After the snow had settled so that a person could travel on top of it, I took my gun and stole out one day to see if I could not kill a mountain sheep.  As I clambered up the mountain I looked about one hundred yards or so ahead of me on a cliff of rock, and saw a panther, which I supposed was looking out for the same kind of game that I was.  I fired and killed her the first shot and started to skin her, when I heard the kittens, or young panthers, crying up in the rocks near where I had shot the old one.  My first thought then was what a nice pet I would have if I could only get hold of those young panthers.  I was afraid to crawl into the cave for fear the other old panther might come in on me, so I cut a forked stick and twisted in their fur and in that way managed to pull them out, all the time keeping a sharp lookout for the other old one.  I took the two young panthers to the cabin and made pets of them.  They grew to be very watchful; nothing could move without their knowing it.  The female grew to be very tame, and a more affectionate creature I never saw.  But it was different with the male.  When he was six months old he got to be very cross, and I had to keep him tied up.  One day I went out to feed them and he drew back and slapped me, and I shot him on the spot with my pistol.  The female I kept until she was considerably over a year old, when I sold her for one hundred dollars to an Englishman named Mace, and had I only known it, that panther was worth five hundred dollars.  I had taught her many tricks.

She could count ten, by putting her paw on the ground ten times, and would do various other tricks, but when asked by any other person than her master to perform, she would shake her head and would not allow any one else to touch her.  I always tied her up when going out for a hunt, and when I would return she would cry and scream so shrill that it would almost raise the hat on a man’s head until I would untie her.  She never was contented until she could get to lick my face, and I never saw a dog more watchful than she.

It was in the month of April that Uncle Kit came in with a pack-train for the furs, the snowfall having been so heavy that he could not get in earlier.  Our catch had been light, as we had more snow that winter than has ever been known before or since in the history of that country.  Uncle Kit was, however, very well satisfied with our work, with the exception of Mountain Phil, whom he had furnished for the winter, and who had not caught a beaver.  We soon had our traps and furs together, loaded up and were on our way to New Mexico.

The third day about noon we reached the Cache-la-Poudre, where we again ran on to the American Cannibal.  We stopped here to let our horses feed and to partake of some refreshments ourselves.  Uncle Kit, after giving Mountain Phil a lecture for his past conduct, said: 

“Phil, if ever you and I are out together in the mountains and run short of provisions, I will shoot you down as I would a wolf, before you get hungry.”