The tragedy had happened so quickly that we could hardly believe our eyes. The Indians made no effort to mutilate or carry off Huffman's body. Robinson reached us in safety, though shaking with excitement. From the Indian standpoint, the warrior who had killed Huffman and escaped with his horse had covered himself with glory. Sight of the tents in the mesquite flat doubtless caused the other Indians to give up the chase, or else both Huffman and Robinson would have been lanced to death. Considerable time was lost in rounding up our horses, which were grazing in the valley, and getting into our saddles, to go in pursuit of the Indians. Before we could reach the Canadian the Indians had vanished in the sandhills of White Deer Creek. We found two fagged ponies which the Indians had abandoned. We carried Huffman's body to the Walls and dug a grave close beside the others. This made five graves. Some day I hope a stone will be erected to mark the spot. These men gave all they had--their lives--to help make this a civilized country. Next day the soldiers and the men we found at the Walls started south to join the main command on Cantonment Creek. We crossed the Canadian near the mouth of Tallahone, where J. A. King now has a cow ranch. On Chicken Creek we found two Indians who had stopped for noon, and had built a small fire. Their ponies were near at hand, tied to some sagebrush, and their blankets had been spread out on the ground to dry. We succeeded in killing one of them, but the other warrior certainly had a fine quality of stuff in his "medicine" bag, for he mounted his pony and got away, despite the bullets that split the air around him. He was too hard-pressed to get his blanket and a butcher knife which he left sticking in the ground. The noise of our guns stampeded a big bunch of buffaloes further up the creek. They kicked up such a cloud of dust that we thought a war party of Indians, possibly the same that had attacked Adobe Walls, was coming for us, and that we had stirred up the worst kind of trouble. Happily, we were soon able to see the buffaloes, and the world looked brighter. "Old nigger" Clark, our cook, driving a six-mule team, with bedding, provisions and cooking outfit, was a long way behind when the shooting began. He raised a welt every time he hit a mule, and by the time he drew near us he was making the fastest kind of time, his eyes sticking out like white china saucers. When almost upon us, his mules took fright and ran away, and could not be stopped until men rode to his assistance. Ours was the last party of white men ever to leave Adobe Walls. When I passed that way the following fall with United States troops the Indians had been there and burned the place to the ground. The walls were still smoking.