Paul and I had two oxen and eight horses to saddle and pack with sick folk and tent and bedding and all our household stuff, and while we did not seem to be possessed of much of anything, yet it was quite a problem to arrange all on the backs of those ten animals. Sometimes while we were fastening the one pack on, three or four of our horses would lie down with their loads, and in thus getting down and up disorganize the whole work. We put our wives on the strongest and quietest horses, and placed Oliver on a quiet but very hungry Blackfoot cayuse, giving him our guns to carry in addition to his own. Thus we set out along the almost obliterated bridle-path which I had gone over but once and that in the winter time when the snow was deep, and which neither Paul nor Oliver had as yet seen. My memory was sorely taxed to make out the trail where there was open country to pass through. In single file and with slow and solemn steps our sick people rode their steeds, while our horses labored under the burdens of their weak packs. Paul and I were kept busy arranging these packs, for as our saddles were crude and our binding material rawhide, this would stretch, and the saddles or packs become loose, so that we were kept rushing from one to the other of our transports. This made progress so slow that it did seem as if even the twelve miles we hoped to cover would prove too much for the long spring day. But notwithstanding all the worrying and the work we had some fun as well. During the afternoon, while we were behind the rest fixing up a pack on one of the horses, I heard Oliver in a greatly excited voice shouting, "John! John! Hurry--come quick!" I sprang away to the front, and found that our train was crossing a small bit of prairie, and from one end of it, and coming out of the woods, there was a buffalo bull charging right straight for Oliver. My dogs were worrying the big fellow, but it was Oliver who demanded my attention. He had our three guns on the saddle before him, but seemingly never thinking of them, he kept shouting to me to "shoot the bull." In his excitement he had let go his bridle, and this had fallen on the ground, while his hungry horse was intent on cropping grass and would not budge from the spot. In vain Oliver kicked and shouted; what cared that Blackfoot pony for the charge of a buffalo? He was accustomed to this, and moreover was hungry, and here was grass, and so far as he was concerned all else might "go to grass." Not so philosophic, however, was his rider. He was all excitement. With a big muffler wrapped around his face, a blanket around his body and legs, and our three guns in his arms, he kept shouting vehemently for "John." As I ran, not even the possibility of the bull hurting some of us could keep me from laughing.