odge City, Kansas, I insisted on taking the trail
again. It was not with any sense of pride or in bravado that I recount
here the fate of the men who have fallen at my hand.

It is a terrible thing to kill a man no matter what the cause. But as I
am writing a true history of my life, I cannot leave these facts out.
But every man who died at my hands was either seeking my life or died in
open warfare, when it was a case of killing of being killed.

CHAPTER XV.

ON A TRIP TO DODGE CITY, KAN. I ROPE ONE OF UNCLE SAM'S CANNON. CAPTURED
BY THE SOLDIERS. BAT MASTERSON TO MY RESCUE. LOST ON THE PRAIRIE. THE
BUFFALO HUNTER CATER. MY HORSE GETS AWAY AND LEAVES ME ALONE ON THE
PRAIRIE. THE BLIZZARD. FROZEN STIFF.

In the spring of 1877, now fully recovered from the effects of the very
serious wounds I had received at the hands of the Indians and feeling my
old self again, I joined the boys in their first trip of the season,
with a herd of cattle for Dodge City. The trip was uneventful until we
reached our destination. This was the first time I had been in Dodge
City since I had won the name of "DEADWOOD DICK", and many of the boys,
who knew me when I first joined the cow boys there in 1869, were there
to greet me now. After our herd had been delivered to their new owners,
we started out to properly celebrate the event, and for a space of
several days we kept the old town on the jump.

And so when we finally started for home all of us had more or less of
the bad whiskey of Dodge City under our belts and were feeling rather
spirited and ready for anything.

I probably had more of the bad whiskey of Dodge City than any one and
was in consequence feeling very reckless, but we had about exhausted our
resources of amusement in the town, and so were looking for trouble on
the trail home.

On our way back to Texas, our way led past old Fort Dodge. Seeing the
soldiers and the cannon in the fort, a bright idea struck me, but a fool
one just the same. It was no less than a desire to rope one of the
cannons. It seemed to me that it would be a good thing to rope a cannon
and take it back to Texas with us to fight Indians with.

The bad whiskey which I carried under my belt was responsible for the
fool idea, and gave me the nerve to attempt to execute the idea. Getting
my lariat rope ready I rode to a position just opposite the gate of the
fort, which was standing open. Before the gate paced a sentry with his
gun on his should