"That was the willingest horse I ever rode, and I hated to sell him,
but he was tolable used up when I got across the line."

THE COLONEL AND THE HORSE-THIEF

Those marks on my arm? Oh! I got 'em playin' horse-thief. Yes,
playin'. I wasn't a real one, you know--Well, I s'pose it was sort
of a queer game. Came near bein' my last too, and if Black Hawk
hadn't been the best horse in Texas the old Colonel would've killed
me sure. He chased me six miles as it was--me with one arm full of
his buckshot and anxious to explain, and him strainin' to get in
range again and not wishin' any further particulars.

That was way back in the sixties, when I was as wild a lad as ever
straddled a pony.

You see five of us had gone over into the Crow Nation to race horses
with the Indians, and it was on the way back that the old man and the
bullet holes figger in the story.

At the beginnin' it was Jim Barrett's plan, and it had jest enough
risk and devilment in it to suit a harum-scarum young feller like me;
so we got five of the boys who had good horses, lumped together all
of our money, and rode out to invade the reservation.

You know how an Indian loves to run horses? Well, the Crows had a
good deal of money then, and our scheme was to go over there, get up
a big race, back our horses with all we had, and take down the wealth.