The expedition had proved a grand success, and the event was celebrated in the usual manner—­by a grand spree.  The only store at Sweetwater Bridge did a rushing business for several days.  The returned stock-hunters drank, and gambled and fought.  The Indian ponies, which had been distributed among the captors, passed from hand to hand at almost every deal of the cards.  There seemed to be no limit to the rioting, and carousing; revelry reigned supreme.  On the third day of the orgie, Slade, who had heard the news, came up to the bridge and took a hand in the “fun,” as it was called.  To add some variation and excitement to the occasion, Slade got in to a quarrel with a stage-driver and shot him, killing him almost instantly.

[Illustration:  ALF.  SLADE KILLING THE DRIVER.]

The “boys” became so elated as well as “elevated” over their success against the Indians, that most of them were in favor of going back and cleaning out the whole Indian race.  One old driver especially, Dan Smith, was eager to open a war on all the hostile nations, and had the drinking been continued another week he certainly would have undertaken the job, single-handed and alone.  The spree finally came to an end; the men sobered down and abandoned the idea of again invading the hostile country.  The recovered horses were replaced on the road, and the stages and pony express were again running on time.

Slade, having taken a great fancy to me, said:  “Billy, I want you to come down to my headquarters, and I’ll make you a sort of supernumerary rider, and send you out only when it is necessary.”  I accepted the offer, and went with him down to Horseshoe, where I had a comparatively easy time of it.  I had always been fond of hunting, and I now had a good opportunity to gratify my ambition in that direction, as I had plenty of spare time on my hands.  In this connection I will relate one of my bear-hunting adventures.  One day, when I had nothing else to do, I saddled up an extra pony express horse, and arming myself with a good rifle and pair of revolvers, struck out for the foot hills of Laramie Peak for a bear-hunt.  Riding carelessly along, and breathing the cool and bracing autumn air which came down from the mountains, I felt as only a man can feel who is roaming over the prairies of the far West, well armed, and mounted on a fleet and gallant steed.  The perfect freedom which he enjoys is in itself a refreshing stimulant to the mind as well as to the body.  Such indeed were my feelings on this beautiful day, as I rode up the valley of the Horseshoe.  Occasionally I scared up a flock of sage-hens or a jack-rabbit.  Antelopes and deer were almost always in sight in any direction, but as they were not the kind of game I was after, on that day, I passed them by, and kept on towards the higher mountains.  The further I rode the rougher and wilder became the country, and I knew that I was approaching the haunts of the bear.  I did not discover any, however, although I saw plenty of tracks in the snow.