During the first two months of 1877, my brother Elliott, then a lad not seventeen years old, made a buffalo-hunt toward the edge of the Staked Plains in Northern Texas.  He was thus in at the death of the southern herds; for all, save a few scattering bands, were destroyed within two years of this time.  He was with my cousin, John Roosevelt, and they went out on the range with six other adventurers.  It was a party of just such young men as frequently drift to the frontier.  All were short of cash, and all were hardy, vigorous fellows, eager for excitement and adventure.  My brother was much the youngest of the party, and the least experienced; but he was well-grown, strong and healthy, and very fond of boxing, wrestling, running, riding, and shooting; moreover, he had served an apprenticeship in hunting deer and turkeys.  Their mess-kit, ammunition, bedding, and provisions were carried in two prairie-wagons, each drawn by four horse.  In addition to the teams they had six saddle-animals—­all of them shaggy, unkempt mustangs.  Three or four dogs, setters and half-bred greyhounds, trotted along behind the wagons.  Each man took his turn for two days as teamster and cook; and there were always two with the wagons, or camp, as the case might be, while the other six were off hunting, usually in couples.  The expedition was undertaken partly for sport and partly with the hope of profit; for, after purchasing the horses and wagons, none of the party had any money left, and they were forced to rely upon selling skins and hides, and, when near the forts, meat.

They started on January 2nd, and shaped their course for the head-waters of the Salt Fork of the Brazos, the centre of abundance for the great buffalo herds.  During the first few days they were in the outskirts of the settled country, and shot only small game—­quail and prairie fowl; then they began to kill turkey, deer, and antelope.  These they swapped for flour and feed at the ranches or squalid, straggling frontier towns.  On several occasions the hunters were lost, spending the night out in the open, or sleeping at a ranch, if one was found.  Both towns and ranches were filled with rough customers; all of my brother’s companions were muscular, hot-headed fellows; and as a consequence they were involved in several savage free fights, in which, fortunately, nobody was seriously hurt.  My brother kept a very brief diary, the entries being fairly startling from their conciseness.  A number of times, the mention of their arrival, either at a halting-place, a little village, or a rival buffalo-camp is followed by the laconic remark, “big fight,” or “big row”; but once they evidently concluded discretion to be the better part of valor, the entry for January 20th being, “On the road—­passed through Belknap—­too lively, so kept on to the Brazos—­very late.”  The buffalo-camps in particular were very jealous of one another, each party regarding itself as having exclusive right to the range it was the first to find; and on several occasions this feeling came near involving my brother and his companions in serious trouble.