my for
three or four miles, killing three of them.

But this was a wrong move on our part, as their village was on Prairie
Dog Creek, while they led us in a different direction; one Indian only
kept straight on up the creek--a messenger to the village. Some of the
command, who had followed him, stirred up the village and accelerated its
departure. We finally got back to the main force, and then learned that
we had made a great mistake. Now commenced another stern chase.

The second day that we had been following these Indians we came upon an
old squaw, whom they had left on the prairie to die. Her people had built
for her a little shade or lodge, and had given her some provisions,
sufficient to last her on her trip to the Happy Hunting grounds. This the
Indians often do when pursued by an enemy, and one of their number
becomes too old and feeble to travel any longer. This squaw was
recognized by John Nelson who said that she was a relative of his wife.
From her we learned that the flying Indians were known as Pawnee,
Killer's band, and that they had lately killed Buck's surveying party,
consisting of eight or nine men; the massacre having occurred a few days
before on Beaver Creek. We knew that they had had a fight with surveyors,
as we found quite a number of surveying instruments, which had been left
in the abandoned camp. We drove these Indians across the Platte river and
then returned to Fort McPherson, bringing the old squaw with us, from
there she was sent to the Spotted Tail Agency.

During my absence, my wife had given birth to a son, and he was several
weeks old when I returned. No name had yet been given him and I selected
that of Elmo Judson, in honor of Ned Buntline; but this the officers and
scouts objected to. Major Brown proposed that we should call him Kit
Carson, and it was finally settled that that should be his name.

During the summer we made one or two more scouts and had a few
skirmishes with the Indians: but nothing of any great importance
transpired. In the fall of 1870, while I was a witness in a court
martial at Fort D.A. Russell I woke up one morning and found that I was
dead broke;--this is not an unusual occurrence to a frontiersman, or an
author I may add, especially when he is endeavoring to kill time--to
raise necessary funds I sold my race horse Tall Bull to Lieutenant
Mason, who had long wanted him.

In the winter of 1870 and 1871 I first met George Watts Garland, an
English gentle