riT 



The Outfit. 



IHEN only eighteen I killed, 

 or helped to kill, my first 

 buffalo; and having tried 

 in vain, like many another 

 greenhorn, to cut out his 

 tongue (by forcing the clinched jaws 

 apart, and coming to the Irishman's con- 

 clusion that he died of the locked-jaw), 

 was fain to content me with cutting off* 

 his tail. At that time (1868) I spent part 

 of the spring, and all of the summer, fall, 

 and early winter, on the plains and among 

 the mountains of British North America. 

 Ever since I was able to read, it had been 

 my dream that some day I should see the 

 countless herds of buffalo wandering in 

 their dark, dusty, string-like bands on the 

 boundless plains ; and I shall ever be glad 

 that I lived to see my dream fulfilled. 

 Then there were plenty of Indians, and 



49 



