It became evident that if he should cross it ahead of us, he would have a good chance of making his escape.

So pushing our steeds as fast as possible, we rapidly gained on him, and when within a hundred yards of him I cried to him to halt or I would shoot.

Knowing I was a good shot, he stopped, and, coolly sitting down, waited till we came up.
"Bevins, you've given us a good run," said I.
"Yes," said he, "and if I had had fifteen minutes more of a start and got across the Platte, I would have laughed at the idea of your ever catching me." Bevin's run was the most remarkable feat of the kind ever known, either of a white man, or an Indian.

A man who could run bare-footed in the snow eighteen miles through a prickly pear patch, was certainly a "tough one," and that's the kind of a person Bill Bevins was.

Upon looking at his bleeding foot I really felt sorry for him.