It was most acceptable, as there was no fresh meat
in camp.
He and his "pal" stayed around that day and night, and then
quietly disappeared. Not one of the soldiers, even, saw them go.
*About six years after this occurrence, there was a graphic account in
the Western papers of the horrible death of "Buckskin Joe," who was
known as one of the most daring and slippery horse thieves in the
Territory. After evading arrest many times, he was finally hunted down
by a sheriff's posse, when his fiendish fighting excited the
admiration of those who were killing him. A bullet broke one of his
legs, and he went down, but he kept on shooting - and so fast that no
one dared approach him. And when the forearm of his pistol hand was
shattered, he grasped the pistol with the other hand and continued to
shoot, even when he could not sit up, but had to hold himself up by
the elbow of his broken arm. He was finally killed, fairly riddled
with bullets. He knew, of course, all the time what his fate would be
if taken alive, and he chose the cold lead instead of the end of a
rope.
It was pleasant to meet our old friends here. Colonel Palmer is in
command, and I was particularly glad to see them. After Mrs. Palmer
had embraced me she held me off a little and said: "What have you been
doing to your face?
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