to other ranges to keep them from starving. This is part of the cow-boys’ work.

Every spring each firm has about as many other brands upon its range as of its own; and after a long, stormy season one brand is distributed along the waters of several states or territories. In order that each firm may know how it stands, and to brand the calves and gather up such as are fit for market, each spring the commissioners of each county appoint a captain for the round-up or rodere. The counties here are very large. There is a place and day set for the meeting, and all the cattle-men of the county are informed. The time of meeting is about the last of April; but the time varies according to the grass and the strength of the cattle. Some springs the grass comes on early, and some quite late. Each firm sends men to this round-up in proportion to its herd—usually four or five to each county where it is expected that there are cattle—sometimes more, and often but one. Each boy has from four to eight horses; and when there are two or more from a company they have a wagon along. The beds, feed, provisions, ropes, branding-irons, etc., are hauled in it; and the driver of this wagon does the cooking for the boys of that firm. Where there is but one, he usually makes arrangements to go with some other firm.

The average cow-boy saddle weighs forty pounds, and some weigh sixty-five pounds. They are made with large, strong horns, and the back of the seat is very high. The skirt is leather, and comes back over the pony’s hips. Upon either side of the saddle there is firmly fastened two large, strong rings, and to each a strong strap, two feet long, and one inch and a half wide. The girths (sinches) are about three feet long, with a strong ring in each end. These sinches are generally made of hair, twisted into ropes, and about ten ropes to a sinch, making it three or four inches wide—two girths to each saddle. The straps to the rings upon the right side of the saddle are each passed through the rings at the end of a sinch, and run from one ring to the other and then fastened. Two good blankets are then placed upon the horse, and the saddle lifted to its place. The front sinch is then brought up and the strap to the front ring is passed through the ring of the sinch, and from one ring to the other three or four times, and then drawn up tightly and fastened with a ranger’s loop. The back sinch is then brought around behind the bulge of the belly and fastened as the other. By this fastening a saddle can be drawn up very tightly, and fastened upon the animal so firmly that the pony can be jerked down and pulled away by the saddle-horn. There is not a buckle about the saddle. The stirrups are wooden, and are covered with leathers which hang in two large strips nearly to the ground. These leathers are called tapidares. The bridles are strong, with raw-hide reins. Each boy has a half-inch catch-rope, about forty feet long, and made out of sea-grass, leather, or raw-hide. This is made fast to the saddle-horn at one end, and then coiled and tied up to the saddle. Each boy has also a large pair of spurs with rowels two inches long, and little bells to them, so that when the boy walks the spurs roll along upon the ground or floor, and the little bells make quite a noise. Now, with a belt around his waist, and two six-shooters and a large knife upon it, he is rigged. The clothing is made of California duck, lined with blanket, the shirt a double-breasted blue, and the hat a large white broad-brim. In an ordinary stock county, between two and three hundred cow-boys usually come together for the round-up. And you bet this is a big day for the hot coffee-houses of the place of meeting; for the boys usually draw their wages for the occasion, and usually succeed in getting things pretty well warmed up. The bosses try to keep their boys down; but toward evening, when the boys gather in from far and near, there are many social glasses drank. Often old feuds are stirred up; and when once a fight is begun each boy sides one way or the other, and there are seldom less than four or five killed. If a stranger comes in and gives the least occasion, the boys will then have their fun. They will make him stand still and hold out his hand, and then try to shoot between his fingers, or shoot a hole through his ears, or see how closely they can shoot to the top of his head by shooting through his hat. They can do this very well; and there is not much danger until they get pretty full and want to make too fine a shot, such as shooting between the flesh and skin, and then the thing is too fine to be pleasant. Persons coming out here to learn this business find it necessary to keep lip and braggadocio to themselves, or else the initiation is pretty heavy. The boys generally get pretty well gathered in the first day, and the next morning they pull out.

The captain commands the men like an army officer. The loose ponies are all turned together, and the herd often has several hundred heads. The captain is a man who understands the country and knows every stream and pool in the range. He lays his plans and arranges his route, and, beginning at one side of the county, he takes a range; and dividing up his men, he sends them here and there, up and down the forks of the creeks and across to the little lakes over the range, and directs them to bring in all the cattle of the range and round them up at a certain place. In a week or ten days they generally come in with the cattle; and they often round up a mighty herd. Each brand now has one or more representatives, and they watch closely after the interests of their employers. They then prepare to take out of the round-up all the brands that belong to that particular range, brand the calves, and let them go. The herd is surrounded and held by cow-boys; and fires are built around, and all the different brands of that range are heated for action.

One man from each firm that pastures upon this range then goes into the herd to get the calves that they find following their cows. When one is found the noose is thrown, and whether it gets the calf round the body, neck, leg, or tail it is all the same; the pony is whirled and loped off to the fire, the little fellow rolling, tumbling, kicking, and bawling, but all to no purpose. He is then held by the boys, and the red-hot branding-iron is held against its tender skin until the hair is all singed off and the hide burned sore. The little fellow rolls his eyes in their sockets and bellows piteously as the smoke curls upward from his own body; but the operation is soon over, and he is sent loping into the free air upon the range. When all the calves are out, the cows and steers are then cut out as follows: Each firm has particular horses trained for this business, and they are called “cutting horses.” The boy goes among the herd, and when he sees his brand he needs follow it but a little way until the pony knows what animal is wanted; and all the rider has then to do is to stay on. The pony walks after the animal, dodging from one side to the other, and when he has him driven to the edge he lunges upon the cow with great fury. The cow, with fright, leaps from the herd; and in spite of her efforts to get back, that pony keeps her out. A rider has to be experienced before he can stick a cutting horse; for they sometimes go after a cow upon a dead run, and stop in two jumps, whirl upon the hind feet, and go off the other way.

When the cattle of this range are all cut out and the calves branded, the rest of the herd are then driven to another range. They are held here by some boys and left graze, while the captain divides up the rest of his men and sends them out over that range to gather in all the cattle. They are then all rounded up together, and, as before, the calves are branded, and all the stock belonging to the owners of that range is turned loose upon it. In this way they go from range to range until the whole county is gone over and each firm has its cattle upon its own range or ranges, and the calves of that year are branded. It is usually about three months before the boys all get in from the different counties, bringing the cattle upon their own ranges and making their reports to head-quarters.

A strict account is kept, by the boys of each firm, of all the cows and steers and calves that are gathered from each county; and when the round-up is over each company knows just how it stands. Sometimes the boys are a little careless and do not brand deep enough, and forget to mark the ear. In a year the brand becomes so indistinct that many a quarrel has arisen among the boys as to their identity; and I have seen some bitter consequences.

A calf that is following no cow, and is unbranded, is called a mavorick; and though by law these now belong to the state in some places, they used to belong to the man who first put his brand there. There are many calves missed every year; and before the next round-up they are weaned, and no one knows to whom they belong. There are men who have made themselves good herds by gathering up mavoricks, and often stealing calves from the mother, putting their brands upon them, and taking them off to another range. Sometimes, however, the mother and offspring get together again before they have entirely forgotten their relations; and then a calf of one brand is following a cow of another. This is very undesirable to the calf-brander; and if he can not destroy that mother’s affection, or in some way arrange that mixed-up family before other cow-men get to see it, from what I have seen I would advise him to let the darned calf go to thunder and get out of that unhealthy prairie atmosphere.

