24 “COME DUCK SHOOTING WITH ME” 
revolver on the ground, one of our men would cover it 
with his revolver. It wasa bet. Nothing was said. 
The boys bet saddles against Indian blankets and 
Foster bet his other pony. I had a Spencer carbine 
and noticed one of the Indians looking at it. His gun 
was in a buckskin case. 
Finally touching my gun he said, ‘‘Bet?”’ 
My opinion of the abilities of Foster’s horse were not 
any too high, so IJ said, ‘‘Indian pony heap good.”’ 
The Indian looked me square in the face and said in 
English: 
“Ugh! Injun pony dam poor.” 
“‘See gun,”’ said I. 
He took his gun out of his fringed buckskin case and 
it was the Hawkins flintlock. It looked odd to see a 
warrior out with a hunting party with a flintlock gun 
as they generally carried up-to-date modern arms. A 
Henry rifle was their favorite. The moment I saw the 
flintlock gun I wanted it. 
So I said, ‘‘Gun good, bet good,” laid my carbine on 
the ground, and he put his flintlock across it. It’s 
etiquette among Indians, when you make a bet,—and no 
bet goes unless stakes are put up,—to place the articles 
wagered on the ground. No one goes near them or 
touches them until after the race when the winner picks 
up his winnings. 
It was a three-hundred-yard straightaway race. 
This distance was measured in a level place along the 
trail. The horses to go from a standing start at the 
report of a pistol. Foster who rode for our outfit had 
a blanket strapped on for a saddle. The Indian, a 
young brave, fifteen pounds lighter than Foster, rode 
naked except his breech clout. His pinto pony had 
only a deerskin thong fastened around its lower 
