In preparing for a probable blizzard we had hauled up several loads
of good, dry wood and chopped much of it into stove wood, carrying it
into our quarters and stowing it away in the tunnel, still leaving
a passageway, however. We found that the tunnel acted as a flue and
caused such a draught through our little room that we were forced to
temporarily close up the opening in the tent by placing a bale of
wolfskins over the hole. We now put our stock into their dugout stable
at night, giving them a little hay to gnaw at, and during the day, when
not in use, we kept them out on the dry buffalo-grass. As yet we were
feeding them no grain, saving that for a time of need.

“From now on,” Tom said, “I want you men to be particular to put
harness, tools, an’ everything under shelter of nights, so that we can
find these things when we want ’em, for we’re liable to get up ‘most
any morning now and find a couple of feet of snow on the ground an’
this ravine between us an’ the stable drifted level full. In that case
we’ll want the spade an’ shovel to clear away a passage to the stable
door, so’s we can ‘tend to the stock; for a blizzard is liable to keep
up the howl for several days an’ nights; an’ during such a spell we
won’t dare to poke our noses out of the shanty further than to feed
the stock. We’ll fix Found a comfortable bed in the tent, between
the stacks of wolfskins, where he can be of some service as a sentry
without being too much exposed, but in case of a very keen spell we’ll
bring him into the dugout.”

Previous to this time Jack and I had explored the country for a
distance of ten or twelve miles in every direction–not looking for
game particularly, for that was always plenty close around camp, but
for signs of the presence of Indians. We had discovered, however, no
fresh signs–nothing to indicate that Indians had visited this part
of the country more recently than a couple of months past. This fact
encouraged us, and we hoped that we would be fortunate enough to finish
our winter’s work undisturbed. Still, Indians were likely to be moving
about occasionally, even at this time of the year, and might yet
discover our camp, in which case they might make it unpleasant for us.

This part of the plains was sometimes ranged over by the Cheyennes,
Arapahoes, and other tribes, but had been for some time past the
special range of the Kiowas, who, under the leadership of Satank,
Satanta, and Big Tree, were ever ready to wipe out a small party when
the opportunity presented.

While we relied somewhat on our proximity to Fort Larned as a
protection from Indian depredations, we felt that our only real
security was in not being discovered by the Kiowas until our hunting
season was over and we were ready to break camp and return to the

On Tom’s last trip over to the fort he had learned that our old Company
K, First Cavalry, together with the other three companies from Fort
Wise, under command of Captain Elmer Otis, had passed by Fort Larned a
few days before, _en route_ to Fort Leavenworth and the war.

We were all sorry that we had not learned of the passing of our old
command in time for one of our party, at least, to meet them at Fort
Larned and exchange gossip with them; and Jack was regretting that he
had not re-enlisted, instead of going wolf hunting, so that he could
now be going to the front with them. He feared that the fighting would
be all over and the war brought to a close before he got a chance at it.

“Don’t you fret about this war coming to a close before you can get
a whack at them rebels,” said Tom. “It’s just a-getting under good
headway now, an’ there’ll be lots of good fighting yet for you and me;
and more’n likely, if we live through it, we’ll be longing for peace
long before peace comes again.”

Our tent was fast becoming filled with bales of wolfskins, and one day
I asked:

“Tom, what are we going to do for some place to store our wolfskins?
Our tent is nearly full, and we are still taking them, and the season
isn’t half through.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too,” replied the old man, “and I guess
I’ll make another trip over to the fort to-morrow to get them buffalo
calfskins for my overcoat, an’ while I’m over there I’ll try to get the
use of an empty room there among the old dobes where we can store ’em;
an’ we can take a wagon-load over from time to time as the tent gets
too full.”

Next day he went to the fort, returning on the following evening,
with a lot of Indian-dressed buffalo calfskins for his overcoat, and
reported that he had engaged an unused room of Weisselbaum wherein to
store our baled skins.

Tom soon had a very serviceable overcoat made from the calfskins–far
better than the coyote coats Jack and I had made us–lining it with a
red blanket and covering the collar and cuffs with muskrat skins, which
have a beautiful fur, somewhat similar to the beaver in color but not
so heavy.

As yet we had had but one light fall of snow–nothing like a storm–and
it had soon passed off, the weather continuing fair but quite cold of
nights and mornings.

