It has always been a mystery to me about those steers—how well they knew me—after about a week on the trail they wouldn’t pull your hat off for me. I know the boss would have fired me but we were crossing the Crow Indian Reservation and we didn’t see a white man for a hundred and fifty miles, so he had to put up with me. At that I don’t think he suffered anymore than I did, because my team done just about as they pleased most of the time. I recall one day we were pulling what they called the Lodge Grass Hill on the Little Horn River and it was very steep and scarcely any road at all. The boss and his team had pulled the hill and got over the top out of sight of me. My team stopped on the hill and refused to start. I will never forget my near wheeler—I was whipping and hollering at the rest of the cattle trying to start the load—I happened to look at him. He had the yoke up on his horns and his eyes bulged out like he was pulling his best, but the fact of the matter was he was holding back. It looked like he was just fooling me. Finally the boss came back to see what was the matter. I told him I was stuck and the cattle couldn’t pull the load. Now Bill was a real bullwhacker and those steers knew it. He give one yell at those cattle and the three wagons began to move; in fact they went so fast I could hardly keep up with them and it looked like that old steer that had been fooling me pulled half the load himself. We used whips, with the lash about 20 feet long and the handle about 5 feet. Those old bullwhackers could pick a fly off any steer anywhere in the team, and when they hit a steer it sounded like a six-shooter had went off—that was something I never learned. They could hit a steer with their whips and make a loud noise and not cut him. Every time I hit one I cut his hide. The boss used to give me hell about that but I would have used an axe if I had one when I got stuck. When we had been on the road several days we lost a work steer and it broke up my team. While the boss was out on the range looking for the steer, a young buck Indian came into camp, riding a pretty good-looking horse. He could talk a little English and I could talk some Indian. I made him understand we had lost a steer and asked him if he would go and look for it. But he wanted money and I didn’t have any ... but we had six wagon loads of whiskey and I knew Indians liked whiskey. They called it fire water—Minnie Kavea. The people we were hauling it for allowed us to drink what we wanted, the only proviso was not to put any water in the barrel after we drew the whiskey out, so I asked the Indian if he would hunt for the steer if I gave him a drink. His face immediately became all smiles and he made signs if I would give him a big drink that it would be a bargain. I went to the grub box, got a pint tin cup and filled it for him. He drank it like water. He made signs that I was his brother and he loved me and he would find the steer right away.