When the round-up is all over and the cattle are fat,—usually about the latter part of the month of September,—the beef season begins. They then go upon their respective ranges, round up the cattle, and cut out such as are fit for beeves. Four years is the sale age; and seldom is one sold under this. Each firm has a foreman, who does the picking of the beeves; and he who is able to tell when a cow or steer is fat is considered a good cow-man. The beeves are then driven to the railroad, where there are stock-pens; and after the cars are bedded with about six inches of sand, the cattle are loaded up, making every other one face one side of the car, and the others the other side. Twenty is the average car-load, though this number varies with the size of the cattle. I have seen cars crowded with sixteen large steers, and know of one firm bringing in a thousand beeves at a time. The shipping-rates to St. Louis and Chicago are usually twenty dollars per car, making one dollar per head. The cattle are generally well fattened; and though they do not command quite as high prices as eastern grain-fed stock, the profits are nevertheless very large. One man is allowed to each car of stock, to keep them up and arrange them should they get fast or become mixed up in the car. In this way, during the shipping season, many persons are furnished free transportation to the East.

Beef-gathering does not generally end until the snow flies and the weather becomes severe. It is then very rough for the boys; for, good or bad, they must take it, with no shelter but a gum-coat, called a slicker. When they have a herd to hold they have to stand guard all night, the same as day. Now, when the clouds suddenly roll from the horizon and dash their contents upon the plain, when the thunder begins to bellow and the lightning to dart its fiery tongues through the air, then the cattle become perfectly frenzied and rush madly here and there; and then comes what they call a stampede. Then there is a time. Often but five or six boys are holding a herd of several hundred large beef-steers when the storm comes on, and as they rush madly to and fro the boys dash their ponies here and there in front of them, and usually hold them; but when the storm is furious and the cattle become frantic and rush in all directions, they often break the circle, and then the work begins for certain. The ponies understand their business, and with all power they get to the front; and if the herd is not too badly scattered, and (if it be at night) if it be not too dark, the herd may again be rallied. Otherwise, they are gone, and the prairie fairly trembles beneath them as they, bellowing, rush over the plain. When once thoroughly stampeded they usually run a long way before checking, and it takes several days to gather them in again; and if it be a strange herd going through the country, the prospect is that many will never be recaptured. It is a sight to see a large herd of big Texas steers in a storm, with heads erect, racing here and there, clashing their great horns together, and loudly snorting. There is danger, also; for when once they are under full headway they are as irresistible as the hurricane, and everything crumbles before them.

Sometimes when the tired, relieved guards are sleeping with their ponies at their sides, the herd stampedes, and before they can get into the saddle the pony escapes and the cattle rush madly over them, trampling them into the sand. I recollect of camping close to a large herd of Texas steers one cold November night, when the rain fell fast, and the lightning played upon the cattle’s horns like morning sunbeams upon the mountain-top, and lighted up the plain almost like day. The boys held them for some time; but at length the ponies became worried, and away went the steers, their trampling sounding like distant thunder. The boys all rushed for the front, and after about a mile chase, in which I joined, one of the boys dashed in front of the herd. In the darkness of the night and the excitement of the occasion he had forgotten a dangerous slough that lay in that direction, and his excited pony sprung into the mire. Of course the first jump the horse sunk deeply into the mud and could not extricate himself, nor could the rider get away before the maddened herd plunged in upon him. The pony with its rider was crushed into the mud and buried alive before our eyes, and the cattle struggling in the mud above them. The next morning we took ropes and pulled some of the steers from the bog with the saddle-horn; but some were smothered in the mire with the good pony and gallant rider, whom we left in their novel graves, knowing that they were dead anyhow, and thinking that perhaps their self-made tombs were as respectable as any we could hew.

As was said before, each firm sends a wagon with each squad of men that goes out upon the prairie. The wagons all have nice large cupboards (called mess-boxes) fixed in the back end, and when going out they take provisions, feed, clothes, beds, ropes, etc., and a good set of camp implements. This, then, is what is called a cow-outfit. The horses are not fed any grain unless worked hard and having no time to graze. In this case it is also necessary that they should be shod. Each company has on hand a large number of pressed shoes of all sizes, and before the boys go out they always fit their ponies with a couple pairs of shoes apiece; and taking also a shoeing outfit, they shoe their own ponies. When the boys are on a cow or horse hunt, they tell the cook where they will be for the next meal, and he goes immediately there and has grub prepared for them as they come in. From the cook being alone so much of the time, he is exposed to great dangers; and many an outfit has gathered to their wagon to find their cook lying murdered by the dinner-fire. It is necessary that the cook should be thoroughly acquainted with the country, for he is sent across the prairie in every direction from one range to the other. He is sometimes called upon to get up a meal for ten, fifteen, or twenty men at very short notice—often in twenty or twenty-five minutes; and you may imagine the skill that these fellows have acquired when this can be done, especially when the buffalo-chips are damp. The boys will run a dirty cook out of camp; but they think nothing of seeing the cook gather up buffalo-chips with his hands and then make up bread without washing. There is a great difference in camp-cooks; and some make nice doughnuts and puddings for the boys, while others get nothing but bread and meat, and sometimes beans and potatoes. Imagine an eastern girl scolding the boys for not procuring sound, dry hickory wood, or grumbling because the stove is not a good baker, and spreading paper over the bread, or flavoring here and seasoning there, touching up her delicate tidbits for an hour before the table is prepared. Ha, ha, ha! The cow-boys’ dinner is twice as good; and it is gotten without wood (and often wet at that), without a stove, and without any of the delicious flavorings, and is forgotten in half an hour. Why, if a cow-boy had to wait an hour for dinner he would go into camp and kick over the pots and skillets, and then step off and see how close he could shoot to the cook’s ear, just to hurry him up a little. Whenever they are out of meat, they shoot down a nice fat calf, and always have the best. It is seldom that they kill their own brands; but when there is no mavorick, they slide a ball into another man’s calf. Of course they always cut out the brand and destroy it. It is quite pleasing to see a cow-outfit taking dinner upon the wide, level prairie, with their ponies grazing by the camp-side. They all get around the hash, which sits in pans and skillets, and then crossing their legs they sit down upon their feet. This is the cow-boys’ seat; and when they come into a house where there are plenty of chairs they squat to the floor upon their own seats. Hot or cold, sunshine or storm, the greater part of the year they sleep and dine upon the wild, unsheltered plain. They are so used to it, though, that they think nothing of it, and stand out in the storm eating their biscuit and broiled beef with unqualified relish. They move their loose ponies from place to place in a herd—each boy having his own particular riding-horses. When camped they hobble the leaders, and the rest will not leave. The hobble is made by taking a piece of cow-hide about three feet long and two inches wide, tying a knot in one end, and cutting a loop in the other. This is put around one leg, above the pasture-joint, and then twisted and looped around the other. The twist keeps the hobble from working down, and the horse does not get around fast nor leave camp far unless stampeded by Indians or wild horses; and even in this case they are easily captured. Some of the ponies are very shy, and when the boys want fresh horses they tie a rope to a wagon-wheel, and a boy holds the other end. The others then drive the herd up to this and throw the noose over the heads of the wanted ones. They are so used to this rope that they will not attempt to cross one if it is but knee high. All idle mules are always hobbled; for the cow-boys say “a mule is hell in a stampede.” The boys of course do their own washing; and they usually keep pretty clean, with the exception of a few gray-backs, which are their warmest bosom and inseparable friends. Some companies have as high as seventy-five or a hundred men employed during the work-season; and about the first of December they discharge about half of them until spring, keeping the best men over winter, and they are scattered over the ranges among the little lonely shanties to watch over the cows during winter. They are compelled to keep some men who understand the business and the country, and then they can make use of some greenhorns. But oh! how those cow-boys curse the tender-feet. They usually try to get them upon a pony that understands bucking, to get their necks broken or disable them in some way or other to get them out of the way. There is no better fun than to get a big, clumsy tender-foot upon a well-trained cow-pony. He goes dodging along like a monkey, holding to the saddle-horn, with his stirrups shortened up and his knees under his chin, gaping in every direction. Pretty soon a steer dashes from the herd; the pony, quick as a flash, springs after him to round him in. The steer dodges; the pony braces, whirls upon his hind feet, and starts off in another direction, with the tender-foot hanging upon his side with one foot fast in the stirrup, the other leg wrapped around the saddle-horn, and holding to the mane with both hands. With a loud bellow the steer makes another whirl; the pony follows in a twinkle; and this time the grip gives way, the leg slips over, the horn ripping the cloth and bruising the skin, and with a heavy thud tender-foot comes to the ground, and after rolling over fifteen or twenty times he lies upon his belly and raises his head to see if the steer had run over the pony too. The boys are usually slow about going to help a walloped tender-foot, for fear he will not die if he is helped.