One day, as we were about to sit down to dinner, my attention was
arrested by a whoop or two that had a familiar sound, and, on looking
out on the trail toward the fort, I saw a mounted man coming at a
gallop. Found, too, seemed to think he had heard that whoop before,
for he ran up onto the dirt roof of our dugout, looked and listened a
moment at the approaching horseman, and when the shout was repeated he
hesitated no longer but with a wild yelp of recognition dashed away to
meet the newcomer.

I had just time to call to my comrades in the dugout: “See here, men, I
believe it’s Wild Bill,” when, as they came rushing out, I noticed the
mounted man halt suddenly and roll off his horse as the dog met him,
and in a moment more Found and his master were rolling over the ground
hugging each other in mad delight, while Bill’s horse stood looking on
in apparent astonishment at their wild antics.

As Bill came walking up to camp, leading his horse, with Found prancing
and yelping about him, I thought I had never seen a dog so nearly crazy
with delight. No doubt, Found had often thought of his absent master
and had wondered what had become of him and whether he would ever see
him again; and now they were reunited, and both seemed overjoyed at the

After hearty greetings and handshakes all around the scout tied his
horse to a wheel of the wagon while we all retired to the dugout,
where our dinners were in danger of getting cold, and were soon seated
around the mess box, eating and talking, for we all had a great deal to
say to Bill, and he to us. Found had huddled down beside his master and
was not neglected.

“I hope you’ve come to stay several days with us, Bill,” said Tom.

“No, boys,” replied the scout; “I’ll stay with you to-night, but I’ve
got to get back to the fort to-morrow. You see, the regulars are going
away before long, and the troops that’s coming to take their places are
volunteers and, of course, green as grass about frontier service and
managing Injuns; an’ so me an’ French Dave an’ a few other ol’ hands
have got to get out an’ scout around and find out where the Injuns are
at an’ try to find out how they’re feelin’ toward the whites, an’ so
forth. That’s what I was sent out here ahead of the volunteers for. But
when I get back to the fort I’ll be close enough to come over an’ take
a square meal with you every now and then.”

Leaving Bill and Tom to talk while the old man cleared up the dishes,
Jack and I went out to attend to the stock; and the Irishman suggested
that while I took our two broncos out of the stable and staked them on
the lee side of the haystack he would unsaddle the scout’s horse and
put him in the stable. When Bill came out and found what he had done he

“Now, boys, I don’t want you to go to any trouble on my account, for
I’m used to taking things as they come, an’ my horse is, too. I’m
afraid it’ll be hard on your broncos to turn ’em out in the cold.”

“Not a bit of it,” replied Jack. “The weather’s not bad now, an’
they’re tough, anyway. You see, we don’t have the honor of entertainin’
the Honorable William Hickock, Esq., every day, an’ we want to treat
him so well that he’ll come again.”

“Well, I’ll sure do it,” replied the scout; then taking a look at
our camp and surrounding grounds, he added: “Boys, you’ve certainly
picked out an’ built a good camp an’ planned everything handy for your
winter’s work. I think I can see ol’ Tom’s handiwork all through this

“You’re right,” said Jack; “if it wasn’t for ol’ Tom’s brains I don’t
know what we’d do.”

Going into the stable again, Jack brought out Black Prince to show him
to Bill.

“This is the horse that we captured from them jayhawkers back t’other
side of Council Grove,” he said as he led the black out for the scout’s

“He’s a fine-lookin’ fellow, Jack. Is he any good?”

“You bet. One of the best horses for all-’round service I ever saw,”
replied the enthusiastic Irishman.

We had a great time that afternoon relating to Bill all the happenings
since we parted with him in Leavenworth, and after supper we still had
plenty to talk about by candle-light.

“Boys, you seem to have taken good care of Found,” said Bill, stroking
the dog’s head again for the thousandth time, “judging by his looks and
the contented way he’s stuck to you. Has he been any account to you?”

“That he has,” replied Jack. “He’s one of the best and smartest dogs I
ever saw. I don’t know how we’d get along without him.”

“Well, I guess he may as well make his home with you as long as you
stay here, for I’ll be away from the post pretty often, an’ I wouldn’t
like to leave him there to run with everybody; but if you’ve no
objections I’ll take him over to Larned with me to-morrow, just to
give him a little exercise an’ let him renew old acquaintance with the
soldiers an’ officers, for they all know him; an’ I’ll be coming by
this way in a day or so again–for I expect I’ll have to take a trip
over to the Smoky Hill to locate the Kiowas–an’ then I’ll leave him
with you again.”

