During the first two months of 1877, my brother Elliott, then a lad not
seventeen years old, made a buffalo-hunt toward the edge of the Staked
Plains in Northern Texas. He was thus in at the death of the southern
herds; for all, save a few scattering bands, were destroyed within two
years of this time. He was with my cousin, John Roosevelt, and they went
out on the range with six other adventurers. It was a party of just such
young men as frequently drift to the frontier. All were short of
cash, and all were hardy, vigorous fellows, eager for excitement and
adventure. My brother was much the youngest of the party, and the least
experienced; but he was well-grown, strong and healthy, and very fond
of boxing, wrestling, running, riding, and shooting; moreover, he had
served an apprenticeship in hunting deer and turkeys. Their mess-kit,
ammunition, bedding, and provisions were carried in two prairie-wagons,
each drawn by four horse. In addition to the teams they had six
saddle-animals--all of them shaggy, unkempt mustangs.
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