re guying him, rode up to one of them, and said, "Am I not riding
this horse all right?" Mr. Thompson felt some personal pride in his
horsemanship, as he was a Pennsylvania fox-hunter.

The driver replied, "Yes, sir; you ride all right."

"Well, then," said Thompson, "it must be this horse you are guying."

The teamster replied:

"Guying that horse? Not in a thousand years!"

"Well, then, why am I such a conspicuous object?"

"Why, sir, are you not the king?"

"The king? Why did you take me for the king?"

"Because you are riding that horse. I guess you don't know what horse
you are riding, do you? Nobody gets to ride that horse but Buffalo Bill.
So when we all saw you riding him we supposed that of course you were
the king, for that horse, sir, is Buckskin Joe."

Thompson had heard General Sheridan telling about Buckskin Joe on the
way out, and how Buffalo Bill had once run him eighty miles when the
Indians were after him. Thompson told Will afterward that he grew about
four feet when he found out that he was riding that most celebrated
horse of the plains. He at once galloped ahead to overtake Will and
thank him most heartily for allowing him the honor of such a mount. Will
told him that he was going to let the Grand Duke kill his first buffalo
on Buckskin Joe. "Well," replied Thompson, "I want to ask one favor
of you. Let me also kill a buffalo on this horse." Will replied that
nothing would afford him greater pleasure. Buckskin Joe was covered with
glory on this memorable hunt, as both the Grand Duke of Russia and Mr.
Frank Thompson, later president of the Pennsylvania Railroad, killed
their first buffalo mounted on his back, and my brother ascribes to old
Joe the acquisition of Mr. Frank Thompson's name to his list of life
friendships. This hunt was an unqualified success, nothing occurring to
mar one day of it.

Spotted Tail was true to his promise. He and his hundred braves were
on hand, shining in the full glory of war paint and feathers, and the
war-dance they performed was of extraordinary interest to the Grand Duke
and his friends. The outlandish contortions and grimaces of the Indians,
their leaps and crouchings, their fiendish yells and whoops, made up a
barbaric jangle of picture and sound not soon to be forgotten. To the
European visitors the scene was picturesque rather than ghastly, but
it was not a pleasing spectacle to the old Indian fighters looking on.
There were too many suggestions of b