I crawled about 250 yards to where the horses were
picketed, and going to the Indian pony I had already picked out I
slipped the skin thong in his mouth which the Indians use for a bridle,
one which I had secured and carried in my shirt for some time for this
particular purpose, then springing to his back I made for the open
prairie in the direction of the home ranch in Texas, one hundred miles
away. All that night I rode as fast as my horse could carry me and the
next morning, twelve hours after I left the Indians camp I was safe on
the home ranch again. And my joy was without bounds, and such a
reception as I received from the boys. They said they were just one day
late, and if it hadn't been for a fight they had with some of the same
tribe, they would have been to my relief. As it was they did not expect
to ever see me again alive. But that they know that if the Indians did
not kill me, and gave me only half a chance I would get away from them,
but now that I was safe home again, nothing mattered much and nothing
was too good for me.
It was a mystery to them how I managed to escape death with such wounds
as I had received, the marks of which I will carry to my grave and it is
as much a mystery to me as the bullet that struck me in the breast just
over the heart passed clear through, coming out my back just below the
shoulder: Likewise the bullet in my leg passed clear through, then
through my horse, killing him.
Those Indians are certainly wonderful doctors, and then I am naturally
tough as I carry the marks of fourteen bullet wounds on different part
of my body, most any one of which would be sufficient to kill an
ordinary man, but I am not even crippled. It seems to me that if ever a
man bore a charm I am the man, as I have had five horses shot from under
me and killed, have fought Indians and Mexicans in all sorts of
situations, and have been in more tight places than I can number. Yet I
have always managed to escape with only the mark of a bullet or knife as
a reminder. The fight with the Yellow Dog's tribe is probably the
closest call I ever had, and as close a call as I ever want.
The fleet Indian pony which carried me to safety on that memorable
hundred mile ride, I kept for about five years. I named him "The Yellow
Dog Chief." And he lived on the best the ranch afforded, until his death
which occurred in 1881, never having anything to do except an occasional
race, as he could run like a deer. I thought t
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