MY FIRST BUFFALO 



CONRAD HANEY. 



It was in 1879, I think. Certainly it was 

 away out in Western Texas. The cowboy 

 was still in his glory. Indian uprisings were 

 not infrequent, and it was still an insult to 

 ask a man why he came to Texas. 



From the time when this vast empire of 

 mesquite grass and jack rabbits had been 

 " acquired " by our government, it had 

 been a favorite refuge for the worst classes 

 of criminals, who found ample security in 

 its lonely villages and trackless prairies. 

 Indeed, it was so popular a refuge for all 

 classes of outcasts from society, that the 

 inquiry just noted was likely to be ex- 

 tremely embarassing, as well as an insult. 



I once heard of a group of Texas gentle- 

 men — good fellows, all of them — and on 

 terms of intimate friendship, who agreed to 

 entertain each other with a narration of the 

 particular circumstance which induced each 

 to settle in the " Lone Star State." 



One explained that he had been a bank 

 cashier. Another confessed a violent at- 

 tachment to his neighbor's wife. A third 

 admitted he had been a good judge of horse 

 flesh. And the fourth — well, he had neg- 

 lected to build a church. 



All this was intelligible to the parties 

 concerned; but it may be well to explain, 

 at this late day, that the bank cashier had 

 been too free with the funds; the senti- 

 mental man had brought the woman with 

 him; the lover of horse flesh had been car- 

 ried away, not only by his predilection for 

 that noble animal, but by another man's 

 steed, and the last man had collected the 

 funds for the church which he had neg- 

 lected to build. So, they were all in Texas, 

 and woe betide any other man who might 

 ask any of them why! 



Silk hats were at a big discount. A 

 friend of mine had the temerity to appear 

 on the street, with one, about the time of 

 which I write. He told me he had not 

 walked a block when he was startled by the 

 crack of a 6 shooter; and almost simul- 

 taneously his shiny tile, perforated by a 

 bullet, rolled into the gutter as a gruff voice 

 said: 



"Come out-er that!" Having "come 

 out " the tenderfoot never re-entered. 



It was always wise to accept an invita- 

 tion to drink, in those days. You might be 

 a " teetotaller," of the most virulent type, 

 but you could recover from a glass of even 

 Texas whiskey, which is more than I would 

 venture to say of a Texas bullet. 



It was at this time I concluded to go 

 buffalo hunting. There was still an occa- 

 sional small herd of these noble animals to 

 be found in the far West, and I had reliable 

 news of some on that vast table land, 



known as the Staked Plains. There were 5 

 of us in the party; Jack and Bill Bell (I 

 never knew but that they had been thus 

 christened); Dr. Miller, who would have 

 scorned to answer to any name but Doc; 

 Mr. Sampson, the only man I ever knew 

 whom Texans invariably addressed as 

 " Mister," and I. 



We bought a wagon and a stout span of 

 mules to transport our baggage, as well as 

 Doc. and Mister Sampson; for these men 

 preferred to ride in this fashion. The rest 

 of us chose riding ponies. We had, of 

 course, an ample supply of flour, bacon and 

 beans, together with such fluids as ex- 

 perience taught us were necessary. 



But the feature of our autfit, as he was 

 the mainstay of the whole expedition, was 

 Duke, who served as guide, body guard, 

 teamster and cook, and who was fully equal 

 to any other duty that might have been im- 

 posed. Perhaps I should make an excep- 

 tion to this statement — just one. He would 

 hardly have made a creditable Chaplain, al- 

 though he would doubtless have under- 

 taken the duties of that sacred office with 

 the same unwavering confidence and breezy 

 profanity with which he fried our antelope 

 steaks and made our bread. He had been 

 hunter, freighter, cowboy and gambler, in 

 Texas (I do not remember that he ever 

 said what he had done or been, in " the 

 States"); and could drink, or shoot, op 

 ride, or swear with a proficiency that was 

 little short of marvellous. With all he had 

 a fund of good humor and kindliness that 

 endeared this turbulent son of violence to 

 us all before he had been with us a week. 



Of course we were amply provided with 

 arms of the approved pattern, and had plenty 

 of ammunition, all except Mr. Sampson. 

 He was equipped with a formidable camera, 

 that was always getting out of order at the 

 critical moment. He also had a little 22 

 revolver. I shall not soon forget the night 

 when he displayed this sanguinary weapon. 

 There were some cowboys about our fire. 

 I can see them as I write; tall, brown, 

 muscular, and wonderfully picturesque, 

 with their broad sombreros, jingling 

 spurs and huge 6 shooters. It was to them 

 that Mr. Sampson submitted his shooting 

 iron for inspection; and at the first glance, 

 everyone of them, as if in mortal terror, 

 scrambled out into the darkness. Nor 

 would they return until they had extracted a 

 promise from Mr. Sampson not to " flash " 

 that exterminating engine of war on them 

 again. It reminded one of a cowboy, who, 

 being confronted by a man with just such 

 a revolver, said, " Look here, Pardner, if 

 you shoot me with that thing, and I ever 



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