At Cottonwood Creek, the next camp west of Lost Springs, we began to see buffalo--a few straggling old bulls at some distance from the road--but as yet no herds. By the time we had reached the Little Arkansas small bands became more numerous and neighborly; and from there on the herds grew larger, till by the time we reached the vicinity of Fort Larned--much later--dense masses of them were to be seen in every direction. As far west as Lost Springs we found multitudes of prairie-chickens along the road and our shotgun kept our mess supplied with fresh meat. From Lost Springs westward we saw no more prairie-chickens, but as we soon reached the buffalo range we killed young buffalo or antelope. In running buffalo we used the black horse, Jack's capture, and although at first somewhat shy of the brown, woolly monsters, he soon got used to them and evinced keen interest in the chase. In killing a buffalo for fresh meat we usually selected a yearling or two-year-old, to insure tender meat, and cut out only a few pounds of the choicest parts from the carcass, buffalo being so plenty that we seldom thought of the wastefulness of this then common practice. Antelope, the fleetest and most graceful animal on the plains, could seldom be overhauled by a mounted man, but their inquisitiveness was so great that they would often, in herds of a dozen or more, approach our camp through curiosity; and if they did not come close enough to suit us, by displaying a red blanket we could lure them on, almost close enough to knock them over with a stick. Their meat is tender and well flavored, but at certain seasons there is little fat on it and a little bacon cooked with it improves it. Coming in from grooming the black horse one day, Jack declared: "The more I handle that horse the better I like him. He's one of the best I ever rubbed a brush over. I've been wondering who that jayhawker could have stole him from an' dreading lest the owner should follow us up an' claim his property, in which case, of course, we'd have to give him up." "Well, Jack," I replied, "it ain't likely that the owner of the horse, whoever he may be, will ever bother us; and when we hear from the old storekeeper, back where you got him, if no owner has shown up there to inquire about him, then your claim is the next best and he'll be your horse." "No," said the impulsive Irishman, "ef we're to git to kape him he's to be company property--he'll belong to all of us." "Well," put in Tom, "I've been thinkin' that the black horse is entitled to a name, anyhow. We've named the mules--or Wild Bill did--'Dink' an' 'Judy' an' the broncos 'Polly' an' 'Vinegar'; now, what'll we call the horse?" "Why not call him 'Captain Tucker,' after the jayhawker?" I suggested. "No," promptly objected Jack, "it wouldn't be treatin' the horse fair to call him after such a scoundrel." "How would 'Black Prince' do?" proposed Tom. "That suits me better. 'Black Prince' it shall be."