“All right, Bill, he’s your dog,” replied Jack, “but he’s mighty
welcome here an’ he’s a lot of help to us minding camp.”

“No doubt of it, for he’s got more sense than some people have. I can
talk to him an’ tell him to do things, an’ he seems to understand
‘most everything I say to him an’ will do just what I tell him to.”

“Bill,” I asked, “do the officers at the garrison seem to think there’s
any danger of the Indians going on the war-path?”

“Well, no, I don’t think they really expect any outbreak,” replied
the scout, “but Injuns, you know, are the most uncertain varmints on
earth; an’ on account of taking away the regulars an’ putting green
volunteers to garrisoning the posts on the plains, it’s more’n likely
that the Injuns’ll soon discover the difference an’ take advantage of
the chance to raise a ruction. I’ve got to look up the Kiowas first,
’cause they’re the most likely ones to make trouble; an’ when I find
their winter camp I’ll stay with ’em a few days, to kinder feel of ’em
an’ see what sort of a humor they’re in, an’ then I’ll hunt up the
Cheyennes an’ Arapahoes next an’ feel of their pulses, too. An’ while
I’m a-doing that job French Dave an’ the other fellows’ll be looking
up the Comanches an’ Prairie Apaches–they generally range between the
Cimarron an’ Red River, an’ ain’t likely to come up this way before
grass comes, anyway, but the Kiowas an’ Cheyennes’ll need watchin’.”

“Well, when you get back you must call around here and let us know what
you think of the prospect for peace or war–that is, if you find out
anything,” I said.

“How many of you will go on this trip?” asked Tom.

“Only two–me an’ John Adkins. You see, Frenchy is to take a man with
him an’ round up the country south of the Arkansas, along the Cimarron
an’ the Canadians, an’ I’ll take Adkins with me an’ scout the country
north till we find the camps.”

Next morning, after breakfast, Wild Bill, followed by Found, took the
trail back to Fort Larned. Jack and I made our usual round of the baits
in the forenoon, skinned the dead wolves that we found lying about
them, brought in the skins and pegged them down to dry.

In the afternoon we started out afoot to kill some fresh meat for our
mess, the Irishman going up the creek in search of antelope or deer
while I walked down to the slough to see if there were any water-fowl
there to be picked up. I killed a sand-hill crane and returned to camp.
Jack had done better than I, having killed a large deer and come back
and taken Prince out to carry the meat in. Tom had outdone us both,
having killed four antelope without leaving camp.

“How in the world did you do it, Tom?” I asked as I come to where he
was busy skinning and dressing four dead antelope that he had strung up.

“Well, sir, I’ll tell you how it was,” replied he with a gratified
smile, still plying his butcher-knife. “Soon after you men left camp a
bunch of antelope come playing ’round on the prairie out yonder, up
the ravine a piece, but, as they wouldn’t come quite close enough to
suit me, I got out a red blanket, tied it to a little pole, an’ crept
along up the ravine till I got about opposite to ’em, an’ then raised
the red blanket above the bank an’ planted the pole.

“Soon as they sighted the strange red thing they raised their heads an’
stared at it a bit, an’ then come up toward it, all in a bunch, an’
stopped an’ took another look. Then they seemed to get frightened an’
turned an’ run away, but I knew they’d come back. They circled ’round
an’ come up again an’ halted for another look, an’ then run away again
an’ circled ’round an’ come back, an’ each time they came a little

“I noticed that when they’d halt to gaze at the blanket they’d line
up four or five abreast; so the idea struck me that if I could get
back into another little ravine that was close by, an’ crawl up that a
little ways, so as to take ’em in flank when they’d line up thataway,
I’d get two or three of ’em. I did that, an’ the next time they halted
an’ lined up there were four of ’em in range, with their sides to me,
an’ I turned loose an’ killed three of ’em an’ wounded the fourth so
that I got him next shot.”

“You did a good job, and did it well, too,” I replied. Just then Jack
came up with his load of deer meat. “Why, Jack,” I began, “how in the
world did you happen to kill a buck? I didn’t think you were hunter
enough to stalk a deer.”

“You don’t appear to know me, young fellow,” he returned with a
swaggering air. “It’s a mighty hunter I’m getting to be, as well as a
famous trapper.”

“But tell us all about how you got that buck; I know there’s something
to explain about it,” I replied.

