He looked up inquiring, as if to ask if we had punished the redskins who pursued us.
I think he read the answer in my eyes.
Another adventure which deserves a place in these reminiscences occurred near the Saline River.

My companion at the time was Scotty, the butcher who accompanied me on my hunts, to cut up the meat and load it on the wagon for hauling to the railroad camp.
I had killed fifteen buffaloes, and we were on our way home with a wagonload of meat when we were jumped by a big band of Indians.
[Illustration: WINNING MY NAME--"BUFFALO BILL"] I was mounted on a splendid horse belonging to the company, and could easily have made my escape, but Scotty had only the mule team, which drew the wagon as a means of flight, and of course I could not leave him.
To think was to act in those days.

Scotty and I had often talked of what we would do in case of a sudden attack, and we forthwith proceeded to carry out the plan we had made.
Jumping to the ground, we unhitched the mules more quickly than that operation had ever been performed before.

The mules and my horse we tied to the wagon.

We threw the buffalo hams on the ground and piled them about the wheels so as to form a breastwork.