the Little Missouri, two
men have been killed by bears in the neighborhood of my range; and in
the early years of my residence there, several men living or travelling
in the country were slain by small war-parties of young braves. All
the old-time trappers and hunters could tell stirring tales of their
encounters with Indians.

My friend, Tazewell Woody, was among the chief actors in one of the most
noteworthy adventures of this kind. He was a very quiet man, and it
was exceedingly difficult to get him to talk over any of his past
experiences; but one day, when he was in high good-humor with me for
having made three consecutive straight shots at elk, he became quite
communicative, and I was able to get him to tell me one story which
I had long wished to hear from his lips, having already heard of it
through one of the other survivors of the incident. When he found that I
already knew a good deal old Woody told me the rest.

It was in the spring of 1875, and Woody and two friends were trapping on
the Yellowstone. The Sioux were very bad at the time and had killed
many prospectors, hunters, cowboys, and settlers; the whites retaliated
whenever they got a chance, but, as always in Indian warfare, the
sly, lurking, bloodthirsty savages inflicted much more loss than they
suffered.

The three men, having a dozen horses with them, were camped by the
river-side in a triangular patch of brush, shaped a good deal like a
common flat-iron. On reaching camp they started to put out their traps;
and when he came back in the evening Woody informed his companions that
he had seen a great deal of Indian sign, and that he believed there were
Sioux in the neighborhood. His companions both laughed at him, assuring
him that they were not Sioux at all but friendly Crows, and that
they would be in camp next morning; "and sure enough," said Woody,
meditatively, "they _were_ in camp next morning." By dawn one of the men
went down the river to look at some of the traps, while Woody started
out to where the horses were, the third man remaining in camp to get
breakfast. Suddenly two shots were heard down the river, and in another
moment a mounted Indian swept towards the horses. Woody fired, but
missed him, and he drove off five while Woody, running forward,
succeeded in herding the other seven into camp. Hardly had this been
accomplished before the man who had gone down the river appeared, out of
breath with his desperate run, having been surp