“Well, now,” laying aside his assumed braggadocio and becoming the
candid Irishman again, “to tell you the honest God’s truth, I just
blundered onto him. It was this way: I was a-sneaking along through the
timber when all of a suddent I sees this laddybuck a-standing broadside
to me, only about twenty steps away, an’ he hadn’t seen nor heard me,
for I was behind a big tree. I was that nervous I didn’t think I could
have hit the side of a barn, so I rested my carbine against the side of
the tree, took as good aim as I could about where I thought his heart
ought to be–right behind the fore shoulder–an’ let him have it; an’
I’m blest if I didn’t fetch him, first pop. He gave one big bound into
the air an’ fell dead; an’ just then two does, that had been laying
down behind some bushes, jumped an’ run an’ were out of sight in a
jiffy, before I could shove another cartridge into me carbine. But I
didn’t want any more deer meat just then, so I came back to camp to get
the horse to fetch the meat in.”

“But, Tom,” I asked, “what are we going to do with so much venison?”

“Oh, it’ll keep, all right; but then I’ll be going over to the fort
again in a day or so, an’ I guess I’d as well take two or three of the
carcasses over there an’ sell ’em to the officers’ mess.”

This evening, just before dark, when we were bringing in the tools and
making things secure for the night, I noticed that Tom had got out an
old padlock that had long lain unused in the mess-chest, and then had
found a piece of trace-chain, and with the two had securely locked
the stable door–a precaution that we had never thought necessary
before–and I asked him: “What are you doing that for, Tom? Seen any
fresh signs about?”

“No,” he answered, “but ’tain’t much trouble an’ it’s always best to be
on the safe side. We’ve been used to having Found to do guard-duty of
nights, an’ it may have got us in a fashion of sleeping sounder than
we would if we’d had to look out for ourselves; now, while the dog is
away, with the stable door unlocked it would be easy enough for an
Injun to sneak our horses out an’ get away with ’em.”

I smiled at what seemed to me a useless precaution and it passed from
my mind; but along in the night, after we had been some hours asleep,
I was suddenly awakened by a slight noise like the rattling of a chain.

Instantly I was thoroughly aroused and remembered Tom’s chain on the
stable door. Had I been dreaming? I raised my head cautiously and
listened intently. There it was again–unmistakably the chain on the
stable door.

I determined to investigate before arousing my comrades, and slipping
quietly out of my bed I tiptoed carefully to the door, pulled up
one corner of the muslin cover to the lookout hole, and peeped out
at the stable door. The moon was shining brightly, and there, to my
astonishment, sat a man, crouched at the door of the stable intently
working at the lock, either trying to pick it or pry it off. He was not
an Indian, either. He had soldier clothes on, and beside him on the
ground lay a small bundle.

I took in all this at a glance, and then quietly and quickly slipped
back to Tom’s bed, shook him gently, and whispered:

“Sh! don’t make a bit of noise, Tom. There’s a man working at the lock
on the stable door. Get up quietly while I wake Jack.”

It was more difficult to keep the excitable Irishman quiet while
arousing him, but I succeeded in getting him up without making noise
enough to be heard outside. Each man took a look through the peep-hole
and saw that the crouching soldier was still intently working at the

“Now,” I whispered to my comrades, “let each one of us get his carbine
or pistol ready, and be careful to keep them from rattling, and when
I open our door we’ll call on him to throw up his hands and take him

“I think I’ll give him a load of shot first,” whispered Jack, who had
the shotgun, “an’ then call on him to throw up.”

Finding that I could not open our door without making a noise, I jerked
it wide open quickly. As I did so the kneeling man turned the full side
of his face to me, and in the bright moonlight I recognized private
John Flaherty, one of two soldiers who not long before, with Lieutenant
Smith, had been caught in a blizzard at our camp and had stayed there
until the storm was over. Seeing Jack raise his shotgun to fire, I
knocked the muzzle up as I exclaimed:

“Don’t shoot, Jack, it’s Flaherty!”

He had pressed the trigger, but my throwing the barrels up sent
the load of shot into the dirt roof of the stable instead of into
Flaherty’s back.

I wondered at the stupid, sluggish manner of the man as he rose to his
feet at the report of the gun, but when he started off up the path
leading to the top of the bank his uncertain gait plainly showed that
he was drunk.

