ed me to go out after
buffaloes. I didn't ask for any wagons this time, but rode out some
distance, and, coming upon a small herd, headed seven or eight of them
directly for the camp. Instead of shooting them I ran them at full
speed right into the place and then killed them one after another in
rapid succession.

Colonel Royal, who witnessed the whole proceeding, was annoyed and
puzzled, as he could see no good reason why I had not killed the
buffaloes on the prairie.

Coming up angry, he demanded an explanation.

"I can't allow any such business as this, Cody," he exclaimed. "What do
you mean by it!"

"I didn't care about asking for wagons this time, Colonel," I replied.
"I thought I would make the buffaloes furnish their own
transportation."

The colonel saw the force of my defense, and had no more to say on the
subject.

No Indians had been seen in the vicinity during the day. Colonel Royal,
having posted his pickets, supposed that everything was serene for the
night. But before morning we were aroused by shots, and immediately
afterward one of the mounted pickets came galloping into camp with the
announcement that there were Indians close at hand. All the companies
fell into line, prepared and eager for action. The men were still new
to Indian fighting. Many of them were excited.

But, despite the alarm, no Indians made their appearance. Upon going to
the post where the picket said he had seen them, none were to be found,
nor could the faintest trace be discovered.

The sentinel, an Irishman, insisted that there certainly had been
redskins there.

"But you must be mistaken," said the colonel.

"Upon me sowl, I'm not. As sure as me name's Pat Maloney, wan iv them
red devils hit me on th' head with a club, so he did," persisted the
picket.

When morning came we made a successful effort to clear up the mystery.
Elk tracks were found in the vicinity, and it was undoubtedly a herd of
elk that had frightened the picket. When he turned to flee he must have
hit his head on an overhanging limb, which he supposed was the club of
a redskin, bent on his murder. It was hard, however, to convince him
that he could have been mistaken.

Three days' march brought us to Beaver Creek, where we encamped and
where scouts were sent out in different directions. None of these
parties discovered Indians, and they all returned to camp at about the
same time. They found it in a state of excitement. A few hours before
the re