bull, belligerent enough to fight a battleship. When I rode after
him the cowmen said I was as good as killed. I made a lance by
driving a nail into the end of a short pole and sharpening it.
After he had chased me, I wheeled my broncho, and hurled the
lance into his back, ripping a wound as long as my hand. That put
the fear of Providence into him and took the fight all out of
him. I drove him uphill and down, and across canyons at a dead
run for eight miles single handed, and loaded him on a freight
car; but he came near getting me once or twice, and only quick
broncho work and lance play saved me.

"In the Yellowstone Park all our buffaloes have become docile,
excepting the huge bull which led them. The Indians call the
buffalo leader the 'Weetah,' the master of the herd. It was sure
death to go near this one. So I shipped in another Weetah, hoping
that he might whip some of the fight out of old Manitou, the
Mighty. They came together head on, like a railway collision, and
ripped up over a square mile of landscape, fighting till night
came on, and then on into the night.

"I jumped into the field with them, chasing them with my
biograph, getting a series of moving pictures of that bullfight
which was sure the real thing. It was a ticklish thing to do,
though knowing that neither bull dared take his eyes off his
adversary for a second, I felt reasonably safe. The old Weetah
beat the new champion out that night, but the next morning they
were at it again, and the new buffalo finally whipped the old one
into submission. Since then his spirit has remained broken, and
even a child can approach him safely--but the new Weetah is in
turn a holy terror.