Indians had hidden their dead away from the wolves after a battle. It
may be that none of us were superstitious, but we got out of there in a
hurry, and braved the peril of the storm and the Indians as best we
could.

I was a rich boy when I got to Leavenworth. I had nearly a thousand
dollars to turn over to my mother as soon as I should draw my pay.
After a joyful reunion with the family I hitched up a pair of ponies,
and drove her over so that she could witness this pleasing ceremony. As
we were driving home, I heard her sobbing, and was deeply concerned,
for this seemed to me no occasion for tears. I was quick to ask the
reason, and her answer made me serious.

"You couldn't even write your name, Willie," she said. "You couldn't
sign the payroll. To think my boy cannot so much as write his name!"

I thought that over all the way home, and determined it should never
happen again.

In Uncle Aleck Majors' book, "Seventy Years on the Frontier," he
relates how on every wagon-sheet and wagon-bed, on every tree and barn
door, he used to find the name "William F. Cody" in a large, uncertain
scrawl. Those were my writing lessons, and I took them daily until I
had my signature plastered pretty well over the whole of Salt Creek
Valley.

I went to school for a time after that, and at last began really to
take an interest in education. But the Pike's Peak gold rush took me
with it. I could never resist the call of the trail. With another boy
who knew as little of gold-mining as I did we hired out with a