ters as were to be found. But
the inconvenience of it was far preferable to being made targets for
Indian arrows.

We were sheltered one night from one of the fearful prairie blizzards
that make fall and winter terrible. We had found a gulley washed out by
an autumn storm, and it afforded a little protection against the wind.
Looking down the ravine I saw ponies moving. I knew there were Indians
near, and we looked about for a hiding-place.

At the head of the ravine I had noticed a cave-like hollow. I signaled
to the two men to follow me, and soon we were snug in a safe
hiding-place. As we were settling down to rest one of the men lit his
pipe. As the cave was illuminated by the glow of the match there was a
wild yell. I thought all the Indians in the world had jumped us. But
the yell had come from my companions.

We were in the exact center of the most grew-some collection of human
skulls and bones I have ever seen. Bones were strewn on the floor of
the cave like driftwood. Skulls were grinning at us from every corner
of the darkness. We had stumbled into a big grave where some of the
Indians had hidden their dead away from the wolves after a battle. It
may be that none of us were superstitious, but we got out of there in a
hurry, and braved the peril of the storm and the Indians as best we
could.

I was a rich boy when I got to Leavenworth. I had nearly a thousand
dollars to turn over to my mother as soon as I should draw my pay.
After a joyful reunion with the family I hitched up a pair of ponies,
and drove her over so that she could witness this pleasing ceremony. As
we were driving home, I heard her sobbing, and was deeply concerned,
for this seemed to me no occasion for tears. I was quick to ask the
reason, and her answer made me serious.

"You couldn't even write your name, Willie," she said. "You couldn't
sign the payroll. To think my boy cannot so much as write his name!"

I thought that over all the way home, and determined it should never
happen again.

In Uncle Aleck Majors' book, "Seventy Years on the Frontier," he
relates how on every wagon-sheet and wagon-bed, on every tree and barn
door, he used to find the name "William F. Cody" in a large, uncertain
scrawl. Those were my writing lessons, and I took them daily until I
had my signature plastered pretty well over the whole of Salt Creek
Valley.

I went to school for a time after that, and at last began really to
take an interest in education.