Cow-boys are ranked in the business something like officers in the army. There are foremen, bosses, and sub-bosses, down to privates; and they are paid according to their experience and ability. Some of them have been cow-punching—as it is called—for many years, and know every water for hundreds of miles around; and, of course, they command high wages. The common boy gets twenty-five and thirty dollars per month; and the wages range from this up to one hundred and twenty-five dollars. Of course, one has to be highly experienced to command the latter.

Ponies, riding-outfits, beds, etc., are furnished by the companies; but nearly all the boys have ponies and riding-rigs of their own. The object of this will be explained hereafter. They all furnish their own fire-arms, and are usually pretty well belted.

There are large, wealthy firms in Texas—such as Hunter & Evans, and others,—who make it a business to breed cattle; and they sell to the ranchmen thousands upon thousands of stock-cattle every year. They usually cross the short-horn with the long-horn; for the Texican, while he is a good rustler and will find enough to live on where an American will die, does not fill out well, besides being usually very fierce and wild, while, on the other hand, the American has the set, and is tame; but when the pasture is poor or the weather severe he will not rustle as hard nor feed as far out upon the range as the other.

The trail comes over the prairie, from Texas, by Dodge City, Kansas, and goes on up into the Platte country, Nebraska. This trail is several hundred miles long, and is divided up into regular drives; and some of the stretches between waters are very long. It has been used for many years, and is worn wide and deep. Every spring and fall these stock-breeders send great herds up this trail. Sometimes as many as twenty-five thousand are strung out in one herd. At these seasons, persons wanting cattle gather along the trail and wait for a herd. The herds are composed of from one to three yearlings; and for first choice the usual price is twelve dollars, and ranging down to seven dollars.

There are large horse companies in the South, and great herds of ponies are also driven up the trail each fall and spring. They sell for from twenty to fifty dollars per head.

Many cattle give out on the long march, and numerous riding-ponies get their backs scalded and rubbed and are worn down weak and thin, and can be bought for a song; and after a month or two of rest they are all right.

Many new wagons are brought up with the herds to haul the necessary supplies, and, not being needed for the return, they can be bought very cheap, from the inconvenience of running them back so far. There are persons ranched along this trail who buy the worn-out cattle and ponies and the wagons; and there have been fortunes made at it.

When a man wants to go into the cattle-business and does not know the country well, he finds out from the cow-boys some place that is unoccupied and that would make a good cattle-range. He then goes there, and at some good place builds a good ranch and strong corral, then gets a branding-iron made and procures a wagon and camp outfit, ponies, etc., and then, hiring an experienced man to manage the business, he goes to the trail during one of the aforesaid seasons and buys what he wants. By paying twelve dollars per head he gets his choice from the mighty herd, and can make up his herd of good cattle nearly three years old. Buying half steers and half heifers, he will have the heifers to immediately breed from, and thereby have some steers ready for market in one year. This will pay his expenses. The next year he will have more to sell, and the calves will be coming on. By selling every marketable steer each fall and investing the money in young cattle, it is not long until the herd is numerous and the shipments can be great. When he has his herd he drives them upon his range, and hires some boys to help him brand them. Two strong posts are firmly planted in the corral, about twelve feet apart, and part of the herd is driven in at a time. A boy rides in, throws his rope over the horns of an animal, and, all understanding their business, the cow is soon pulled upon her side. A rope is put around the hind feet and wrapped around one of the posts and held by a boy, and another rope is put around the front feet and wrapped around the other post and held by another boy, while the brander applies the iron.

This branding business is fine sport for persons who are not accustomed to seeing it; and when I first came to the country I was present on all such occasions when possible. The boys used to let me lasso the cattle, and took great pains in showing me how it was done; and at length it was a small job to catch a cow, still or running. I recollect very well the first branding I ever attended. The boys caught a two-year-old steer and threw him down, and, putting a rope around the hind feet, they gave it to me to hold. They told me to wrap the rope three or four times around my body and then turn my back to the steer and pull as hard as I could, and I could hold him easily. Well, I had seen steers enough to know that they could kick like thunder. But I thought that perhaps by having his legs pulled straight out behind I could manage him; and I was pulling like a wheel-horse, when something happened. There was a sudden jerk from back toward the steer, and a loud snort. Then I whirled round so fast that it looked as though there were steers all around me; and I made a jump backward that beats the best on record. When I recovered I had a little pain in the stomach, and half the buttons were torn off my clothes; and I was altogether changed about. I tell you, boys, you can have your own opinion about it, but I believe that steer would have jerked the hind end of the world out if he had been fastened to it. I wish it distinctly understood that whenever there is a red-hot iron to be poked against a steer’s skin I want to be on the side where there are no legs.

It is not usually much of a job to catch and throw an animal; but sometimes there is a large, powerful, wild Texican in the bunch, and the boys have some fun. In this case they throw two or three ropes upon the animal, and the ponies hold him fast. When the herd is all branded they are turned upon the range; and having prepared it, he takes up his abode in his humble little ranch. If his herd is not large, he and his little help can ride out every day to look after the cattle and keep them upon the range, and his herd will not be much scattered in the spring.

In choosing a range it is best, if possible, to take up a rough part, or where there is timber; for being thus sheltered from the fierce winter blasts, the cattle are not apt to drift. Of course if he or they want to go into the business very largely, it will be necessary, perhaps, to hunt several ranges, and build cabins there for the boys.

It is interesting to see a well-trained pony play his part in the roping process. He watches the lariat, and as the rider throws it he makes two or three rapid jumps to give the rope slack, and if it catches, he then stops, plants his feet in the sand, and turns to suit the cow. A small pony, if well trained, can hold a good steer by the horns or foot. The rider can dismount and go to the captive, and the pony will do the holding. Sometimes the animal is too much, however, and in spite of his greatest efforts, the pony is jerked heavily to the ground. I have seen the saddle jerked from the pony and taken across the prairie by the horns of a steer. This mostly happens when there is a bad throw, and the animal is caught around the neck or body. The saddles, as has been said, are large and very heavy, with big blankets under them, so that the back of the pony is never injured by the surges of any captive. I have often thought of the pieces that one of the eastern turtle-shell saddles would be jerked into should one of these powerful wild steers be tied to the horn. The catch-rope has a knot in one end of it, and when thrown in a certain way it will lap around the foot and tie. This is a good catch, and can be done at a dead run; but it requires much more skill than the regular noose-catch. The foot is sometimes caught in chase with the noose; but this requires superior skill, and the Mexican only can practice this successfully. In case a steer gets cross, or is wild and mean about going into a corral or stock-pen, several boys dash upon him, some throwing their ropes around his horns, others around his feet, and others around his neck and tail, and with a whoop they drag him in. I have seen fifteen-hundred-pound steers dragged in this way. These ponies would pull nothing by a collar; but they are trained to pull by the saddle, and can draw a big load that way. Cow-boys often pull emigrant wagons out of streams and sloughs, where good teams have left them stand. Of course this roping all requires practice, and the skill that may be acquired at it would astonish one who had never seen the performance here upon the prairie. Sometime a single and lone cow-boy is crossing the prairie, and happens to run across a two or three year old that in some way has been missed. Riding upon it he ropes it; and while the pony holds it he takes his knife and marks the ear, and brands it by cutting the hair to the skin in the brand shape. This will stay until branding season, and then it can be done over.

