The day had been an eventful one to me, for all the incidents were full of excitement and romance to my youthful mind, and I think no apology is needed for mentioning so many of the little circumstances, which so greatly interested me in my childhood’s days, and which no doubt had a great influence in shaping my course in after years.  My love of hunting and scouting, and life on the plains generally, was the result of my early surroundings.

The next morning father visited the Kickapoo agency, taking me along.  He rode a horse, and putting me on my pony “Dolly,” led the animal all the way.  He seemed anxious to break me in, as well as the pony, and I greatly enjoyed this, my first day’s ride on a Kansas prairie.

At the Kickapoo village I saw hundreds of Indians, some of whom were living in lodges, but the majority occupied log cabins.  The agent resided in a double-hewed log house, one of the apartments of which was used as a school for the Indians.  The agency store was opposite this structure.

All the buildings were whitewashed, and looked neat and clean.  The Kickapoos were very friendly Indians, and we spent much of our time among them, looking about and studying their habits.

After a while we returned to our own camp, and just as we arrived there, we saw a drove of horses—­there were three or four hundred in all—­approaching from the west, over the California trail.  They were being driven by seven or eight mounted men, wearing sombreros, and dressed in buckskin, with their lariats dangling from their saddles, and they were followed by two or three pack-mules or horses.  They went into camp a little below us on the bank of the stream.

Presently one of the men walked out towards our camp, and my father called to me to come and see a genuine Western man; he was about six feet two inches tall, was well built, and had a light, springy and wiry step.  He wore a broad-brimmed California hat, and was dressed in a complete suit of buckskin, beautifully trimmed and beaded.  He saluted us, and father invited him to sit down, which he did.  After a few moments conversation, he turned to me and said: 

“Little one, I see you are working with your ponies.  They are wild yet.”

I had been petting Dolly and trying to break her, when my father called me to come and look at the Californian.

“Yes,” I replied, “and one of them never has been ridden.”

“Well, I’ll ride him for you;” and springing lightly to his feet, he continued:  “come on.  Where is the animal?”

Accordingly we all went to the place where Prince was lariated.  The stranger untied the rope from the picket pin, and taking a half-loop around the pony’s nose, he jumped on his back.

In a moment he was flying over the prairie, the untamed steed rearing and pitching every once in a while in his efforts to throw his rider; but the man was not unseated.  He was evidently an experienced horseman.  I watched his every movement.  I was unconsciously taking another lesson in the practical education which has served me so well through my life.