At Length,
Bethinking Me Of The Fringes At The Seams Of My Buckskin Pantaloons,
I Jerked Off A Few Of Them, And Reloading My Gun, Forced Them Down
The Barrel To Keep The Bullet In Its Place; Then Approaching, I Shot
The Wounded Buffalo Through The Heart.
Sinking to her knees, she
rolled over lifeless on the prairie.
To my astonishment, I found
that instead of a fat cow I had been slaughtering a stout yearling
bull. No longer wondering at the fierceness he had shown, I opened
his throat and cutting out his tongue, tied it at the back of my
saddle. My mistake was one which a more experienced eye than mine
might easily make in the dust and confusion of such a chase.
Then for the first time I had leisure to look at the scene around me.
The prairie in front was darkened with the retreating multitude, and
on the other hand the buffalo came filing up in endless unbroken
columns from the low plains upon the river. The Arkansas was three
or four miles distant. I turned and moved slowly toward it. A long
time passed before, far down in the distance, I distinguished the
white covering of the cart and the little black specks of horsemen
before and behind it. Drawing near, I recognized Shaw's elegant
tunic, the red flannel shirt, conspicuous far off. I overtook the
party, and asked him what success he had met with. He had assailed a
fat cow, shot her with two bullets, and mortally wounded her.
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