Great flocks of sheep are also raised out here, and it is said that there is much more profit in them than in cattle, ordinarily. But the risk is much greater, as in case of a severe winter, like sometimes visit the prairie, many of them die; for there is no chance to shelter or feed them like in the East among barns and stocks. Experienced stock-men say that sheep usually pay from seventy-five to one hundred per cent upon the investment, and cattle from forty to sixty per cent. But of course this varies a good deal according to the season. There is an amalgam here called the greaser, who is part Mexican, Indian, and negro, and they do most of the sheep-raising. They have straight black hair, very dark complexion, and are extremely wicked and cruel. They are very filthy, and hence the name greaser. They use the donkey, or burro, and pack from place to place. To see them with their flocks and asses upon the hill-side is suggestive of ancient times, and causes one to think of flocks and herds upon the plains of historical Europe and Asia. In order that all my readers may know the nature of these vile and odious specimens of humanity, I will describe them as the ugliest, meanest, most slovenly, cruel, treacherous, and quarrelsome beings I ever saw. Each greaser carries a large knife; and you bet he knows how to use it. He can throw it into a man’s body at the distance of ten feet every time; and upon the least provocation, if close enough, he will cut your jugular-vein the first whack. They sometimes move their flocks upon the stock-ranges, and any one acquainted with sheep knows the condition in which pasture is left after several thousand sheep have ranged over it. This enrages the cattle-men, and they send cow-boys to move them off. There have been many bitter battles fought between these parties for this cause, and many a Mexican has bitten the dust and had his flock scattered and destroyed. When cow-boys start out to do anything that can be done with six-shooters, they usually do it; and could the bleaching Mexican skeletons but speak, the truth of the assertion would only be too well evidenced.

Most persons have heard of the Texas cattle-fever and its terrible ravages. It is almost entirely confined to the regions along the trail; and though not often the case, it is some years very destructive, and hundreds of cattle are stretched out dead upon either side of the trail, and stock-men are afraid to buy. Stock can then be bought cheap. There is much speculation as to what this disease is; and many theories have been advanced by scientific men as to its cause, and whether it is contagious. The following is one of the theories; and to me it seems the most plausible: In driving the cattle so far through the hot sand, their feet become sore and fester; and when they are halted by the drivers and left graze out upon the range the matter from their feet is imparted and deposited on the grass, and this grass being eaten by the cattle causes the affection. Others say that it is a regular disease, that it originated in Texas, and that it is contagious. But I have observed that the disease is not prevalent in Texas or any other country except the ranges along the trail. I have also observed that the disease is not contagious if cattle are not left graze upon the same range too soon after coming off the trail. The cattle that are once badly affected with the disease seldom do much good afterward.

The stock-business being the almost exclusive occupation of the people upon the vast western prairie world, which to this is so particularly adapted, I hope I have been justified in treating of this subject at so great length. I have tried to picture the country in the imagination of persons (who have never been here) as it really is, and to satisfy the curiosity of those who have heard so much of the great western herds, as well as to inform those who would wish to engage in the business upon the vast free domain. Thinking that perhaps the subject has been sufficiently spoken of I shall conclude, and refer the reader to the closing letters of this work for further information.

CHAPTER VI.

Most persons of ordinary information have heard something of the character of the population of the great American plains, and have observed that the cow-boys have had their share of attention and comment. From actual observations made during my long roam upon the prairies I feel able to contribute a few lines that will no doubt be interesting to persons who have read such speculative and varied accounts, and who wish to be well and truly informed.

The great country that has been described as adapted to no other purpose than stock-raising is necessarily almost exclusively populated with cow-men; and, without legal restraint, the prairie fairly trembles with their power. I am personally acquainted with many of the boys; and while I have many warm friends among them, I also have some deadly enemies. I have studied their dispositions, and, by the instrument of warmest confidence, have drawn from their bosoms many dark and hidden secrets. When a person takes into consideration the position and surroundings of these boys, he is not astonished at the almost unexceptionably bold, bestial, and immoral character of these creatures of the broad western wilds. In civilized and Christianized regions, if a person be disposed to be rough and immoral—though he often meets those of like disposition and is encouraged,—he must and will, from time to time, come in contact with those whom the faintest throbbings of natural manhood will move him to respect; for instance, the sweet smile or the soft, silver-toned word from the lips of a kind female or the address of a noble man. As he walks the streets by the dim light of the gas-lamp, profaning the Sabbath or planning dark vices, the sweet strains from the lips of the worshipers away up in the tabernacle will waft out of the open window upon the soft evening zephyrs and irresistibly appeal to his faint sensibilities. The voice of the good minister is heard; and though the heart be mailed with a coat of evil and the spark of celestial fire called conscience be almost smothered, these soft influences are felt and are fuel to the fire of man’s natural sensibilities. And back of all this is the strong hand of the law, backed by public sentiment, with which the latitude of man’s privileges is measured out. The checks are so many and so great that it is some time before the conscience of man can be overcome by the rolling waves of immoral and iniquitous temptations. But it is quite otherwise in the unsettled country where the musical strains do not reach nor the words of the gospel sound, and where the sweet influence of womanhood is not shed, and worst of all, where the law is the will and the might makes the right. There is nothing to stay the degeneration into which mankind is naturally so prone to drift; and in several years’ life with such surroundings the sensibilities of man become as callous as a stone. The very atmosphere is impregnated with profanity, and new-comers can seldom resist the epidemic. Many of these boys stay alone away out upon distant ranges for several months at a stretch without seeing a human being, with the howl of the wolf and the angry growl of the wild beasts constantly floating upon the prairie breeze, and the monotony broken now and then by the war-whoop of the treacherous red-man, who cruises upon the plain beneath his white plume, seeking the lives and scalps of the lone boys. The effect of a life in the open air, and a diet of wild meats, together with the influences of an unsettled country, I have already felt by actual experience; and he who has described the wickedness and boldness of the cow-boy in the strongest language I will assure you is not guilty of exaggeration, for indeed they are savages. They do most all their work upon horseback; and being in the saddle every day, they are so expert at equestrianism that it is amusing to see them ride. They walk so little that the muscles of their legs are very weak, and on foot they can do very little. They always keep a pony picketed close by, and if they want to go a quarter of a mile the pony is saddled.

