There was a small growth of timber between them and the buffaloes, of not more than a dozen trees. Keeping this in line with them, they were enabled to get within three or four hundred yards of the herd, and peeping out from the trees, they could count them. The herd was small, consisting only of five, headed by a giant bull, whose patriarchal head was slightly elevated, as if he snuffed danger in the air.
“The cunnin’ animile thinks somebody is around,” whispered Ben. “Oh, what a beauty. But the cows ar’ the best to eat. Is yer gun loaded, Jan?”
“Yaw,” replied Jan.
“Then git ready. When I give the word, foller me. Ar’ ye ready, Jule?”
“Yes,” said Jules, from between his set teeth.
“Then go it!” cried Ben.
The three horses bounded from the thicket, and before the animals were fairly awake to their danger, the horsemen were upon them. Ben drew his never failing rifle to his shoulder and let fly. The fattest cow in the herd dropped on her knees, and then rolled slowly over on her side, dead! Jules was equally fortunate, prostrating another by a lucky shot in the brain. Jan, sitting on his horse, endeavored to fire, but, his animal was restive, and he could not get aim.
“Git down!” cried Ben.
Jan, who had begun to learn to obey the old trapper implicitly, leaped down at the word, and pointed his gun at the bull. He fired, and, as usual, found himself rolled in the dust. His horse bounded away leaving him helpless.
The charge of buckshot had struck the buffalo in the forehead, and he staggered to his knees. Jan sprung forward with a shout of joy. But this joy was speedily changed to grief, for the animal, which was only stunned, staggered to his feet, and shaking his head, charged the Dutchman, who ran for dear life.