He was left until the last, when we all sallied out to make
the final kill. There were two rifles, and had the chance come to my
father, I think he would have killed him easily; but the opportunity
came to a neighbor, who overshot, merely causing a slight wound. The
next instant the stag charged at me from the cover of the thickety
fence corner. Not having sense enough to take to the nearest
protection, I turned and ran like a scared wolf across the field, the
hog following me like a hound. My father risked a running shot, which
missed its target. The darkies were yelling, "Run, chile! Run, Mars'
Reed! Shoot! Shoot!" when it occurred to me that I had a pistol; and
pointing it backward as I ran, I blazed away, killing the big fellow
in his tracks.
The other occasion was years afterward, when I was a trail foreman at
Abilene, Kansas. My herd had arrived at that market in bad condition,
gaunted from almost constant stampedes at night, and I had gone into
camp some distance from town to quiet and recuperate them. That day I
was sending home about half my men, had taken them to the depot with
our wagon, and intended hauling back a load of supplies to my camp.
After seeing the boys off I hastened about my other business, and near
the middle of the afternoon started out of town. The distance to camp
was nearly twenty miles, and with a heavy load, principally salt, I
knew it would be after nightfall when I reached there.
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