"You Are Too
Ugly To Live," Thought I; And Aiming At The Ugliest, I Shot Three Of
Them In Succession.
The rest were not at all discomposed at this;
they kept on bellowing and butting and rolling on the ground as
before.
Henry Chatillon always cautioned us to keep perfectly quiet
in the presence of a wounded buffalo, for any movement is apt to
excite him to make an attack; so I sat still upon the ground, loading
and firing with as little motion as possible. While I was thus
employed, a spectator made his appearance; a little antelope came
running up with remarkable gentleness to within fifty yards; and
there it stood, its slender neck arched, its small horns thrown back,
and its large dark eyes gazing on me with a look of eager curiosity.
By the side of the shaggy and brutish monsters before me, it seemed
like some lovely young girl wandering near a den of robbers or a nest
of bearded pirates. The buffalo looked uglier than ever. "Here goes
for another of you," thought I, feeling in my pouch for a percussion
cap. Not a percussion cap was there. My good rifle was useless as
an old iron bar. One of the wounded bulls had not yet fallen, and I
waited for some time, hoping every moment that his strength would
fail him. He still stood firm, looking grimly at me, and
disregarding Henry's advice I rose and walked away. Many of the
bulls turned and looked at me, but the wounded brute made no attack.
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