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 Indians kept increasing in numbers until it was estimated that we were fighting from 800 to 1,000 of them.

My restless, roaming spirit would not allow me to remain at home very long.

It was my effort, in depicting the West, to depict it as it was.

Major North has had for years complete power over these Indians and can do more with them than any man living.

But the West of the old times, with its strong characters, its stern battles and its tremendous stretches of loneliness, can never be blotted from my mind.

I could never resist the call of the trail.