After running them about a
mile we overhauled them, both fired and each killed a yearling
calf while on the run. I fastened my rifle to the pommel of the
saddle, drew my pistol, and there being a very fine heifer that
had dropped back to the rear, I spurred up by the side of her and
was just in the act of firing, when old Croppy stepped into a
prairie-dog hole and fell with me.
Johnnie West had just fired his second shot and killed a fine
three-year-old heifer, when he looked and saw old Croppy lying
there, and I stretched out beside him, apparently dead. The first
thing I knew after the fall, Johnnie West was sitting by my side
slapping me in the face with his hand.
I was badly bruised but no bones were broken, and as soon as I
recovered sufficiently to know for a certainty that I was not
dead, an examination of old Croppy developed the fact that his
left shoulder was badly broken. I being too chicken-hearted to
shoot him, got Johnnie West to put him out of his misery, and now
I was left afoot and thirty miles from home. Johnnie West went
back and got our pack-mules. We dressed our buffalo and had plenty
of meat to load all of our mules, and some to leave there for the
hungry cayotes. That night while we were cooking some of the meat
for supper, the cayotes raised a howl and it seemed as though they
would take possession of our camp in spite of us; but by firing a
shot among them once in a while, we were able to keep them at bay.
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