We Got More Provisions For Our Whiskey

I Could Never Resist The Call Of The Trail.

With The Help Of A Friend I Got Father Into A Wagon, When The Crowd Had Gone. I Held His Head In My Lap During The Ride Home. I Believed He Was Mortally Wounded. He Had Been Stabbed Down Through The Kidneys, Leaving An Ugly Wound.

The Cholera Had Broken Out At The Post, And Five Or Six Men Were Dying Daily.

My First Plan Of Escape Having Failed, I Now Determined Upon Another.

As A Good Horse Is Not Very Apt To Jump Over A Bank, If Left To Guide Himself, I Let Mine Pick His Own Way.