During my engagement as hunter for the company—­a period of less than eighteen mouths—­I killed 4,280 buffaloes; and I had many exciting adventures with the Indians, as well as hair-breadth escapes, some of which are well worth relating.

One day in the spring of 1868, I mounted Brigham and started for Smoky Hill River.  After galloping about twenty miles I reached the top of a small hill overlooking the valley of that beautiful stream.

As I was gazing on the landscape, I suddenly saw a band of about thirty Indians nearly half a mile distant; I knew by the way they jumped on their horses that they had seen me as soon as I came into sight.

The only chance I had for my life was to make a run for it, and I immediately wheeled and started back towards the railroad.  Brigham seemed to understand what was up, and he struck out as if he comprehended that it was to be a run for life.  He crossed a ravine in a few jumps, and on reaching a ridge beyond, I drew rein, looked back and saw the Indians coming for me at full speed and evidently well-mounted.  I would have had little or no fear of being overtaken if Brigham had been fresh; but as he was not, I felt uncertain as to how he would stand a long chase.

[Illustration:  BUFFALO BILL.]

My pursuers seemed to be gaining on me a little, and I let Brigham shoot ahead again; when we had run about three miles farther, some eight or nine of the Indians were not over two hundred yards behind, and five or six of these seemed to be shortening the gap at every jump.  Brigham now exerted himself more than ever, and for the next three or four miles he got “right down to business,” and did some of the prettiest running I ever saw.  But the Indians were about as well-mounted as I was, and one of their horses in particular—­a spotted animal—­was gaining on me all the time.  Nearly all the other horses were strung out behind for a distance of two miles, but still chasing after me.

[Illustration:  DOWN WENT HIS HORSE.]

The Indian who was riding the spotted horse was armed with a rifle, and would occasionally send a bullet whistling along, sometimes striking the ground ahead of me.  I saw that this fellow must be checked, or a stray bullet from his gun might hit me or my horse; so, suddenly stopping Brigham, and quickly wheeling him around, I raised old “Lucretia” to my shoulder, took deliberate aim at the Indian and his horse, hoping to hit one or the other, and fired.  He was not over eighty yards from me at this time, and at the crack of my rifle down went his horse.  Not waiting to see if he recovered, I turned Brigham, and in a moment we were again fairly flying towards our destination; we had urgent business about that time, and were in a hurry to get there.

The other Indians had gained on us while I was engaged in shooting at their leader, and they sent several shots whizzing past me, but fortunately none of them hit the intended mark.  To return their compliment I occasionally wheeled myself in the saddle and fired back at them, and one of my shots broke the leg of one of their horses, which left its rider hors(e) de combat, as the French would say.