young friends believe, however, that this is true. It is only a
very old joke of the plains.

The first herd of buffalo we saw was along a stream known as Cow
Creek and which is a tributary to the Arkansas river. We could see
the herd feeding along the hills in the distance.

Here was good camping ground and it was time to halt for the
night. So as soon as we had decided on the spot to pitch camp,
Uncle Kit directed me to go and kill a buffalo, so that we might
have fresh meat for supper.

That suited me, exactly, for I was eager to get a shot at such big
game.

Uncle Kit told me to follow up the ravine until opposite the herd
and then climb the hill, but to be careful and not let the buffalo
see me.

I followed his instructions to the dot, for I had come to believe
that what Kit Carson said was law and gospel, and what he didn't
know would not fill a book as large as Ayer's Almanac. I was
right, too, so far as plainscraft was concerned.

Uncle Kit had also directed me to select a small buffalo to shoot
at, and to surely kill it, for we were out of meat.

It so happened that when I got to the top of the hill and in sight
of the herd again the first animal that seemed to present an
advantageous shot was a two-year-old heifer.