18 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” 
The next of my gun children was an old Hawkins flint- 
lock rifle. The gun came into my possession in a cu- 
rious manner. It was the last month of 1872. We 
were busy on the cattle ranch endeavoring to prevent 
our half-wild Texas long horns from straying into either 
Canada or Mexico, when news came that buffalo were 
plentiful on the eastern plains of Colorado. A party 
of five was made up for a buffalo hunt. I didn’t own 
the Hawkins rifle yet. We found the first buffalo 
twenty miles east of Las Animas and fifteen miles north 
of the Arkansas River. The wagon stopped and every- 
body on horseback advanced until discovered and then 
charged the herd of about two hundred animals. The 
big herds, visible as far as the eye could reach, were not 
in evidence in my time. I had traded a saddle, an old 
pistol, and ten bushels of potatoes some months before 
for the split-eared Indian pony I was riding. I knew 
he was a fast runner and a good cow pony, but that day 
he proved himself a trained buffalo hunter as well; 
carrying me alongside the buffalo, to the envy of many 
of my companions whose horses were fearful of the wild- 
looking, snorting brutes. My only arm was a big six 
shooter, an old style Colt’s dragoon pistol—a cap affair 
that shot paper cartridges holding powder and ball. 
You broke the paper end and rammed the cartridge 
. home with the rammer attached to the gun. It took 
some time to reload. 
My luck, owing to my pony, was great. My first 
victim was a fine bull. Like all green hands I had 
picked the biggest buffalo in the bunch. It took three 
shots to down him. He had a splendid robe but the 
toughness of his flesh when we took the hide off was 
surprising. One shot did for a fine fat heifer. Then a 
three-year-old bull came out of the herd in my direc- 
