Of this title, which has stuck to me through life, I have never
been ashamed.
During my engagement as hunter for the company, which covered a period
of eighteen months, I killed 4,280 buffaloes and had many exciting
adventures with the Indians, including a number of hairbreadth escapes,
some of which are well worth relating.
One day, in the spring of 1868, I mounted Brigham and started for Smoky
Hill River. After a gallop of twenty miles I reached the top of a small
hill overlooking that beautiful stream. Gazing out over the landscape,
I saw a band of about thirty Indians some half-mile distant. I knew by
the way they jumped on their horses they had seen me as soon as I saw
them.
My one chance for my life was to run. I wheeled my horse and started
for the railroad. Brigham struck out as if he comprehended that this
was a life-or-death matter. On reaching the next ridge I looked around
and saw the Indians, evidently well mounted, and coming for me full
speed. Brigham put his whole strength into the flight, and for a few
minutes did some of the prettiest running I ever saw. But the Indians
had nearly as good mounts as he, and one of their horses in particular,
a spotted animal, gained on me steadily.
Occasionally the brave who was riding this fleet horse would send a
bullet whistling after me. Soon they began to strike too near for
comfort.
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