Two hours later we pulled into camp with our load of meat, which was found to be all right, except that it had a few bullets and arrows sticking in it.

While I was hunting for the Kansas Pacific railway, I had the pleasure, in the fall of 1867, of meeting the celebrated Kit Carson, one of, if not the oldest and most noted scout, guide, and hunter that our western country has ever produced.  He was on his way to Washington.  I also met him on his return from the East, and invited him to be my guest for a few days at Hays City, which invitation he accepted.  He then proceeded to Fort Lyon, Colorado, near which place his son-in-law, Mr. Boggs, and family, resided.  At this time his health was failing, and shortly afterwards he died at Mr. Boggs’ residence on the Picket Wire Creek.

[Illustration:  KIT CARSON]

CHAPTER XV.

CHAMPION BUFFALO KILLER.

Shortly after the adventures mentioned in the preceding chapter, I had my celebrated buffalo hunt with Billy Comstock, a noted scout, guide and interpreter, who was then chief of scouts at Fort Wallace, Kansas.  Comstock had the reputation, for a long time, of being a most successful buffalo hunter, and the officers in particular, who had seen him kill buffaloes, were very desirous of backing him in a match against me.  It was accordingly arranged that I should shoot him a buffalo-killing match, and the preliminaries were easily and satisfactorily agreed upon.  We were to hunt one day of eight hours, beginning at eight o’clock in the morning, and closing at four o’clock in the afternoon.  The wager was five hundred dollars a side, and the man who should kill the greater number of buffaloes from on horseback was to be declared the winner.

The hunt took place about twenty miles east of Sheridan, and as it had been pretty well advertised and noised abroad, a large crowd witnessed the interesting and exciting scene.  An excursion party, mostly from St. Louis, consisting of about a hundred gentlemen and ladies, came out on a special train to view the sport, and among the number was my wife, with little baby Arta, who had come to remain with me for a while.

The buffaloes were quite plenty, and it was agreed that we should go into the same herd at the same time and “make a run,” as we called it, each one killing as many as possible.  A referee was to follow each of us on horseback when we entered the herd, and count the buffaloes killed by each man.  The St. Louis excursionists, as well as the other spectators, rode out to the vicinity of the hunting grounds in wagons and on horseback, keeping well out of sight of the buffaloes, so as not to frighten them, until the time came for us to dash into the herd; when they were to come up as near as they pleased and witness the chase.