Having no suitable place in which to leave my old and faithful buffalo-hunter Brigham, and not wishing to kill him by scouting, I determined to dispose of him.  I was very reluctant to part with him, but I consoled myself with the thought that he would not be likely to receive harder usage in other hands than he had in mine.  I had several good offers to sell him; but at the suggestion of some gentlemen in Sheridan, all of whom were anxious to obtain possession of the horse, I put him up at a raffle, in order to give them all an equal chance of becoming the owner of the famous steed.  There were ten chances at thirty dollars each, and they were all quickly taken.

Old Brigham was won by a gentleman—­Mr. Ike Bonham,—­who took him to Wyandotte, Kansas, where he soon added new laurels to his already brilliant record.  Although I am getting ahead of my story, I must now follow Brigham for a while.  A grand tournament came off four miles from Wyandotte, and Brigham took part in it.  As has already been stated, his appearance was not very prepossessing, and nobody suspected him of being anything but the most ordinary kind of a plug.  The friends of the rider laughed at him for being mounted on such a dizzy-looking steed.  When the exercises—­which were of a very tame character, being more for style than speed—­were over, and just as the crowd were about to return to the city, a purse of $250 was made up, to be given to the horse that could first reach Wyandotte, four miles distant.  The arrangement was carried out, and Brigham was entered as one of the contestants for the purse.  Everybody laughed at Mr. Bonham when it became known that he was to ride that poky-looking plug against the five thoroughbreds which were to take part in the race.

When all the preliminaries had been arranged, the signal was given, and off went the horses for Wyandotte.  For the first half-mile several of the horses led Brigham, but on the second mile he began passing them one after the other, and on the third mile he was in advance of them all, and was showing them all the road at a lively rate.  On the fourth mile his rider let him out, and arrived at the hotel—­the home-station—­in Wyandotte a long way ahead of his fastest competitor.

Everybody was surprised, as well as disgusted, that such a homely “critter” should be the winner.  Brigham, of course, had already acquired a wide reputation, and his name and exploits had often appeared in the newspapers, and when it was learned that this “critter” was none other than the identical buffalo-hunting Brigham, nearly the whole crowd admitted that they had heard of him before, and had they known him in the first place they certainly would have ruled him out.