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475
trouble, we did not fire at them, but doubled our guards to protect against an attack from the rear.
Our next camp was at Paint Cave. One night we sent our mules and horses out to grass with two guards in charge. Indians crept up and tried to scare the animals. One of the guards, finding that something was not right, gave the alarm, and the fireworks started. We fired some thirty or forty shots, and one of the guards claimed he got an Indian. This Painted Cave is worth a trip to see. It is a big opening under a protruding boulder, large
enough for ten men to ride into on horseback at one time. Its inner walls are decorated with Indian paintings of wild animals, lions, tigers, buffaloes, etc., and all the sign language on the walls— some of which we would not understand if they were played on a phonograph. Besides this it contains the autographs of some of the pioneers carved in the rock, whose carvers have long since started on the "long trail." I was told by a friend of mine the other day, who had been there lately, that he ran across my name, carved there at that time— forty years ago.
I was born December 5, 1858, in the old Ripps