Once my brother shot five antelopes from a single stand, when the party were short of fresh venison; he was out of sight and to leeward, and the antelopes seemed confused rather than alarmed at the rifle-reports and the fall of their companions.  As was to be expected where game was so plenty, wolves and coyotes also abounded.  At night they surrounded the camp, wailing and howling in a kind of shrieking chorus throughout the hours of darkness; one night they came up so close that the frightened horses had to be hobbled and guarded.  On another occasion a large wolf actually crept into camp, where he was seized by the dogs, and the yelling, writhing knot of combatants rolled over one of the sleepers; finally, the long-toothed prowler managed to shake himself loose, and vanished in the gloom.  One evening they were almost as much startled by a visit of a different kind.  They were just finishing supper when an Indian stalked suddenly and silently out of the surrounding darkness, squatted down in the circle of firelight, remarked gravely, “Me Tonk,” and began helping himself from the stew.  He belonged to the friendly tribe of Tonkaways, so his hosts speedily recovered their equanimity; as for him, he had never lost his, and he sat eating by the fire until there was literally nothing left to eat.  The panic caused by his appearance was natural; for at that time the Comanches were a scourge to the Buffalo-hunters, ambushing them and raiding their camps; and several bloody fights had taken place.

Their camp had been pitched near a deep pool or water-hole.  On both sides the bluffs rose like walls, and where they had crumbled and lost their sheerness, the vast buffalo herds, passing and repassing for countless generations, had worn furrowed trails so deep that the backs of the beasts were but little above the surrounding soil.  In the bottom, and in places along the crests of the cliffs that hemmed in the canyon-like valley, there were groves of tangled trees, tenanted by great flocks of wild turkeys.  Once my brother made two really remarkable shots at a pair of these great birds.  It was at dusk, and they were flying directly overhead from one cliff to the other.  He had in his hand a thirty-eight calibre Ballard rifle, and, as the gobblers winged their way heavily by, he brought both down with two successive bullets.  This was of course mainly a piece of mere luck; but it meant good shooting, too.  The Ballard was a very accurate, handy little weapon; it belonged to me, and was the first rifle I ever owned or used.  With it I had once killed a deer, the only specimen of large game I had then shot; and I presented the rifle to my brother when he went to Texas.  In our happy ignorance we deemed it quite good enough for Buffalo or anything else; but out on the plains my brother soon found himself forced to procure a heavier and more deadly weapon.