We insisted that he must be mistaken, but he declared that he was not, saying he had seen the bones in the cabin, and further investigation had developed the fact that he had beyond any doubt killed and eaten his Indian wife.
From that time on, Mountain Phil went by the name of the American Cannibal until his death, which was—if my memory serves me right—in 1863 or '64, at Virginia City, Mont.
After the snow had settled so that a person could travel on top of it, I took my gun and stole out one day to see if I could not kill a mountain sheep. As I clambered up the mountain I looked about one hundred yards or so ahead of me on a cliff of rock, and saw a panther, which I supposed was looking out for the same kind of game that I was. I fired and killed her the first shot and started to skin her, when I heard the kittens, or young panthers, crying up in the rocks near where I had shot the old one. My first thought then was what a nice pet I would have if I could only get hold of those young panthers. I was afraid to crawl into the cave for fear the other old panther might come in on me, so I cut a forked stick and twisted in their fur and in that way managed to pull them out, all the time keeping a sharp lookout for the other old one. I took the two young panthers to the cabin and made pets of them. They grew to be very watchful; nothing could move without their knowing it. The female grew to be very tame, and a more affectionate creature I never saw. But it was different with the male. When he was six months old he got to be very cross, and I had to keep him tied up. One day
