I had killed fifteen buffaloes, and we were on our way home with a
wagonload of meat when we were jumped by a big band of Indians.
[Illustration: WINNING MY NAME--"BUFFALO BILL"]
I was mounted on a splendid horse belonging to the company, and could
easily have made my escape, but Scotty had only the mule team, which
drew the wagon as a means of flight, and of course I could not leave
him.
To think was to act in those days. Scotty and I had often talked of
what we would do in case of a sudden attack, and we forthwith proceeded
to carry out the plan we had made.
Jumping to the ground, we unhitched the mules more quickly than that
operation had ever been performed before. The mules and my horse we
tied to the wagon. We threw the buffalo hams on the ground and piled
them about the wheels so as to form a breastwork. Then, with an extra
box of ammunition and three or four extra revolvers which we always
carried with us, we crept under the wagon, prepared to give our
visitors a reception they would remember.
On came the Indians, pell-mell, but when they got within a hundred
yards of us we opened such a sudden and galling fire that they held up
and began circling about us.
Several times they charged. Their shots killed the two mules and my
horse. But we gave it to them right and left, and had the satisfaction
of seeing three of them fall to the ground not more than fifty feet
away.
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