Dropping his shotgun, Jack bounded out and up the path after him, soon
overtaking the drunken soldier, seizing him by the collar and cuffing
him right heartily, with each slap rebuking the would-be horse thief
for his drunkenness and thievery.

When Flaherty was brought into the dugout it was evident that he was
almost senseless from drink. He was taken over to Found’s bed and left
there, sound asleep.

“There,” said Tom, “we forgot to bring in that little bundle he left by
the stable door.”

He brought it in, and on opening it it was found to consist of a pint
bottle with a little whiskey in it and a change of underclothing marked
with the man’s initials.

“Well,” said Tom, “this poor fellow has gone on a spree; while drunk
the idea of deserting has come to him, and he has started off over the
prairie in the dead of winter, through an Indian country, without arms,
provisions, or clothing. As I have often said, a man who is drunk is
literally crazy, and this proves it.”

Next morning, when Flaherty was aroused, he had at first no idea
where he was and, after he had been told, no idea how he got here.
He professed that he had no wish to desert, for he was getting along
in his company as well as any of the men and his time of service had
nearly expired.

However, he actually had deserted, and he did not know what to do,
whether to go back and give himself up and take his punishment or
whether to go on. Tom said to him:

“Of course, Flaherty, you can do as you like, but I really think, under
the circumstances, you had best go back and give yourself up and take
your medicine. Maybe, if I go along with you and explain the situation
to Lieutenant Smith, and ask him to intercede with the commanding
office, you can be returned to duty without a court martial.”

“Would you do that for me, Tom?” asked Flaherty gratefully.

“I’ll do all I can for you, Flaherty, for I do not hold you responsible
for what you have done; but you had a mighty close call, and if whiskey
serves you that way you ought to take warning and swear off.”

“That’s just what I’ve been thinking, Tom, and I swear right now I’ll
never taste another drop.”

As I rode up to camp about sundown that day I noticed two or three
mounted men far out on the high prairie, coming on the trail from Fort
Larned. The field-glass made them out to be Wild Bill and John Adkins
with a pack-mule, and Found trotting along with them. They soon reached
us and dismounted and began unpacking.

“Is supper most ready, boys?” asked Bill.

“I’ll have it ready,” replied Jack, “by the time you’re ready for it.”

“We’ve just got room in the stable for your two horses,” I explained,
“in place of the mule team Tom took with him, and I guess I’ll take
one of our broncos out and tie it behind the haystack to make room for
your pack-mule, Bill.”

“Don’t you do anything of the kind, Peck,” replied the scout. “That’s
one of Uncle Sam’s mules, an’ he’ll do well enough tied in the lee of
your haystack; in fact, it wouldn’t hurt our horses much, either, to
stand out.”

While Bill, Adkins, and I had been watering, feeding, and putting away
the stock, Jack had been getting supper, and now stepped to the door of
the dugout with his fiddle and sounded “mess call,” to see if the scout
would know what it meant.

“That sounds pretty natural,” said Bill to me, “let’s go in an’ see
what he’s got to show for it, for I’m as hungry as a coyote.”

As we gathered around the mess-chest I inquired:

“When do they expect the volunteers that are coming to relieve the

“Don’t know a thing, only that they’re on the road somewhere ‘tween
here an’ Leavenworth. Now, if they were regulars you could calculate
to the hour when they’d get here, for when they get orders to go
anywhere neither hell nor high water’ll stop ’em; but if a little bad
weather strikes these volunteers, an’ they can find a snug camping
place, they’re liable to hang up for a week or two, an’ put in the time
stealing chickens an’ playing cards.”

“How long do you and Adkins expect to be gone on this trip, Bill?”

“Well, now, that’s a sort of a ‘kin-savvy’ case,” he replied. “It
depends on how soon we find the Injuns’ camp. Maybe it’ll take us a
week–maybe two weeks or more–can’t tell; but once we get onto their
trail we’ll soon overhaul ’em. John, here, says that ol’ To hausen,
the ‘Little Mountain,’ an’ his band is camped right down Walnut Creek,
about half-way ‘tween here an’ Charley Rath’s ranch–’bout twenty-five
miles from here.”

“Yes,” said Adkins, “I was up to their camp ’bout a week ago, an since
that some of the Injuns was down to the ranch a-trading; but they
don’t know, for sure, where Satank an’ the rest of the tribe is; but
they thought we’d be apt to find ’em on the Smoky, or the Saline, or
Solomon, or maybe on some of the little timbered creeks in between the

“Do you think, Adkins,” I asked, “that there is any likelihood of To
hausen’s band moving up this way? For it would bother our wolf-hunting
business if they should come near us.”

