As a good horse is not very apt to jump over a bank, if left to guide himself, I let mine pick his own way.

My great forte in killing buffaloes was to get them circling by riding my horse at the head of the herd and shooting their leaders. Thus the brutes behind were crowded to the left, so that they were soon going round and round.

So for twelve miles I rode with Sherman, and we became fast friends. He asked me all manner of questions on the way, and I found that he knew my father well, and remembered his tragic death in Salt Creek Valley.

Quick as lightning Wild Bill pulled his revolver. The stranger fell dead, shot through the brain.

I felt only as a man can feel who is roaming over the prairies of the far West, well armed, and mounted on a fleet and gallant steed.

My restless, roaming spirit would not allow me to remain at home very long.