My work on the Plains brought me many friends, among them being some of the truest and staunchest that any man ever had.

You who live your lives in cities or among peaceful ways cannot always tell whether your friends are the kind who would go through fire for you.

But on the Plains one's friends have an opportunity to prove their mettle.

And I found out that most of mine would as cheerfully risk their lives for me as they would give me a light for my pipe when I asked it.
Such a friend was old "Buffalo Chips," who certainly deserves a place in these memoirs of mine.
One morning while I was sitting on my porch at North Platte, playing with my children, I saw a man limping on crutches from the direction of the Post hospital.

He was a middle-aged man, but had long, flowing white hair, and the most deeply-pitted face I have ever beheld.
Noticing that he seemed confused and in trouble, I sent the children out to bring him to me.