The bronco is a California pony, and the mustang is a pony that was found upon the plains of Mexico. Both these breeds are used by cow-men; and they are, with few exceptions, very hard to break. They are natural buckers; and some of them never forget it, and take a heat at it after being rode for several years; that is, they put their head between their knees, stick out their tails, and then begin to jump stiff-legged. The first lunge will perhaps be four or five feet forward, the next several feet backward, then from side to side, and all the while bawling like an ox. They sometimes begin as soon as the sinch is drawn and before it is fastened, and tearing furiously from the boy they buck over the plain until the saddle comes off or until they are entirely exhausted. It is a curious habit, but it appears to be natural with them; and if any person takes it to be an agreeable exercise to back one of these professional buckers, he should try it on once, and I will assure him that one fall upon the back of the neck will be sufficient to convince him that he was mistaken. It takes practice to be able to ride one of these fellows; and men considered good riders in the East are tipped by these ponies as easily as a stone from a slippery log. To see a big tender-foot back a bucker is about as funny a thing as I ever witnessed. The first jump the boy pops up about six inches, the next a foot, and so on. Soon he pops up so high that the pony gets one pop ahead of him, and when he comes down the pony is gone; and with a thud he comes to the ground, usually upon the back of his shoulders, with his feet gesticulating wildly in the direction he came from. These boys are so well up to them, however, that they do not think much about it, ordinarily, though there is one sometimes that it takes the best rider to stick. I saw a boy mount a pony that it was said could not be rode, while he said he could not be thrown. The pony began his wickedest; and such bucking I never saw. He bucked for full fifteen minutes, and was worried down. The blood was gushing from the mouth and nose of the rider. The powerful jerking had almost ruined him; and of the effects of that ride he said he never expected to be cured. “But,” said he, “in all my riding-experiences in fifteen years upon the prairie, I never backed the like.” Now, when a little mule once learns to buck, he is what the cow-boys call double-geared lightning; for this, with the natural-born ability of the mule, enables him to come as near playing hell as is possible without using the real material; and a person who did not see him begin would swear it was a herd of mules dashing around, so numerous and violent are his maneuvers. When a wild pony is to be broken he is roped, a saddle strapped upon him, and the rider takes his seat. He is then turned loose upon the prairie to cut capers, while the other boys ride after him to keep from going too far, or from jumping into bogs or gutters. As they come dashing over the prairie whooping and hallooing, the pony bucking and bawling, and the rider applying his big spurs, the sight is grand; and it is seldom one of these boys is moved from his seat. When the pony is worried out, he then puts a bridle on him and drills him. Of course it would be impossible to ride these fellows with the saddles that are used in the states. But, as has been said, these saddles are large, the horn is high, and when mounting a bad pony a roll of blankets is tied upon the saddle-skirt, and it is difficult to get a rider from his seat. Some of these boys have been almost born in the saddle; and riding so much, they are so bow-legged they can hardly walk. I have seen these boys ride along on a dead run and grab up in succession four and five silver dollars that were laid upon the ground fifty yards apart. They become very venturesome and mischievous, and sometimes catch the big-horned Texas steers, jump upon their backs, pull their tail up over the shoulder, and my, oh! what a time! The steer bounds away snorting, bucking, and bellowing; but in spite of his efforts the boy holds on to the tail and keeps his seat. When they want some milk they ride out and rope a cow; and while the pony holds the cow they milk what they want. From so much practice, these boys are as expert with the six-shooter as with the pony; and persons considering themselves good shots should not brand themselves superior until once shooting a round or two with a cow-boy. I have seen boys ride over the river bridge at Granada, and at a dead run shoot two and three glass telegraph insulators from the railing in one round from the six-shooter. They practice this so much that they can shoot better from a pony than from the ground. Some have the cells filed out, so that the firing can be done more rapidly. There are saloons all along the railroads and cattle-trails, and when the boys are out alone upon the range for some time they feel like having a picnic when getting to where somebody lives. They are usually very liberal when they have money, and everybody present is called on to “come up and represent.” Whisky is considered the grace of God in this country, and of course it is very seldom refused. Now, if there are several together, a few drinks about makes happiness full; and the ball then opens. The boys all draw good wages, their expenses are light, and most of them aim to spend in saloons every dollar that is not needed for actual necessaries. They often draw from fifty to one hundred dollars at once, and spend every dollar of it before leaving a saloon. There are men making fortunes off the cow-boys to-day. There are professional gamblers lurking around most of these frontier saloons, and they watch to intoxicate the boys and then play them out of their money. Though the game be begun in the best of humor, it is usual for each man to lay his six-shooter at his side; and the maxim is, mind your eye. As long as everything is done squarely there is no trouble; but the first man that is caught tricking is in hot quarters; and I have seen some deadly battles without one word spoken. Sometimes the gamblers entirely strip the boys, and with an understanding, when there is a large pot, they point the six-shooters at the gamblers’ heads and pull in the pile.

Some years ago Dodge City, Kansas, was given up to be the roughest and most wicked place in the United States. It is situated right where the Texas trail crosses the railroad, and was a regular stock-center. Numbers of cow-boys were constantly going in and out, and whole dens of gamblers and prostitutes were quartered here for lucre. The population being composed of such beings, and the clash of the six-shooter being the voice of the law, the vilest consequences are but natural. Ah! many a man played his last game here, and mingled his dying-breath with the lurid smoke of the six-shooters. Men were shot down like dogs, and buried as they fell, red with gore and horribly mangled.

There is at this place a yard called the Boot Grave-yard, a place well known to all western men, and called thus from the fact that thirty-eight men have been buried here with their boots on. There was scarcely a day that there was not a riot in town among the cow-boys, or between the cow-boys and gamblers; and of course shooting and cutting was the consequence. Emigrants passing through with wagons, and not knowing the place, were decoyed into dark places and robbed. Passengers from the trains, on going in for refreshments and showing any amount of money, were trapped and robbed, and were killed upon resistance. You are a stranger in the country, and they are all cliqued together; and what are you to do? If you go to making much trouble, or get to shooting off your mouth, the consequences can be imagined. Even when there are officers, they are not able to command order; for the first day they try it a ball from some unknown villain will strike him. Hence the officers are usually cliqued with the desperadoes. The easier a person can get out of these places the better; for the officers themselves will put you into a dungeon for the gamblers to rob you.

Fully one half the gamblers and cow-boys of the West are persons who have committed dark crimes and fled thither to escape justice; and wickedness, when once launched, will find in this country easy sailing.

As has been said, almost every cow-boy has one pony and riding-rig of his own. In case he should come into a place and kill somebody, this pony is calculated to skip with to another part, thereby avoiding the necessity of riding off one of the company’s horses.

The regular initiation to the cow-boys’ society is three murders; and when they find that you are good stuff, and will shoot without ceremony, you are one of the boys; and you may depend upon it that you have friends who will stand by you in the hours of darkest danger. But if you prove to be a brag and a coward, your misfortunes are laughed at.

If a criminal is pursued, and he can reach the banks of the Arkansas River anywhere west of Dodge City, and then understands the plains, he is as safe as though he were in an uninhabited land. Or if he does not understand the prairie, and goes to a cow-camp and tells the boys what is up, if he has the right appearance one of them will mount a pony and give him one, and lope across to another range. Persons who do not know the country can not follow a person here; and if it is tried, and you do not perish from thirst, death will meet you in some way—you can rest assured of that. Telegraph-wires and officers of the law are of little avail here in running down a felon; and if a person keeps on his guard, and stays upon the range away from the towns, there is no danger of ever being taken.

Many of the boys are never caught off their guard, and the belt is upon them at the board and in the bed. They are ever prepared. Every stranger is watched with an eagle eye, and the least suspicion is nipped in the bud.

There was one boy who had been upon the plains for several years, and who had proved himself a hero. He had committed murder in Alabama and fled from justice, and a New York detective had been employed to hunt him down; but it was some years before a clue could be found. He one night came to the home of the widowed mother, and passing himself off as a peddler not long from Germany, in a long, cunning conversation he obtained a slight trace of the felon son; and at length he trailed him to the Colorado plains. He learned that he was cow-punching; and the only way to get him was to cow-punch too. So, rigging himself out in a cow-boy’s dress, he hired to a company and went to work. He was at the business several weeks, and at length came across his man. He had been very careful about every word and motion, and, assuming a careless appearance, he was not in the least suspicioned. He knew he was in a dangerous position; for if the cow-boys even mistrusted him he would be shot. But with great cunning and ingenuity he had avoided all suspicion; and after awhile he became quite intimate, and was taken into the cow-boy’s confidence. He watched his opportunity, and was alone with his man upon the Tepee, in Texas, one beautiful summer’s eve; and they both stooped to drink from the little stream. The detective was careful to arise first, and drawing his six-shooter he leveled it upon his man, and as he rose said, “Surrender, and be quiet; for you are my prisoner.” Quick as a flash the cow-boy saw his position, and resolved to make the most of it. Maintaining his presence of mind he coolly remarked, “Well, I suppose you want my arms.” The detective, not realizing his real danger, and not considering the cow-boy’s dexterity with a pistol, assented to the boy handing him the pistol, but kept his aim. The six-shooter was drawn from the scabbard, the fore-finger was slipped into the guard in front of the trigger, and, taking the pistol by the barrel, he reached it to the detective; and as he let down his own arm and reached for the extended weapon the cow-boy whirled the six-shooter, caught the handle, and in a twinkling a ball was sent whizzing through the body of the detective; and he lay pouring his life-blood upon the green bank of the Tepee, at the very feet of his intended victim.

