On one occasion when crossing quite a small stream my two driving ponies went down to their hocks, so that I had to cut the traces and belabour them hard to get them out.

Had they not got out at once they never would have done so.

My ambulance remained in the river-bed all night and till a Mexican with a bull-team luckily came along next day.
At the Meadows, my winter camp, I had to fill a contract of two or three fat steers for the town butcher every week.

With a man to help me we had to go far afield and scour the range to get suitable animals, the best and fattest beeves being always the furthest out.

After corralling, which might mean a tremendous amount of hard galloping and repeated failures, the most difficult part of the job was the actual killing, which I accomplished by shooting them with a six-shooter, not a carbine.
Only when a big steer has its head down to charge can you plant a bullet in exactly the right spot, a very small one, too, on the forehead, when he will drop like a stone.