"I'll have that fellow," said Shaw, "if I run my horse to death after
him."
He threw the cover of his gun to Delorier and galloped out upon the
prairie.
"Stop, Mr. Shaw, stop!" called out Henry Chatillon, "you'll run down
your horse for nothing; it's only a white ox."
But Shaw was already out of hearing. The ox, who had no doubt
strayed away from some of the government wagon trains, was standing
beneath some low hills which bounded the plain in the distance. Not
far from him a band of veritable buffalo bulls were grazing; and
startled at Shaw's approach, they all broke into a run, and went
scrambling up the hillsides to gain the high prairie above. One of
them in his haste and terror involved himself in a fatal catastrophe.
Along the foot of the hills was a narrow strip of deep marshy soil,
into which the bull plunged and hopelessly entangled himself. We all
rode up to the spot. The huge carcass was half sunk in the mud,
which flowed to his very chin, and his shaggy mane was outspread upon
the surface. As we came near the bull began to struggle with
convulsive strength; he writhed to and fro, and in the energy of his
fright and desperation would lift himself for a moment half out of
the slough, while the reluctant mire returned a sucking sound as he
strained to drag his limbs from its tenacious depths.
