I did not start at once, and he gave me a slap in the face with the back of his hand,--knocking me off an ox-yoke on which I was sitting, and sending me sprawling on the ground.
Jumping to my feet I picked up a camp kettle full of boiling coffee which was setting on the fire, and threw it at him.

I hit him in the face, and the hot coffee gave him a severe scalding.

He sprang for me with the ferocity of a tiger, and would undoubtedly have torn me to pieces, had it not been for the timely interference of my new-found friend, Wild Bill, who knocked the man down.

As soon as he recovered himself, he demanded of Wild Bill what business it was of his that he should "put in his oar." "It's my business to protect that boy, or anybody else, from being unmercifully abused, kicked and cuffed, and I'll whip any man who tries it on," said Wild Bill; "and if you ever again lay a hand on that boy--little Billy there--I'll give you such a pounding that you won't get over it for a month of Sundays." From that time forward Wild Bill was my protector and intimate friend, and the friendship thus begun continued until his death.
Nothing transpired on the trip to delay or give us any trouble whatever, until the train struck the South Platte river.

One day we camped on the same ground where the Indians had surprised the cattle herd, in charge of the McCarty brothers.