It was only by long acquaintance and the most perfect confidence that I was intrusted with these secrets. I passed by the dead body before the color had quite left the cheeks. He was a fine-looking man, with an intellectual appearance; but, lest he should give himself away, he had cleaned out his pockets, and there was not even a paper by which his name could be ascertained. There may be a good woman and loving family somewhere in New York to-day waiting for the return of a long-absented loved one; but God forbid that it should be he whose bones lie bleaching on the banks of the Tepee. There are many such cases; and could the ghastly skulls but tell their tales, great volumes could be written of what will ever remain a deep secret.

Persons traveling over the plains will from time to time come upon human remains, some but partially decomposed and others disarticulated skeletons. A few miles north of the Arkansas River, in eastern Colorado, there is a long, deep hollow that from the great number of skeletons found therein is called Dead Man’s Arroyo. They appear to have been there for many years; but there is not a mark upon the valley rocks or spirit-whisper in the soft air to tell the sad tale. It is supposed that a hunting outfit was surprised at night and murdered by the Indians.

While hunting in the pan-handle country, we found the skeletons of four ponies lying in a circle, and a human skeleton (apparently a negro) lying among them. There were seventy-two Winchester cartridge-shells by his side; and it is thought that he was attacked by Indians, and for shelter shot down all his ponies, then fought off his enemies until his ammunition was exhausted, and died by a cruel hand. I have spent many interesting hours in the careful investigation of these mysteries, and surmising the causes and means by which these results were effected. From the fact that crime can be committed in the silence of the lonely plain, with so little danger of ever being discovered (the body often wasting to a skeleton before being discovered), there are many cold-blooded killings. When the least difficulty occurs among persons here, the arbitrator is almost invariably the six-shooter.

There are dance-halls in many of the little towns within the cow-boy’s range. They are usually built of sod or adobe, and are about fifty feet long and thirty feet wide. In one corner there is a bar; and in the back end of the building are several small rooms in which stay the female dancers. They are usually Mexican girls. Musicians are employed to stay here all the time; and every night some of the cow-boys, Mexicans, or miners come in,—often from twenty and thirty miles,—for a dance. At the end of each set each boy must take his partner to the bar. Drinks and cigars are usually two bits apiece, and the lowest is fifteen cents apiece or two for two bits. If it is found out that there are boys in who have much money, the bar-keeper posts the musicians and the sets are cut very short. As long as the boys will spend money the dance is kept up, if it is all night; but so soon as the money stops the dance stops. The profits are large, and among these reckless boys a shrewd hall-man often clears from one hundred and fifty to two hundred dollars in a single night. Knowing the character and disposition of the persons who attend these balls, and considering the attending circumstances upon these occasions, the scenes can be readily imagined. Desperadoes gather in from all directions, boys meet here to settle quarrels, and cow-boys and Mexicans being natural enemies, there are often mighty lively times. Each boy is ambitious to be a bad man; and after they get pretty well fired with liquor the recklessness commences and the wild spirit begins to glitter. Six-shooters are jerked, knives are drawn, and with wild yells bottles and glasses are shot from the bar, lights are fired down, and the basest profanity floats out of the appertures of the earthly hell upon the prairie breeze. Old grudges are stirred up, bullies try to pick a quarrel from others and then strike them down and try to run the house. One boy will imagine himself insulted by some other, and getting his friends together a fight is begun. Boys are shot down upon the dancing-floor, and each man tries to be the bloodiest. The consequences of these wicked balls are often very bitter, and there are some sickening scenes to be viewed in the morning light. I recollect being at Las Animas, Colorado, one night when there was a dance at the old Alhambra (a Mexican dance-hall), and I went to the ball to see how things were carried on and to learn the Colorado styles. I got there early in the evening, and the Mexicans were having a big fandango in six-eight time. About nine o’clock the cow-boys began to gather in, when things began to warm up and the scene put on a new aspect. The cow-boys got wild with liquor, and riding around the hall yelling and shooting, they made the old adobe dust fly like sand in a hurricane. Bullets whistled in every direction, and when one cut through my beard I concluded things were getting a little warm; but wanting to see it all, I got behind the bar with the tender. There were a good many Mexicans in the hall, and the two parties began to contend for the house. There were two doors in front, and three boys arranged themselves in a line at either door. The doors were then thrown open by others, and leaning low upon the ponies, the six boys plunged their spurs into the sides of their animals and like a flash rushed into the house. They rode up to the lights and struck them down with their six-shooters; and then in the darkness the bloody contest was hand-to-hand. The women screamed, the horses snorted, the cow-boys shot, and the Mexicans cut. I knew the contest was bloody, and I was anxious to know how the thing was coming on; but the horses were prancing around so furiously, and it was too dark to dodge the bullets that were flying like rocks in an earthquake, so I kept behind the bar and waited for the curtain to rise. In about five minutes the noise abated; and when the lamps were lighted a horrible spectacle met my view. The ponies were all out; but three of the riders were horribly mutilated and bleeding upon the floor. Two Mexicans (greasers) were also riddled with bullets and gasping in death, while others were badly wounded. I went out among the cow-boys and found that some of them were also deeply gashed and bleeding. They had got the worst of the battle; and being late in the night they concluded to disperse and come in some other night for some more fun. There was not a boy in the crowd that appeared to be in the least affected with the loss of his comrades, and with wild whoops they rushed off like the wind. Going into the hall I found the band playing, and the Mexicans were preparing to continue the ball. The five bodies were dragged up in the corner and a blanket thrown over them, and in the blood of the expired men the fandango was carried on till the morn began to dawn. This was a regular dance-hall scene, and not in any way an unusual one. I attended balls at a number of different halls, and witnessed many bloody riots.

Of course, these halls are not allowed near towns of much size or importance, where men live with their families, but are mostly in small places, and in many cases are far out upon the range. They are built in all shapes. The very air is contaminated with the vicious venom that arises from their walls like the odor from hell. Some are built by digging into the ground a few feet and then putting a few feet of adobes on top, making the ceiling just high enough for a man to walk under; and when the fiends gather in the nights are made hideous and the noise of the riots sounds like the rumbling of the infernal regions. These houses are the manufactories of evil and the polluted fountains from which untold misery and wickedness have been drunk by the unfortunate ones who traveled thither. Many a noble though ambitious young man, the pride of a happy family and the delight of his fellow-comrades, has gone west to seek his fortune, like his forefathers in years gone by. The location is often made in these wild places, and when the cultivated delicacy and human timidity are once a little numbed, he walks with his comrades and is soon led to their venomous dens. Though it may be a little shocking at first, there is nothing but his own lonely conscience to discourage him and warn him of the enormity and danger; and under the circumstances the ordinary man is tempted and will go down. When he visits these houses the seeds are sown in his breast that the oxygen of prairie air will hasten to maturity.

Every man who visits these places has his life in his hand; and it is as easily dropped as though it were the most insignificant article. Often when a fond family is daily looking for a loved one to return, his spirit is winging the subtile air and his bones are bleaching upon the prairie, the secret, like the body, melting into clay. Of course, as was said, these vile places and extremely wicked inhabitants are principally found in small towns in the midst of the unsettled country or where these earthly hells are pitched in the midst of the plain; for there are some pretty little towns and good people. It appears somewhat strange that man—and not only man—will so degenerate, and become so extremely wicked and beastly; but it appears that the average person, when living in a wild, unsettled country, surrounded with so much evil, loses all his refinement and develops into a new creature.

While picturing western life and relating frontier adventures it may be proper and perhaps interesting to many to give a sketch of the life of Hon. Wm. F. Cody,—“Buffalo Bill,”—a man known the world over as a border hero, of whom too much can not be said in the way of praise for valuable services rendered the Government as an army-scout, guide, and Indian-fighter.

