Leaving Williams in the charge of Farley and “Long Doc,” as we called the man with the pack-mule, Green and myself struck out after Bevins as fast as possible.  We heard him breaking through the brush, but knowing that it would be useless to follow him on foot, we went back to the camp and saddled up two of the fastest horses, and at daylight we struck out on his trail, which was plainly visible in the snow.  He had got an hour and a half the start of us.  His tracks led us in the direction of the mountains and the South Platte River, and as the country through which he was passing was covered with prickly pears, we knew that he could not escape stepping on them with his one bare foot, and hence we were likely to overtake him in a short time.  We could see, however, from the long jumps that he was taking, that he was making excellent time, but we frequently noticed, after we had gone some distance, that the prickly pears and stones along his route were cutting his bare foot, as nearly every track of it was spotted with blood.

We had run our horses some twelve miles when we saw Bevins crossing a ridge about two miles ahead.  Urging our horses up to their utmost speed, we reached the ridge just as he was descending the divide towards the South Platte, which stream was very deep and swift at this point.  It became evident that if he should cross it ahead of us, he would have a good chance of making his escape.  So pushing our steeds as fast as possible, we rapidly gained on him, and when within a hundred yards of him I cried to him to halt or I would shoot.  Knowing I was a good shot, he stopped, and, coolly sitting down, waited till we came up.

“Bevins, you’ve given us a good run,” said I.

“Yes,” said he, “and if I had had fifteen minutes more of a start and got across the Platte, I would have laughed at the idea of your ever catching me.”

Bevin’s run was the most remarkable feat of the kind ever known, either of a white man, or an Indian.  A man who could run bare-footed in the snow eighteen miles through a prickly pear patch, was certainly a “tough one,” and that’s the kind of a person Bill Bevins was.  Upon looking at his bleeding foot I really felt sorry for him.  He asked me for my knife, and I gave him my sharp-pointed bowie, with which he dug the prickly pear briars out of his foot.  I considered him as “game” a man as I had ever met.

“Bevins, I have got to take you back,” said I, “but as you can’t walk with that foot, you can ride my horse and I’ll foot it.”

We accordingly started back for our camp, with Bevins on my horse, which was led either by Green or myself, as we alternately rode the other horse.  We kept a close watch on Bevins, for we had ample proof that he needed watching.  His wounded foot must have pained him terribly but not a word of complaint escaped him.  On arriving at the camp we found Williams bound as we had left him and he seemed sorry that we had captured Bevins.