It was bright and early one morning when we pulled out, aiming to ride the fifty miles by ten o'clock that night. Mr. Kinchlow was mounted on "old Beauregard," a large chestnut sorrel, while I rode a fiery little bay.
Our journey was over a bald, wet prairie; night overtook us at the head of Blue creek, still twenty miles from our destination.
A few minutes after crossing Blue creek, just about dusk, we ran across a large panther, which jumped up out of the tall grass in front of us. It was a savage looking beast and appeared to be on the war-path. After jumping to one side it just sat still, growling and showing its ugly teeth. I started to shoot it but Mr. Kinchlow begged me not to as it would frighten his horse, who was then almost beyond control, from seeing the panther.
We rode on and a few minutes afterwards discovered the panther sneaking along after us through the tall grass. I begged Mr. Kinchlow to let me kill it, but he wouldn't agree, as, he said, a pistol shot would cause old Beauregard to jump out of his hide.
It finally became very dark; our guide was a certain bright little star. We had forgotten all about the panther as it had been over half an hour since we had seen it. The old man was relating an indian tale, which made my hair almost stand on end, as I imagined that I was right in the midst of a wild band of reds, when all at once old Beauregard gave a tremendous loud snort and dashed straight ahead at a break-neck speed. Mr. Kinchlow yelled "whoa," every jump; finally his voice died out and I could hear nothing but the sound of his horse's hoofs, and finally the sound of them too, died out.
Of course I socked spurs to my pony and tried to keep up, for I imagined there were a thousand and one indians and panthers right at my heels.
After running about a quarter of a mile I heard something like a faint, human groan, off to my right about fifty yards. I stopped and listened, but could not hear anything more, except now and then the lonely howl of a coyote off in the distance. I finally began to feel lonesome, so I put spurs to my pony again. But I hadn't gone only a few jumps when I checked up and argued with myself thusly:—Now suppose that groan came from the lips of Mr. Kinchlow, who may-be fell from his horse and is badly hurt; then wouldn't it be a shame to run off and leave him there to die when may be a little aid from me would save him?
I finally spunked up and drawing my pistol started in the direction from whence came the groan. My idea in drawing the pistol was, for fear the panther, who I felt satisfied had been the cause of the whole trouble, might tackle me. Suffice it to say that I found the old gentleman stretched out on the ground apparently lifeless and that a half hour's nursing brought him to. He finally after several trials, got so he could stand up, with my aid. I then helped him into my saddle, while I rode behind and held him on and we continued our journey both on one horse. He informed me after he came to his right senses, that old Beauregard had fallen and rolled over him.
We landed at our destination about ten o'clock next morning; but the good old man only lived about two weeks afterwards. He died from the effects of the fall, so I heard.
About Christmas I quit Mr. Grimes and went to work on my own hook, skinning "dead" cattle and adding to the nest egg Mr. Wiley gave me. I put my own brand on quite a number of Mavricks while taking care of Mr. Grimes' horses, which began to make me feel like a young cattle king. The only trouble was they were scattered over too much wild territory and mixed up with so many other cattle. When a fellow branded a Mavrick in those days it was a question whether he would ever see or realize a nickel for it. For just think, one, or even a hundred head mixed up with over a million of cattle, and those million head scattered over a territory one hundred miles square and continually drifting around from one place to another.