Born in Iowa in 1843, at a time when that state was a border, and at an early age going with his father to Kansas, in the midst of the troubles there that “tried men’s souls,” William F. Cody was reared amid scenes of danger, and met with many thrilling adventures ere he reached his thirteenth year, becoming a “boy hero” when killing his first Indian before he entered his teens.

The death of his father, from the result of wounds received in the Kansas war, left the boy the support of his mother and sisters, and, precocious for his years, he joined an emigrant-train as teamster, and rapidly rose from that position to hunter and guide over the overland trails to the far West.

Of his numerous adventures, narrow escapes, Indian battles, and hardships volumes could be written—for he made his name famous along the border from Utah to Texas; and though a mere boy in years, few men were his superior in strength and endurance, while the cunning of the red-man he matched with equal cunning, and, in fact, won the name of being able to “out-Injun, Injun.”

Of Mr. Cody’s gaining the title of “Buffalo Bill” several stories are told, one of which is that when a boy-hunter to one of Russell, Major & Waddell’s trains, carrying Government supplies west to the forts, he was alone on the prairie one day, hunting, when he espied a tremendous herd of buffaloes coming toward him at full speed. The train-encampment was miles away, the boy was on foot, and there was but one chance to escape being trampled to death, and that was to reach a lone cotton-wood tree some distance off. A fleet runner, he gained the tree and drew himself up into the branches just as the herd of thousands of buffaloes came tearing along beneath him. Scarcely had he mentally congratulated himself upon his lucky escape when he espied behind the herd half a hundred Sioux warriors in full pursuit; and he knew that they would make short work of him, for they would also pass under the tree. To remain was certain death; and his fertile mind saw a chance,—one in a thousand,—and he seized upon it at once. He would drop down on the back of a huge buffalo-bull, and thus ride out of danger. This he did, landing astride of the back of an animal that, frightened fearfully, endeavored to throw him off, but in vain. Fortunately the herd headed in the direction of the train-encampment, and as the men ran out to secure fresh buffalo meat they saw that one of the bulls had a rider, and a crack shot bringing the animal down, it was found to be Bill Cody, who was then and there christened “Buffalo Bill.”

Another account is that when hunting for the hands on the Kansas Pacific Railroad he, in one season, killed four thousand two hundred and eighty buffaloes, and thereby won the title that he is known by the world over.

As a pony-express rider, when fifteen years of age, under the famous Alf. Slade, Buffalo Bill won a name as being a rider of marvelous skill and endurance, making, on one occasion, a continuous ride of three hundred and thirty-two miles, and accomplishing the whole distance in twenty-two hours,—truly a wonderful feat.

But it was when he became a scout in the army that he made his greatest name; and the general officers under whom he has served, and those who have served with him, give him the credit of being a man of unimpaired skill in prairie craft, indomitable courage, a miraculous marksman with rifle and revolver, and at all times a gentleman.

Receiving only a common-school education, Buffalo Bill has since educated himself; for, a thorough reader of human nature and close observer of men and things, he falls naturally into the ways of polite society, while, a great reader, he has a fund of general information one would not believe possible to be attained by a person who had led his arduous, busy, and adventurous life.

Over six feet in height, formed like an Apollo, and as handsome as a picture, he is a man to attract universal attention wherever he goes, to which, however, he seems utterly indifferent.

At the time of the visit of the Grand Duke Alexis to the United States, General Sheridan selected Buffalo Bill as his guide, and he received from the duke a magnificent diamond ring in return for his services, and an invitation to visit him in Russia, which Mr. Cody says he will one day accept.

Acting also as guide and hunter for numerous parties of English noblemen hunting on the plains, and also for Mr. James Gordon Bennett, J. G. Hecksher, Leonard and Lawrence Jerome, Colonel Schuyler Crosby, and other noted Americans, he soon became known as a bona fide frontiersman.

When the late Mr. Frank Leslie made his memorable trip to the Pacific coast, Buffalo Bill was his invited guest through the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

Thus becoming famous through his own deeds, Mr. Cody was seized upon as the hero of many an “o’er true tale” in the weekly papers, and was urged to come to the East and engage in a dramatic enterprise, in which he has been successful as an actor, and made a snug fortune.

As a pistol and rifle shot Mr. Cody has no superior; and his deeds with fire-arms are simply miraculous, and must be seen to be believed.

At present Mr. Cody resides at North Platte, Nebraska, where he has a large cattle-ranch, which yields him a handsome sum annually, and where he is known as a “cattle-king.”

The cause of this great region of the plains spreading out treeless and devoid of vegetation has been the subject of extravagant conjecture, and some queer theories have been advanced. Some persons think that it was once covered with trees and plants, but was swept over by fire, which so thoroughly destroyed all seed and roots that there was nothing left to sprout; hence the broad, clear range. All persons who have been upon the plains will scout all such theories, for nothing will grow there if planted. The physical condition of this great track is but the reasonable effect of the working of natural laws. Rain is all that is required to make the desert beam and blossom like the beautiful valleys of the states, though of course it would take some years to turn the dry sands into soil. No well-informed person wonders why Sahara is a desert; and though the region of the plains is visited with a few more little showers, and the surface is not so sandy, yet the principle is the same. What falls from the clouds is but that which arises by the process of evaporation from the waters below. The evaporation from our little inland waters is very limited, that as rain it would amount to very few and feeble showers. The great oceans, seas, and gulfs that fringe the continent are the mighty reservoirs from which rise our dews and refreshing showers; and wherever their moisture is not carried, the effect is invariably that of which the great deserts of the world, and the mighty plains of America, bear testimony to-day. In this case, the distance is so great from the waters north and east that all the moisture is lost before it reaches the prairie-land. It is also a great way from the gulf, and to the west the mountain ranges rear their cold summits aloof to extract the dampness from the Pacific breeze. Hence, so long as the broad, open waters roll in their present channels, and the hills and valleys remain, the American plains will divide the East from the West, and their dry surface will glitter in the bright, burning sun. It is, nevertheless, an excellent stock-range; and judging from the mighty herds annually shipped from this great field, it appears a necessary pasture-land for the world. It appears that the all-designing Providence, in the creation, prepared for the contingencies of mankind, and adapted this region to its present use, as well as the mountain-sides to the glittering diamonds and rusty ores.

There being so little rain here, there are no stagnant waters to poison the air; and the atmosphere being so dry substances do not rot, but simply wither, dry up, and blow away. Carcasses will sometimes lie for several years before the hide is broken. There are, consequently, no noxious substances to impart their impurities, and the air is left perfectly wholesome. The buzzard and blow-fly have no putrefying masses to hover over, and are consequently not known here. Fresh meat can be hung up in the open air, without salt, and it will dry out sweet and beautiful; hence, the West for health. For pulmonary troubles, this pure, dry atmosphere is the balm of life; and there are numbers of healthy and happy persons in the West to-day, rejoicing and praising the western angel who snatched them from the brink of eastern graves.

But to go back. I said we calculated to go into business in the valley for the winter; and so we did. Charles turned cow-boy, and stayed at the home ranch during the winter; Dave and John were employed at the round-house; and, seeing a chance to make money yet another way, I built a trading-house upon the prairie at the end of the railway-section at Granada, where stand a few little houses. I stocked with blankets, rough clothing, hats, boots, flour, corn, tobacco, cigars, etc. A small space was partitioned off at one end for a bar-room, and I hired a well-known and influential cow-boy to attend to this, not thinking the latter an honorable part of my business, to Ohio eyes, but aware that if a person wants to sell in any country he must keep what the people want to buy; for otherwise he is not patronized. My customers were cow-boys, Mexicans, Indians, emigrants, and the few settlers in the valley. Of course, one would naturally expect lively times once in awhile, under such circumstances; but I could smell the money in the air.

