A FOUR LEGGED INDIAN. 



W. F. NICHOLS. 



I was a member of Company " A," nth 

 Kansas Volunteer Cavalry. In the spring 

 of '65 a portion of the regiment was or- 

 dered out on a 10 days' scout under our 

 colonel, Tom Moonlight. 



We were stationed at what was known as 

 the Upper Bridge on the North Platte, in 

 Wyoming. 



We were ordered to scout the Powder 

 river country under the guidance of the 

 noted Jim Bridger. hunter, trapper, and 

 Indian fighter. Bridger had located (by 

 sign) a band of about 200 Sioux. 



We marched to where they had been 

 camped, but they had fled. On our return 

 march we camped for noon rest on a beauti- 

 ful little stream which so charmed the colonel 

 that he decided to remain there over night. 



Being then, as now, an ardent sportsman, 

 I took my carbine and 2 heavy revolvers, 

 and in company with Sergeant John Bris- 

 tow (now living in Eastern Kansas) saun- 

 tered off on a hunt, going eventually 3 miles 

 or so from camp, crossing on the way 3 or 

 4 low ridges. 



We were standing on a slight elevation 

 looking for game, when we espied, ap- 

 proaching on a trail which passed close to 

 us, a dense cloud of dust. Being on an 

 Indian scout we, of course, took it for a small 

 band of Sioux. Measures must be quickly 

 adopted looking toward a scrap. 



Utterly forgetting that my companion was 

 the vested authority on the ground. I as- 

 sumed command and ordered an ambush, 

 which I disposed behind 2 large bowlders 

 near by. Lying flat on the ground, we 



placed our cartridges and percussion caps 

 beside us, and awaited the approach of the 

 enemy. 



When the dust cloud had come to within 

 200 yards of us, a slight flaw of wind blew 

 it backward and revealed the enemy — a large 

 buffalo bull. I need not say the disap- 

 pointment was agreeable. Both of us had 

 seen Indians before, but neither had ever 

 seen a wild buffalo. 



Rapidly I instructed the sergeant, telling 

 him where to aim, etc. True I had never 

 shot a buffalo, but I had heard old hunters 

 tell how to do it, and acted on the capital 

 of the old stories, telling him to aim at the 

 shoulder — low down. 



Well, when the old fellow was opposite 

 us and not more than 30 or 35 yards from 

 us, I gave the word. Our guns were dis- 

 charged simultaneously; the reports were 

 one. 



The bull instantly left the trail and ran in 

 a circle partly round us, but before we could 

 reload our carbines he fell. Of course, we 

 were elated, and each claimed the shot. 



On reaching our victim we found that one 

 bullet had, indeed, pierced his heart, but 

 what had become of the other? On skin- 

 ning him we found it. It had struck the 

 tail about midway. A more perfect center 

 shot could not have been made. 



In camp I tried to claim that shot, but to 

 no avail. I was known to be the best shot 

 in camp, and the sergeant rather a poor one. 

 He rarely afterward referred to the buffalo, 

 as some of the boys were sure to chaff him 

 about firing so far back — to save meat. 



LARK —A. K. C. 49,496; OWNED BY L. B. FAULKNER, OLYMPIA, WASH. 

 Pointing a quail on Whidby Island, Washington. 

 180 



