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.

Indians were frequently off their reservations.

Quick as lightning Wild Bill pulled his revolver. The stranger fell dead, shot through the brain.

I had many enemies among the Sioux; I would be running considerable risk in meeting them.

Excitement was plentiful during my two years' service as a Pony Express rider.

Don't ever say you are sorry for "being caught in the moment". Because, at that moment, that is EXACTLY where you wanted to be.

After crossing the Smoky Hill River, I felt comparatively safe as this was the last stream I had to cross.