A bunch of five of them came down to
the river to drink, buffalo being as plentiful in that region, and time,
as domestic cattle are here today. My first shot only wounded the
creature, who led me quite a lively chase before I succeeded in killing
him. We soon had his hide off, and an abundance of luscious, juicy steak
for breakfast. I remember that we sent some to another company that was
camping not far distant. This was our first and last fresh meat for many
a day.

A few days after this an incident occurred in camp that bordered on the
tragic, but finally ended in good feeling. My guard mate, named Charley
Stewart, and myself were the two youngest in the company, and, being
guards together, were great friends. He was a native of Cincinnati, well
educated, and had a fund of stories and recitations that he used to get
off when we were on guard together. This night we were camped on the
side of some little hills near some ravines. The moon was shining, but
there were dark clouds occasionally passing, so that at times it was
quite dark. It was near midnight and we would be relieved in an hour. We
had been the "grand rounds" out among the stock, and came to the nearest
wagon which was facing the animals that were picketed out on the slope.
Stewart was armed with a "Colt's Army," while I had a double-barreled
shot-gun, loaded with buckshot. I was sitting on the double-tree, on the
right side of the tongue, which was propped up with the neck-yoke.
Stewart sat on the tongue, about an arm's length ahead of me, I holding
my gun between my knees, with the butt on the ground. Stewart was
getting off one of his stories, and, had about reached the climax, when
I saw something running low to the ground, in among the stock. Thinking
it was an Indian, on all fours, to stampede the animals, I instantly
leveled my gun, and, as I was following it to an opening in the herd, my
gun came in contact with Stewart's face at the moment of discharge,
Stewart falling backward, hanging to the wagon-tongue by his legs and
feet. My first thought was that I had killed him. He recovered in a
moment, and began cursing and calling me vile names; accusing me of
attempting to murder him, etc. During these moments, in his frenzy, he
was trying to get his revolver out from under him, swearing he would
kill me. Taking in the situation, I dropped my gun, jumped over the
wagon tongue, as he was getting on to his feet, and engaged in what
proved to be a despe