He had dismounted to make a steady and careful shot, and thoughtlessly let go of the bridle.

The buffalo failing to take a tumble, as he ought to have done, started off at a lively gait, followed by Buckskin Joe--the horse being determined to do some hunting on his own account--the last seen of him, he was a little ahead of the buffalo, and gaining slightly, leaving his late rider to his own reflections and the prospect of a tramp; his desolate condition was soon discovered and another horse warranted not to run under any provocation, was sent to him.

It maybe stated here that three days afterwards, as I subsequently learned, Buckskin Joe, all saddled and bridled, turned up at Fort McPherson.
We pitched our tents for the night in a charming spot on the bank of Beaver Creek.

The game was so abundant that we remained there one day.
This stopping place was called.

Camp Cody, in honor of the reader's humble servant.
The next day was spent in hunting jack-rabbits, coyotes, elks, antelopes and wild turkeys.