“Oh, they may be a-moving camp now an’ then, to get fresh grass for
their hosses; but if they get to crowdin’ on you, all you’ve got to
do is to go to ol’ To hausen an’ ask him to keep far enough away so’s
not to interfere with your wolf poisoning, an’ he’ll do it, for he’s
a pretty good ol’ Injun, an’ always tries to keep on good terms with
the whites. There’s only about a hundred men in his band, an’ they’re
mostly ol’ men what’s had experience enough to know that it pays better
to keep on good terms with Uncle Sam’s people than to be bucking again
’em. But the most of the tribe now seems to be of the other way of
thinking an’ have split off from ol’ To hausen, who used to be head
chief, an’ taken to following the lead of such devils as Satank, an’
Satanta, an’ Big Tree; an’ they’re the ones we’ve got to look out for.”

“Where do you expect to find the Kiowa trail, Bill?”

“Well, from here, we’ll follow this ol’ lodge-pole trail; it turns off
from the Walnut a few miles up the creek an’ goes over to the Smoky
Hill, which is about twenty miles from here; an’ about opposite this
point on the Smoky is a mail station on the Denver stage route, an’
I reckon we’ll be able to find out from the station men whether the
Kiowas have gone up or down the river an’ lay our course to suit.”

“When we first came here,” I informed him, “it looked like the last
travel over the trail had been about two months before–that would have
been about September–and the tracks were going toward the Smoky Hill;
but they might have been made by Cheyennes or ‘Rapahoes.”

“We’ll be apt to find an old moccasin, or a broken arrow, or somethin’
dropped or thrown away on the trail, before we travel very far, that’ll
tell what tribe travelled it last,” remarked the scout.

“I noticed that you don’t carry any picket-pin,” I remarked; “how do
you picket your horse out?”

“I picket him to a hole in the ground. I dig a hole with my knife about
a foot deep; tie a big knot in the end of my lariat; put it down in
the bottom of the hole; fill in the dirt an’ tamp it down hard as I
can with my foot; an’ that’ll hold him ’bout as good as a picket-pin,
an’ saves the trouble, an’ saves my horse the weight of the iron pin;
an’ I always try to lighten my horse’s load of every ounce I can do
away with. An’ when I’m out by myself, or where there’s nobody to stan’
guard at night, I make my bed with my head on my saddle, ’bout half-way
‘tween my horse an’ the end of my lariat that’s buried, an’ if anything
strange comes in sight the horse’ll begin running ’round at the end of
his rope, an’ dragging it over me’ll wake me up.”

“Well, your way of doing these things is just about the same as we were
trained to do in the cavalry,” I remarked.

“Why, of course,” replied Bill, “for nearly all I know about scouting
is what I learnt from the ol’ cavalrymen an’ ol’ army officers. You
take one of them ol’ soldiers or officers that’s been out on the
frontier fifteen or twenty years, an’ what he don’t know about such
matters ain’t worth knowing.”

In the morning, after breakfast, while assisting the two scouts to
saddle up and pack their mule, Jack cut off an antelope ham and tied it
in their pack, “to give them a starting of fresh meat,” as he said.

Taking up a position in front of Bill, Found stood wagging his tail and
looking up pleadingly into his master’s face, seeming to ask: “May I go
with you?”

“No, Found,” said the scout, between whom and his dog there seemed to
be a perfect understanding, “you can’t go. It’d be too long an’ hard a
road for you an’ would wear you out. You must stay right here till I
come back.”

Then, turning to me, he said:

“You’d better get his chain an’ collar an’ I’ll tie him to that post
there, an’ he’ll know by that that I don’t want him to go an’ he’ll not
try to follow us after we leave.”

I brought the chain and Bill took it and tied the dog, petting and
talking kindly to him, and then making him lie down, which seemed to
satisfy Found that his master desired him to remain.

“Let us hear from you, Bill,” I requested, “as soon as you get back,
will you, for I’d like to know how the Kiowas are feeling.”

“Yes, I will,” he replied; “if I don’t come back this way I’ll come
over from the fort soon after we get back.”

Mounting their horses–Adkins leading the pack-mule, while Wild Bill
rode behind to drive it up–they crossed the creek below the beaver
dam, and were soon out of sight behind the timber.