Nelson, on the deck of the Victory, hardly felt
a prouder sense of mastery than he.
Quite unconscious that any one
was looking at him, he stood at the full height of his tall, strong
figure, one hand resting upon his side, and the other arm leaning
carelessly on the muzzle of his rifle. His eyes were ranging over
the singular assemblage around him. Now and then he would select
such a cow as suited him, level his rifle, and shoot her dead; then
quietly reloading, he would resume his former position. The buffalo
seemed no more to regard his presence than if he were one of
themselves; the bulls were bellowing and butting at each other, or
else rolling about in the dust. A group of buffalo would gather
about the carcass of a dead cow, snuffing at her wounds; and
sometimes they would come behind those that had not yet fallen, and
endeavor to push them from the spot. Now and then some old bull
would face toward Henry with an air of stupid amazement, but none
seemed inclined to attack or fly from him. For some time Shaw lay
among the grass, looking in surprise at this extraordinary sight; at
length he crawled cautiously forward, and spoke in a low voice to
Henry, who told him to rise and come on. Still the buffalo showed no
sign of fear; they remained gathered about their dead companions.
Henry had already killed as many cows as we wanted for use, and Shaw,
kneeling behind one of the carcasses, shot five bulls before the rest
thought it necessary to disperse.
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