Myself and my hands were largely acquainted with the boys; and they came in from all directions, saying that they wanted to spend their money with us. The bar-keeper was admired by all the boys; and having great influence over them, he seldom had much trouble. I bought furs from the Indians and hunters, and realized large profits. Taking strips of bright-colored calicoes, I tied them in bunches; and the Indian being great for dashing colors, a few cents’ worth of calico bought many an Indian fur. They are also slaves to tobacco and whisky; and it was seldom they took money away, no matter how many furs they brought in. They never wanted to sell, but to trade.

The boys here are very curious about luxuries and oddities; and I used to have much sport with them. One time I sent to Kansas City for a keg of pickled pig’s-feet; and when there were a good many boys in I opened it. After the boys found that they were good, I sold half a keg, at fifteen cents apiece, before I stopped. It was amusing to see them running round, each with a pig’s-foot in his hand. At another time I bought a number of large silk neck-ties; and after selling one, I sold the whole lot the same day for one dollar and seventy-five cents apiece. They tied them round their necks, and used them for hat-bands. Of course the profits were large upon all sales, and I made money fast. This was in the winter of 1878-9,—the time of the great excitement and emigration to Leadville,—and being right on the route, from fifty to seventy-five wagons daily passed my place for a couple of months. The weather was usually bad and the traveling hard; and most every one of the outfits needing something in my line, my sales ran from seventy-five to one hundred and fifty dollars per day for several weeks. I shall leave the reader to guess at the margins, and only say that we did not deal in nickels. We were all now located at the same place, and were making money; and many a fine old time we had together in that old Arkansas valley.

We and several other persons kept a pack of greyhounds, and we often went out for a chase. When wanting a chase, each boy going would saddle a good pony, and, with the hounds trained to stay close in the rear, we would ride out over the plain, looking cautiously for a flock of antelopes, deer, a jack-rabbit, or a wolf. When a flock of antelopes or deer is seen, the riders take advantage of the hills and ravines and get just as close as possible without being discovered; then, turning the hounds loose, away they go with the speed of the wind. If the hounds are well bred, and can be gotten within a quarter before beginning the chase, they will usually be successful; otherwise the fleet animals are likely to escape.

The antelope, as has been said, is a very vigilant and spirited animal; and as they bound away in the chase they almost baffle the eye. They always try to run down hill; and as they seldom run straight very far, the riders can cut across and keep near all the time, and often run into the flock without going half as far as the hounds. A flock of antelopes flying over the plain, with a pack of hounds close in the rear, and followed by excited horsemen hallooing and flying their hats, is truly a grand sight as well as an agreeable sport. The chase is sometimes short, and sometimes ten miles long; and I have rode among a flock when they were trotting slowly along, with mouths wide open, and the hounds within ten steps coming slowly along, with their great red tongues lolling out. A well-bred buck antelope is a little more than the average greyhound can overtake. The antelope is swifter than the deer. Sometimes a large, well-developed jack-rabbit jumps up; and when he lays his long ears back upon his neck and gets down to his best he goes like the news upon a telegraph-wire—only touching the high places—and appears like a row of jack-rabbits. He can outrun the antelope for a short distance, but can not hold out so long. When a large gray wolf is started up there is fun. The dogs soon overtake him; but to kill him is another thing. I have seen one wolf whip six hounds, and get away. Hunters do not like to have their hounds tackle a large one, for he cuts them up so.

The cow-men and homesteaders are often visited by their eastern friends, and these chases are grand sport for them. I recollect that one time two young fellows came out to visit their brother in his little adobe in the valley; and learning of the sport, they were overanxious for a chase. They asked us to take them out; and finding that they were plug-hatted, nickel-plated fellows, with lots of conceit, we concluded to have some fun. They bragged of their riding ability, and being thus relieved of the responsibility of breaking a couple of tender-foot necks, we brought up two spirited ponies used to the chase,—and one a professional bucker when he took a notion,—and he would often take a notion in the heat of the chase. The silk-hats, broadcloth, and kid-gloves glistened in the sunlight, and their heads stuck up through the glazed standing-collars; and as we pranced out upon the range I could hardly conceal my laughter when I thought of the fun to come. All at once a powerful jack-rabbit jumped from a bunch of grass and sped away like the wind. The hounds flashed by and were gone, and the ponies needed no urging. In a few hundred yards the man on the bucker touched his pony too far back with his foot; and Jerusalem! to see that pony buck was a caution. The first jump the old plug-hat rolled off over the sand like a cannon-ball upon Lookout Mountain, the collar flew open, and the breeches burst; the next he was popping a foot above the saddle with his coat-tail playing in the air like the national flag; and the next he was picking himself out of the sand, limping around on one leg, pulling up his breeches, wiping the blood from his nose, and speaking the Colorado dialect as nearly as possible, while the pony ran off in the chase. The other kiddy, finding that he could not hold his pony, had let go the rein and was holding to the saddle-horn with his legs spread out like the holy cross, and his horse just flying. He ran among the hounds; and the rabbit turning short, the pony gave one stiff jump, whirled upon his hind feet, and ran on. The plug-hat flew, the rider scooted forward, tearing open his vest and pants upon the saddle-horn, and holding around the horse’s neck with a death-grip. The next turn the second kid-glove went scooting his nose in the sand and his heels in the air. We saw that they were not killed, and ran on. After we had the rabbit we took a hearty laugh, and then caught the ponies and went back for the good riders, who had stopped to rest. The classic language had flown, and they were together brushing off their plugs and knocking the sand from their ears, and talking in such language that any Colorado boy could understand every word they said. Well, there was no fun in the chase for them, so we went back and the boys “set ’em up.” The stiffening was from their collars, and the conceit from their minds; and I’ll bet if an eastern man tells them that he can ride any Colorado pony, they will say to themselves, “He’s a liar.” The ways of the people and even the horses of Colorado have to be learned; and to a fresh eastern man it is a big lesson.

A man and wife by the name of Mills, passing here en route for Leadville, being a little short in finance, and finding that employment could be had at the round-house, concluded to put up in a little board shanty that stood near my place, and work a few days. That very night several cow-boys came in, and, as usual, did considerable yelling and shooting. In the morning, finding six bullet-holes through his house, he related his night’s adventure, and told how he and his wife had propped the doors and then lay behind the stove, and said he would not stay in that house and run his chances for the whole d——n round-house. So, taking his outfit, he moved across the railroad a half mile down the river, and there put up a tent for his house. That afternoon a few cow-boys came in, and the sheriff and two deputies from Las Animas happening to be there, a trouble arose and the boys rode out and charged upon the house. Firing commenced, and the sheriff, with a large needle-gun, shot dead one of the ponies, leaving its rider dismounted. He ran right down the railroad toward the tent; and in firing after him a bullet went through the tent, and several others buzzed by. This was too much for the man in the tent, and he started back East that very night by the light of the moon. He said if a man could not even live in a tent out on the prairie without being shot at every day and night, he had enough of the West.

Well, things went on, and toward spring my brother came out from Ohio for his health. When the fur-season was going out, and the Leadville travelers began to drop off, I sold out and began to prepare for a trip into the mountains. My brother enjoyed the light, pure air and western novelties, and decided to go along. Another young man named William Gray, from Sutton, Nebraska, also decided to go. My old camp-outfit was trimmed up, and everything was prepared to make the trip a pleasant as well as an instructive one. Friend Charles had been called home to Ohio by the illness of his father, and Dave and John decided to stay in Colorado, and not go any farther west. It was quite shocking to me to think of going on and leaving behind my old comrades, with whom I had traveled so many days, and eaten so many meals in our little camp up and down through the broad, wild West; and especially John, who started with me from Ohio, and sat with me upon the lonely plains in the bleak winds of winter, and sultry breath of summer; whose tongue parched with mine upon the desert, and who fought the same hungry pangs—one who had proved himself a noble and gallant companion, and brave in the hour of trial. But it must be done; and after giving each other our best advice, we took a long good-bye—perhaps forever.