In Cowboy Land 273 



early years of my residence there, several men 

 living or traveling in the country were slain 

 by small war-parties of young braves. All 

 the old-time trappers and hunters could tell 

 stirring tales of their encounters with Indians. 



My friend, Tazewell Woody, was among 

 the chief actors in one of the most noteworthy 

 adventures of this kind. He was a very quiet 

 man, and it was exceedingly difficult to get 

 him to talk over any of his past experiences; 

 but one day, when he was in high good-humor 

 with me for having made three consecutive 

 straight shots at elk, he became quite com 

 municative, and I was able to get him to tell 

 me one story which I had long wished to hear 

 from his lips, having already heard of it 

 through one of the other survivors of the in 

 cident. When he found that I already knew 

 a good deal old Woody told me the rest. 



It was in the spring of 1875, and Woody 

 and two friends were trapping on the Yellow 

 stone. The Sioux were very bad at the time 

 and had killed many prospectors, hunters, 

 cowboys, and settlers; the whites retaliated 

 whenever they got a chance, but, as always 

 in Indian warfare, the sly, lurking, blood 

 thirsty savages inflicted much more loss than 

 they suffered. 



