he answered, “Hello, Bill.”  I said:  “Where in the world are you going to, out in this country?” (We were then about five hundred miles from any part of civilization.) He said he was just out for a morning ride.  I introduced him to the colonel and officers, who had all heard and read of him, for he had been made famous in Custer’s Life on the Plains.  He was a tall man, about six feet three inches in his moccasins, with reddish gray hair and whiskers, very thin, nothing but bone, sinew, and muscle.  He was riding an old cayuse pony, with an old saddle, a very old bridle, and a pair of elk-skin hobbles attached to his saddle, to which also hung a piece of elk-meat.  He carried an old Hawkins rifle.  He had an old shabby army hat on, and a ragged blue army overcoat, a buckskin shirt, and a pair of dilapidated greasy buckskin pants that reached only a little below his knees, having shrunk in the wet; he also wore a pair of old army government boots with the soles worn off.  That was his make-up.

I remember the colonel asking him if he had been very successful in life.  He pointed to the old cayuse pony, his gun, and his clothes, and replied, “This is seventy years’ gathering.”  Colonel Mills then asked him if he would have anything to eat; he said he had plenty to eat, all he wanted was tobacco.  Tobacco was very scarce in the command, but they rounded him up sufficient to do him that day.  When invited to go with us, he said he was not particular where he went, he would just as soon go one way as the other; he remained with us several days, in fact, he stayed the entire trip.

He was of great assistance to me, as he knew the country thoroughly.  He was a fine mountain guide, but I could seldom find him when I most needed him, as he was generally back with the column, telling frontier stories and yarns to the soldiers for a chew of tobacco.

One day I rode back from the advance guard to ask the colonel how far he wanted to go before camping, and while I was riding along talking to him, we noticed that the advance guard had stopped and were standing in a circle, evidently looking at something very intently.  They were so interested that they did not come to their senses until the colonel and myself rode in among them.  Then they immediately moved forward, leaving the colonel and myself to see what they had been investigating.  It was a lone grave in the desolate mountains, and whoever had been buried there evidently had friends, because the spot was nicely covered with stones to prevent the wolves from digging up the corpse.

        We were looking at this grave when old Joe rode up, and as he
        stopped he threw down his hat on the pile of rocks and said,
        “At last.”

        The colonel said, “Joe, do you know anything about the history
        of this grave?” Joe replied—­

        “Well I should think I did.”  The colonel then asked him to
        tell us about it.  Joe said:—­