From that time on, Mountain Phil went by the name of the American
Cannibal until his death, which was--if my memory serves me
right--in 1863 or '64, at Virginia City, Mont.
After the snow had settled so that a person could travel on top of
it, I took my gun and stole out one day to see if I could not kill
a mountain sheep. As I clambered up the mountain I looked about
one hundred yards or so ahead of me on a cliff of rock, and saw a
panther, which I supposed was looking out for the same kind of
game that I was. I fired and killed her the first shot and started
to skin her, when I heard the kittens, or young panthers, crying
up in the rocks near where I had shot the old one. My first
thought then was what a nice pet I would have if I could only get
hold of those young panthers. I was afraid to crawl into the cave
for fear the other old panther might come in on me, so I cut a
forked stick and twisted in their fur and in that way managed to
pull them out, all the time keeping a sharp lookout for the other
old one. I took the two young panthers to the cabin and made pets
of them. They grew to be very watchful; nothing could move without
their knowing it. The female grew to be very tame, and a more
affectionate creature I never saw. But it was different with the
male. When he was six months old he got to be very cross, and I
had to keep him tied up.
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