I had been working at my trade in Jefferson City, Missouri, during the winter of 1858-9, and in the spring resolved to go to Kansas, which was yet disturbed by factions, and consequently the very place for one fond of adventure; and, as my nature prompted me to ramble, I saw no other section half so inviting; and accordingly, having armed myself, "as the law directs," I started for the territory on foot.
I had traveled but half a day, however, when I stopped for dinner at a wayside inn, kept by a plethoric old man, the possessor of a young wife and half a dozen worthless darkies. While at dinner, some one rode up to the gate and inquired of the landlord if there was a young man there, who was traveling on foot.
"That's my name," I said, and went to the door, to ascertain: what was wanted.
"Say, young man," said the party, "don't you want to go to Texas?"
"Don't care if I do," said I.
"Well," he replied, "my name is Colonel Johnston; I live twelve miles south of Dallas; I am taking down a drove of horses, and want help; I will furnish you with a horse, saddle, and bridle, and pay your way."
In an instant, all desire to visit Kansas, and participate in the partisan turmoils, which were continually agitating the territory, "vanished into thin air," and in their stead arose visions of wild horse chases, buffalo hunts, Indian fights, and a thousand other "manly sports," which I knew to be the chief sources of amusement and excitement, in that wild, celebrated region.
"But where were you going?" queried the Colonel.
"To Kansas," I replied.